# Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories 13-02: Grace



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

*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!

*Theme
*
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:

*Grace*

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 US Eastern Standard Time *(-5.00 hours for you UK folks)*Friday, February 22, 2013. Voting will be held from 23 - 28 February.* Remember, getting your story submitted on February 2nd will be just as considered by others as one submitted on February 22nd! Take as much time as you need to work on your piece!

*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

If you have any questions, feel free to either PM me or ask in this thread.

Without further nonsense from me, let the writing begin!










*Table of Contents*

Romero's Own - Flames from Heaven

Adrian - Though it Costs Me Everything

Sangus Bane - Grace of Purpose

Bloody Mary - A Princess's Stead

Jonileth - Musings of an Inquisitor

Mossy Toes - Cavern Dialogues

Liliedhe - The Mother's Grace​


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## son of azurman (Sep 19, 2010)

for grace can you give me an example,do you mean like how the eldar fight with grace or how the chaos space marines have fallen from grace?i want to enter but i cant think of something for it so far.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

son of azurman said:


> for grace can you give me an example,do you mean like how the eldar fight with grace or how the chaos space marines have fallen from grace?i want to enter but i cant think of something for it so far.


However you want to use it, mate. Either or those ideas are perfectly good, the theme is used however you want to interpret it.


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## son of azurman (Sep 19, 2010)

oh ok thanks


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## Romero's Own (Apr 10, 2012)

*Flames from Heaven*

*Flames from Heaven - 907 words*

It is always with me.

I feel it like a blind man feels the sun on his face - as a pressure, unseen but always felt: a force just behind the eyes but there all the time.

I lie on the cold concrete of my bed, listening to the subdued hum of the watch-station's generators and the gentle click of the station's recorders as they monitor and catalogue some changing observation.

_What is my life?_

Still it lingers in the corners of my mind, like a cobweb just out of reach: a niggling presence, like a driving splinter in my mind, something I cannot ignore:

The Rage; The Thirst.

I fight these things in the quiet when the tumult of battle is stilled; when the last enemy falls, my battle continues. I hold damnation in the palm of my hand – and I must clench it tight, lest it consume me and all I believe.

May the Emperor guide me in these darkened watches of the night. May I remain within his grace for eternity.

_My honour is my life._

I cannot sleep.

I sit up, my feet moving to rest on the cold, metal decking. In the corner of my cell stands a low wooden table, surmounted by an ebony statue of the Emperor and fallen Sanguinius. A small candle stub remains beside; I light it, and its feeble luminance shines brightly in the suffocating darkness.

_What is my fate?_

The gentle glow of the candle shades the features of our Primarch and our Emperor. Shadowy tears well from their ebony eyes.

I feel myself slipping away into blackness, my eyes telling me of the peril which threatens my soul – it is almost tangible and I nearly fall.

_My duty is my fate._

Few of my chapter serve in these desolate regions. Commander Mordigael has been stationed in this sector for many years, but he is far away at Erioch, and I am here: a small station with little more room than is necessary for the maintenance of a lone Astartes and his equipment. Nothing more.

My lips move as I ask for guidance, for strength, but there is no surcease to my torment. No answer to my questions, only silence.

I step outside my cell and walk the cramped and acrid spaces of the station, grown so much larger by the blackness, shadows pressing in from all sides.

_What is my fear?_

Chaplain Andreus often told me, when I came to him disturbed by the Rage, that to experience the Blackness was a divine gift: a chance to experience the sublime presence of our beloved Primarch. Not something to be desired, nor wished for, but rather something to be understood and accepted as a part of the legacy left to us.

A legacy I must bear.

I wonder if I am strong enough.

_My fear is to fail._

The arming room: my armour stands here, painted black, with the sigil of the Deathwatch engraved in silver and gold upon its left pauldron. My chapter's blood-red sigil remains on the opposite shoulder, in order – so the tech-priests tell me – to avoid angering the armour’s machine spirit. I wonder if the machine spirit feels as I do.

I am alone in the night. Will I ever return to see my home again? My brothers? And if I do, will I still be one of them?

Starlight shines through the small porthole which pierces the armoured hull of the watch-station: somewhere out there is Baal, my home – my brothers – lost in a sea of infinity and space.

The awful weight of the emptiness presses down upon my shoulders.

_What is my reward?_

Lights blaze to life, and the watch-station's voice begins to blare:

DEFENCE PROTOCOL ACTIVATED: DISTRESS SIGNAL DETECTED

TRANSMISSION REPLAYED

The pale green light of the pict-screen displays the transmission: a flash priority alert to Sector Command, originating from the planet far below:

The Great Devourer has come.

There is no room for servitors or chapter-serfs on my watch-station; I arm myself – it is a tonic for the soul.

_My salvation is my reward._

I strap on my weapons; they are already loaded and ready. The magnetic holster on my thigh-plate clicks dully as it latches onto my bolter. I examine my chainsword carefully, looking for any pits or blunt edges; there are none. There never are.

The thick, heavy door leading to the drop chamber has been retracted by the station, and through it I see the heavily-padded interior of the drop pod. The reinforced retention bars shine dully in the harsh light of the sodium lamps.

_What is my craft?_

I hold my helmet in my hands, its green eyepieces staring up at me, and I see my face reflected in the armoured glass. The Rage rises inside me and I beat it down, my flesh rebelling against my will. Slowly, shakily, I lift my helmet and slide it down over my head, connecting the seals, locking myself inside the armoured shell. The Rage subsides, and my flesh calms; I become like my armour: pure, steady, unblemished.

I descend on wings of smoke and flame.

I am an angel; a fury; a bulwark against the darkness. I am the sacrifice which holds the horrors of the night at bay.

I am the one that dies so that I can live forever in the Emperor’s grace.

_What is my craft?_

_My craft is death._​
*Hope you all enjoy this insight to the thoughts of a lone Blood Angel. Any feedback is greatly appreciated.*


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## son of azurman (Sep 19, 2010)

wow that was quick romero, love it especially how you describe him fighting the black rage


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Though it costs me everything*

Though it costs me everything.


Tis grace that taught my heart to fear and grace my fears released. This thought continually works its way through the forefront of my mind as I look back on my life. Though I am old and weak now, there was a time when I was not. Once I was strong and able. Once I counted for something … a useful tool in the hands of the Emperor, a willing slave unto His own will. Once, long ago I worked my body against the great enemy, Chaos, in ways that would have even impressed the legendary space marines and would have earned even their lofty respect. Once upon a time …


What wonders I have seen in the service of my Lord, what majestic sights! Oh, I have seen the fabled Arch of Livatious, the seemingly bottomless pits of Uranius II. I, myself, have fought under the grand bridges of Illumination upon the distant world of Trasden Omega and rejoiced at the victory against the foes of the Imperium. I danced in the halls of Ice with a beautiful woman, a woman who later I loved. 



I miss her now. She was at once glorious, like an angel and terrifying as a daemon in its wrathful manifestation. She was the mother of my children and the life of my very soul. I think of her often and smile at her memory. What am I now but the shell of a man who was once great. I have lived long enough to both love and hate. I have lived long enough to remember and also to see things as they really are. 



In my service to the Emperor of mankind I studied in the Librarium of forbidden knowledge and in the vast and dark halls I found a book. I believe that it is the last of its kind, all others torn asunder and burned in the rising of the Emperor so long ago. How it had survived for so long I do not know. Why it was not destroyed I cannot say. This book captivated my heart and caused me to wonder upon the things that I had been taught since I was a small child. 



This book brought me to despair. It brought me to doubt the Godhood of the Emperor. It made me see my shame and my sin and my selfishness. It told of wonders and miracles and martyrs. I was struck by the truth of the words upon the pages therein. There in the darkened halls I laughed and wept and sat in abject horror. I twisted with guilt and self loathing, I said, ‘What a wretch I am!’ and for the first time in my life I knew… I knew that there was a reason for my life. There was a purpose for me other than killing and waging war. 



Upon the wasteland of despair I repented of my sins and swore an oath upon the book of which I had found and for this I knew that I was a marked man. I was marked for death by those of whom I had served; the Inquisition. The truth that I had found set my spirit free but it condemned my flesh. Those who I loved would be in harm’s way if I stayed. I knew that I could not defend those that I had loved from the power of the Inquisition. So I fled in the dead of night. 



I wept because I knew that I could not go home. I would never see my children or wife again. Because of the new faith that coursed through my mind and soul I had to put myself as far away from my family as possible. I made contact with my family only once before I left. I explained the truth that I had found to my lovely angel. I don’t know what I expected. I had hoped that she would believe me and turn from her sin as well but in the end she betrayed me, tried to kill me. I was shattered.


No one would understand, not many could understand the idea of salvation, the truth of forgiveness and grace. 



Seventy years have come and gone since the day that my mind was opened and my soul was saved. Seventy years have I prayed for the forgiveness of mankind for turning away from the true God and His sinless son. Mankind is lost to endless war and destruction because of the choices they have made. Endless world suffer and burn because they do not know nor do they wish to know of the price that has been paid to set them free. 


I am too old to run anymore and I know they will come for me. The Inquisition is relentless and does not forget. They do not forgive. They do not give unmerited favor. They do not have grace. In a bygone age, when mankind was young things were not so different. Those who expressed their faith and spoke out against tyranny, believed differently than the powers of those days where slaughtered. Their families were made to suffer before the eyes of those who dared to trust in an unseen God. 



I do not regret finding that book so long ago even though the faith that I have found has taken everything from me. I miss her. She was my life.


I can see them through the front window. They are coming for me. It has taken a long time for them to find me, but I always knew the time would come when I could run no longer. I open the door for them and invite them in. They are stunned by my lack of fear. ‘Do you recant and disavow?’


I bow my head and begin to pray. I am hit hard in the face and I crumble to the floor. There was a time long ago when such a strike upon my flesh would see this man dead, but now I am old. I am also not the same man that I once was, in my heart or my soul. ‘The God Emperor demands that you repent in order to save your immortal soul! Repent heretic!’ the man screamed. I smiled as I looked heavenward. 



The gun was aimed at my face. I could see the bullet in the chamber and I knew that it was for me. ‘Grace be to you. Father, hold not this sin against this man or those who are with him. Into your hands I commit my soul.’


From the blood the truth is told.

1,100 words, not counting title.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Nothing for two weeks? Goodness... let's get writing, guys!


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## son of azurman (Sep 19, 2010)

having trouble coming up with ideas, will try to get one up but will probably have to wait till next months.


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## Sangus Bane (Jun 17, 2009)

*Grace of Purpose- 963 words*

_Grace of Purpose_, the golden letters on the bow of the ship read.

_Grace of purpose…_

A strong name both within the Space Angel Chapter and beyond the Chapter.
The ship had earned its name during many millennia of service to the Imperium of mankind and its Holy Emperor, seated on distant Terra and none would dare question its capabilities or its purpose.

_Grace of Purpose._

The ship had seen more battles than most ships of its age or design, yet it had never been damaged beyond repair, or endured any substantial damage for that matter.

It had been scarred horribly on many occasions, but it always endured, always survived, always victorious.

Some believe the ship to be under the Emperor’s protection ever since the ship had assisted an Imperial Navy fleet during a raid from the Red Corsairs. 
Others believe it is due to the ship being visited by the holy Saint Clarice herself, an Adepta Sororita who honoured the Chapter with her graceful presence after the Chapter had saved her world of birth from the Ork onslaught, many centuries ago.

Dertan Mirrorus, first captain of the Space Angel Chapter knew not which of the many stories he should believe, but he knew one thing; the ship was unlike any other, and there had to be a reason for that.

Often would he ask the servants of the Adeptus Mechanicum to do extra inspections of the ship, just to be ever certain the ship was in pristine.
It always was, and it always would be.

The ship truly earned its name.

_Grace of Purpose._

Its elegant shapes and inconceivably beautiful decorations inspiring the crew of the ship and the member of the Space Angel first company to greatness, leading them to victory and guarding them from death.
Ever vigilant, ever watchful, ever on the hunt.
All of that could be said of the ship, but no words could ever do it the honour it deserved.


First Captain Dertan Mirrorus set foot on the bridge. His heavy Terminator armour making his footsteps sound like thunder on the deck.
‘’Captain on deck!’’ Shipmaster Aleris alerted the crew and all stopped in their tracks, bowing to the captain.

‘’Proceed.’’ Captain Mirrorus said plainly and the crew continued their various duties.

‘’Aleris, why did you have me summoned?’’ Captain Mirrorus asked from inside his armour, his pale scalp barely visible inside the huge Tactical Dreadnaught armour.

‘’My lord,’’ Shipmaster Aleris replied as he bowed his head. ‘’Three ships of unknown origin have just appeared at the edge of our sensors.’’

Captain Mirrorus seemed to consider the news, already preparing several battle plans inside his head.

‘’Make contact and clarify the identity of the ships.’’ The captain ordered and the shipmaster went to work, passing down orders through the chain of command and relaying data traffic between the captain and the various sub-officers on the bridge.

‘’My lord, the ships refuse to respond to our hails, all three of them remain silent.’’ Aleris informed the captain.

‘’Open a direct vox channel.’’ Captain Mirrorus ordered, his voice ever toneless and plain.

The shipmaster bowed his head and within seconds he gave a nod to the captain, indicating the channel was open.

‘’This is Captain Dertan Mirrorus of the first company of the Adeptus Astartes Space Angel Chapter.’’ Captain Mirrorus introduced himself. 
‘’Identify yourselves and state your intentions immediately or face utter annihilation under the authority of the Imperium of mankind. This is your one, and only chance.’’ 

There was no reply.

‘’My lord, we have a visual on the enemy ships, they are of unknown design and nature, not matching any known pattern.’’ Shipmaster Aleris told.

‘’Show me.’’ 

A pict screen above the central dais lit up and Captain Mirrorus could see the outline of three ships against the planet that lay behind them.

‘’Clearly not of Imperial design.’’ Captain Mirrorus stated, noting the sleek and curvy red hulls of the ships. ‘’I have never seen such ships nor anything like them.’’

‘’Nor have I, my lord.’’ Shipmaster Aleris said.

‘’We are nearing maximum torpedo range, my lord.’’ A weapons officer said as he handed a report to the shipmaster. ‘’We await your order.’’

‘’Restrain your eagerness, Master Kaldi.’’ Captain Mirrorus said to the officer, clearly not amused by the bold behavior displayed by the officer. 

The officer took a step back, bowing his head as an apology.

‘’Prepare torpedoes and bring the gun batteries to full alert.’’ Captain Mirrorus ordered after a few brief seconds. ‘’Master Aleris, you may give the word.’’
The shipmaster bowed his head and went back to work, bringing the ship and its crew to combat readiness in mere seconds.

Hatches sealed, offering extra protection to vulnerable parts of the ship and bulkheads closed to minimize damage in the event of a hull breach.

Across all decks men and women made ready for combat, teams were being equipped to deal with boarders or to control damage sustained during the fight that was to come.

Just like the ship itself the crew was pristine. Dedication to their cause and committed to their purpose.

‘’My lord, we have reached maximum weapons range and are ready to fire the first wave of torpedoes.’’

First Captain Dertan Mirrorus had never doubted one of his decisions, nor would he doubt the order he was about to give.

His mind was drawing out several scenarios and situations which could unfold once he had given the order.

‘’My lord?’’ Shipmaster Aleris asked, searching for a confirmation that Captain Mirrorus had heard his earlier report.

Captain Mirrorus had already won the battle in his mind, now he just needed to apply the battle plans.

*‘’Fire.’’* Captain Mirrorus ordered, thus starting the latest of the Grace of Purpose’s thousands of combat engagements.


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## Bloody Mary (Nov 6, 2009)

My mind went into weird, weird places when writing "Grace". And so, this month's entry of mine is set in an original universe.

***

*A Princess's Steed*

_904 words without title_​
A princess’s steed was meant to be a graceful being. When it ran, it should appear to glide above the ground, its horseshoes chiming like little silver bells. It was supposed to be white, with a mane like a waterfall. It should gaze upon others with wise blue eyes that carried the eternal sorrow and joy of an immortal. In short, it was meant to be a creature out of a fairytale, one that involved rainbows and alabaster castles.

The only thing the monster in the courtyard had going for it in “princess’s steed” department was a graceful horn sprouting from its forehead. Other than that, it would not look out of place under a knight—and the kind of knight that wore slightly rusty armour and possibly a few heads tied to his saddle. The unicorn was huge, towering over most horses. Its limbs were far from slender. It had yellow eyes that held the same malice that could be seen in that of an old billy-goat. And it was chestnut.

“This is Grace, milady,” the Master of the Stables said.

Princess Rose Sapphira swallowed nervously as she regarded the beast. Of course, she was quite aware what was expected of her—at least one Princess of the Royal House of Callimirea needed to mount a warunicorn at some point. After all, who else would be the best general, if not the Queen’s sister? Rose had managed to evade this duty ever since she was eight, and realized that a warunicorn could, and would, eat small woodland creatures if pressed, annoyed or if it wanted to show off. Alas, it seemed that happy days of finding excuses have ended—Rose was given the choice of either being wed to Duke Norton or to tame a unicorn. Given the alternative, she decided that terrifying monstrous horses with sharp implements of death on their forehead were a preferable alternative.

With this in mind the young woman steeled herself and took a step forward. Then Grace gave her a look and bared a set of large yellow teeth. Rose yelped, and fainted.

***
“This is Grace, milady,” the Master of the Stables said.

Princess Dahlia Diamanda was not afraid. She had never been one to shy away from danger and new experiences. Though still young, she considered herself a worldly woman, and was quite certain that common superstitions did not apply to her.

And so, unlike the eldest princess, she grinned confidently as she marched towards the unicorn. The mare gave her an evil look, but Dahlia ignored it. Clearly, no one had broken Grace yet and she would have to do it herself. But it didn’t matter. Dahlia knew how to deal with unruly animals.

“Do be careful, milday,” the Master of the Stables said. “Grace can be very temperamental.”

“I’ve dealt with unruly horses before,” Dahlia replied, shrugging. She wanted to add more, but never got a chance. The unicorn turned around briskly and pain blossomed in the Princess’s hand, as large yellow teeth closed on it.

***

“This is Grace, milady,” the Master of the Stables said.

Princess Liliane Rubinia blinked. Then she said, “Oh.”

She was a little thing, with silver blonde hair and wide blue eyes. Unlike her sisters, she was still too young to truly understand what meeting Grace meant. With the failures of the other two, the threat of dynastic conflict was growing, and if she were to be rejected as well…

The girl stood on her spot, watching the mare with a transfixed expression. It did not appear like she intended to move from her spot this century.

The Master of the Stables coughed and gave the child an expectant look.

Grace snorted, sounding like some sort dwarven device on the verge of exploding.

Behind Liliane, her chaperone fainted, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

“She comes from a very fine line of warunicorns, milady,” the Master continued. “Your grandaunt Azlea rode her grandsire—Tiny—during the war with the Amazons of Zalenia.”

The Princess said, “Oh.”

Grace started kicking the ground.

“Perhaps you’d like to ride her?” the Master suggested, waving the stable boys over surreptitiously.

He had expected many reactions: fainting, running away in terror or freezing on the spot. What he had not expected was the high girlish squeal of delight and the mad dash towards what was one of the most potent weapons in animal form used by men (or women, to be precise.)

“I have a unicorn!” the Princess yelled, and glued herself to the animal’s leg.

Grace snorted again. Then she looked down, trying to maneuver her neck so that she could see the child. Finally, in a fit of rather disturbing intelligence the mare raised her leg and the glare of one of her malicious yellow eyes met the innocent blue of Liliane’s. The child smiled.

The unicorn put her leg down and looked up. For a creature that seemed to default to malice and fury, her expression appeared to be very thoughtful. Then she raised her leg again, eliciting a “Wheee!” from the Princess and sniffed on her hair.

What happened next made the Master of Stables wonder if perhaps unicorns didn’t have some hidden cat ancestry. Grace’s expression could only be compared to a feline around catnip. She sniffed on Liliane’s hair again blissfully and neighed softly.

Apparently the tales were true. Unicorns did get high on virgins.


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## jonileth (Feb 1, 2012)

Musings of an Inquisitor

_“There are few things in this galaxy that amaze me anymore. I have seen things in my short time with the Inquisition that would curdle a man’s blood, crush his soul, and desiccate his body. So many wonders have passed before my eyes as well. From the somber eternity of Cemetery Worlds to the untold mysteries of alien worlds; I have witnessed countless things that would send shivers down a man’s spine in awe. All these things pale in comparison to the one thing I came across by accident of fate. And it is such a simple thing… a girl… an Eldar girl…

The Emperor sent this girl to me suddenly, and guided me to a treasure that might well aid the Imperium in the days to come. It was by the Emperor’s grace that I managed to keep her even as many of my own peers thought her dangerous and expendable. I know not what He has in store for us, but I would feel utterly remiss in my duties as a servant of the God-Emperor if I did not cherish the gift he has granted me…

-Excerpt from Inquisitor Andiron’s private journal​_
Inquisitor Lucian Andiron stepped out of his study and into the chambers that served as his sleeping quarters. Like most things in Lucian’s possession, everything about the compartment was utilitarian, functional, and minimal. Having grown up in the service of the Inquisition, Lucian put less stock on excess and endeavored to put every single resource at his disposal to good use in his mission to serve the Emperor’s will. His furnishings were hardly lavish, his wardrobe even less so. The small vessel he called home held little in the ways of comfort either, hosting almost nothing that one could consider excessive or impractical. There were only two objects in the entire ship that were out of place, one book and the girl that came with it.

Lucian crossed the room and came to rest aside Aeliel, who still had her nose in the Book of Lost Glories. It was drawing near to the middle of the night, so far as the ship’s time keeping device was concerned. Such was not unusual at all for either one of them, to work well into the small hours of the morning. Lucian waited patiently for the acknowledgement of his presence he knew would not come if left up to Aeliel. The Eldar girl was always consumed with her reading and note taking. Lucian had taught her High Gothic, something that most of the servants aboard the ship could not read themselves. All of her notes were written in it, most of them disjointed thoughts. Only a handful would ever actually bring use to his cause.

Lucian ran his fingers through the girl’s long hair, an act that always had the intended effect of prying her from the book. Aeliel leaned back against Lucian’s hand before turning her eyes upward at him. Her gaze was as penetrating as the day they had met. Lucian could see the same drive and purpose hidden in her eyes that had convinced him to take her off the Exodite world she’d come from.

“What is it, my Lord?” Aeliel asked with a playful smirk. Lucian had taken great pains to cultivate two personalities in the Eldar. The outward one when they were away from his ship and among the Imperium’s many citizens and the private one that preserved her unique personality.

“You do that just to annoy me, don’t you?” Lucian mused as he coiled his arms around the girl’s neck.

“You were the one that told me to show you proper respect… don’t blame me for the monster you created,” Aeliel mused with a great deal of mirth in her voice as she leaned back in Lucian’s arms.

It had been a year since he found the girl, and in that time he had grown fond of her company… perhaps more so than he should have. She was, after all, a member of the Eldar race. The fact that she had come to him of her own free will and had served him up until that point faithfully shouldn’t have swayed his practical and analytical mind… but it had. Something about her had festered in his very soul and he could hardly imagine a day spent without her sitting in the chair she now resided in.

“The God-Emperor himself only knows why I tolerate you sometimes…” Lucian muttered with a sigh.

“According to you, it was the Emperor who led me to you. He must have known how things would turn out if He saw fit to bring us together the way He did. Just count your blessings as they are given and stop complaining already,” Aeliel said as she leaned back to look up at Lucian.

“I suppose you are right…” the Inquisitor conceded the point, “The Emperor works in whichever way he sees fit and I can do nothing but accept it. In his divine plan, he has chosen to grace me with an angel… with pointy ears…”

Aeliel laughed at the comment, “Better pointy ears than green skin, don’t you think?”

Lucian couldn’t help but smirk. The girl had a way with words. Though he may have spoken in jest, the Emperor had indeed blessed him with a unique gift. Such gifts could hardly be tossed aside, though Lucian wondered if he went a bit far in harboring such strange feelings for the girl. The fact remained that Aeliel was indeed something the God-Emperor had seen fit to allow him to discover. It had been by no other means that the two had met, and it would have been the very definition of heresy to forsake what the Emperor had given… at least in his own mind. And who was he to argue?

--
This story, including title, is 977 words long. I decided to revive the characters from my Shatter Reality story and I took an admittedly odd approach to Grace, interpreting it as divine favor. If nothing else, it made sense in my head and hopefully it's a good read and a nice revival of characters.


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

2 1/2 hours. Time to get my typing cap on.

Edit: looks like I'll squeak in by the seat of my pants, sweaty-toothed madman that I am.


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

*Cavern Dialogues*

(a small segment of a larger story I'm currently writing. This section written specifically to this prompt. 1098 words, by my count)

+++

"Tell me, inquisitor," said her captor, his gravelly voice ringing down from above, "why do your methods diverge so greatly from those of your peers? Most inquisitors that I have encountered with whom I have crossed paths have been obsessed, to a degree, with a achieving… gracefulness."

Ediad shifted, wincing as her broken ankles flared into sharp sparks of agony. The raw pit of hunger at her stomach worried away at her as well. The raw, natural rock cell in which she sat opened only at the top, where her tormenter looked down on her. In the darkness, she could only pick out his hulking silhouette. "Why don't you shut up, you khelk-scrubbing heretic?"

The figure looming at the hole tutted with mock sincerity. "Come now, inquisitor, I've found myself rather starved for conversation these past few centuries, besides. You need must sing if you want your supper. It's not like I have anywhere else to go."

Ediad gritted her teeth and fought to clear the forefront of her mind. Centuries, eh? If her captor were willing to reveal more such details, she might be able to get a clearer idea of just who and what he really was. Still, the hanging mention was all too clearly bait, and she didn't care to think where he would reel her after he set the hook. "Can't say," she grunted. "It's never been my style."

A bark of laughter. "No indeed. Your approach had all the subtlety of a charging grox."

"Only a fool conflates the subtle and the graceful," she sneered. "You might as well lump in cleverness and claim all three rely on each other."

Another harsh laugh. "What is grace, then, but the subtle execution of cleverness?There are words for subtlety that is born from a lack of cleverness; a failure to conceptualize," her captor said. "Luck. Irony. I don't put my faith in such things."

"And here thought your creed professed a distinct faithlessness," she said.

"My, my!" crowed the silhouette. "How quickly you grasp for my identity and profess to know me!"

"You gave it away yourself," she replied. "_Centuries_. It's been three hundred and forty years since your kind orchestrated the Morrashar Insurrections, traitor."

Laughter, again. "How quickly I forget the joys of conversation. So easy to slip into a patterned life and let the years slip by, in this darkness."

A scraping at the entrance and the silhouette shifted, pooling forward to land heavily in the cell. His landing scattered a number of human bones across the chamber floor. One landed beside Ediad: it has been gnawed bare and split so that the marrow could be sucked out, and relatively recently. Pangs shot through her gut. It must have been days since she'd last eaten, by now.

The massive, muscular man came forward, and Ediad could see the profusion of scars that criss-crossed his naked skin--scars marked by regular impressions where the man, or superhuman, had apparently torn out the implants of his black carapace. His every movement that of the consummate predator.

"Yes," he said, all smiles with a mouthful of rotten tooth-stumps, "I am one of the Traitor Astartes that killed the Archbishop. A shame that we were scattered and I, my armor damaged beyond repair, was forced to hide in these tunnels. I have come to rather appreciate this labyrinth, though. There is a simplicity of predator and prey, here in this domain where I am king. No armies clashing; no ideological debates carried out with bullet and blade. The only thing I miss is the occasional… conversation."

"Why grace?" she asked. He quirked his brow quizzically, dredging the expression up from centuries of disuse and delighting in its rediscovery. "I'll bite. Why start a conversation by mentioning grace?"

"You must understand, there are many among my elevated kind--especially the fallen variety--who see grace as wholly unnecessary thing. They call it the frippery of civilization; the excrement of society, floating as ever to the top. They see the application of brute force as the only lever by which they can

"Among the Twentieth Legion, of course, we are taught… somewhat differently."

"The Alpha Legion," Ediad breathed.

"A vain title, admittedly, but over the course of the Long War I daresay we've earned it many times over, and more often than not without your knowledge of the fact."

"Your arrogance will always be your downfall," she hissed.

"Not for as long as you lack the subtlety, the _grace_, if you will to recognize the true course of events.

"But I tire of these weary old arguments. They were part of the reason I welcomed this new life, here in the tunnels."

"Go rot in the warp," Ediad spat.

"Oh," he said, "but I spent millennia doing that, and less satisfied than I have been of late. There are things you wouldn't believe that exist down here; things that are older than and have no conception of humankind. Things that I hunt.

"And besides, I occasionally have guests," he said, idly kicking the skull from among the bones on the far side of the cell. It cracked off the wall and rolled to a halt near Ediad, staring accusingly at her. A hole had been punched through its back--by, she suspected, the large, blunt fingers of the superhuman opposite her. "This one begged too much. He thought wealth would buy his escape; that he could offer me passage away from here. I thought that I would rather converse with his hunters, and you came to me all too obligingly."

"Why should I talk with you?" Ediad asked. "I'm only going to end up like Spume, here, or my explicator, eventually."

"The hope of survival, perhaps? The hope to unearth some weakness? Of course I don't fear you, but I wholly expect you to make some sort of escape attempt once you've healed enough. You can only do that if you're still alive.

"And before I forge, you must keep up your strength if we're going to continue our conversations. I do hope to convert you to my point of view regarding grace. Here, your mention of your acolyte reminded me."

He backed to the hole in the roof and hauled himself out, agile despite his great bulk. From there, he turned around and heaved a scrap of something wet back into the cell.

"Do eat to your fill, madam," her captor said as he rolled the stone that capped her cell back into place.

Ediad stared at the hunk of meat sitting on the floor, altogether too aware of its origin.


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## Liliedhe (Apr 29, 2012)

*The Mother's Grace*

Every death is a tragedy. A mother’s death even more so. If a man died, the tribe would move on, and other men would take his place among the hunters, the artists or the warriors. But a mother’s death tore a hole into the social structure of the group, leaving orphaned children who had to be raised by their uncles or aunts, keeping them from doing whatever they had done before. 

There were stories that in the past some tribes had put orphans to death for that reason. Salamoon didn’t believe that. It was a story, told to ward off the impulse that might exist in some people to do exactly that. As Nietta’s oldest brother, it was his duty to take in her two children – a little boy and a newborn baby girl; the child she had died giving birth to. 

In the rain – why did it always rain? – the tribe was gathered around the burial tree, watching as Salamoon placed his sister’s wrapped corpse on the platform erected around the trunk at head height. Gently he tucked her into the woven reed craddle and sprinkled white needles from the tribe’s holy tree over her. Underneath, the Shaman sang the funeral dirge, calling the spirits to take in Nietta’s soul and guide her to the afterlife. Above, the ghost birds gathered, ready to begin their duty...

“Rest well. Go back to the other side... I will take care of the little ones.” He placed his hand where he presumed the dead woman’s heart to be and added a silent benediction, before he climbed down and took his place in the throng. 

Finally, the dirge was finished. Everyone was thoroughly wet and miserable by now, but they weren’t done yet. Ylermi, the Shaman, stepped forward, followed by Mirkka, the healer. She carried the little nameless girl in her arms, while the boy clung to her skirt. 

Salamoon shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold. 

“As a mother departs, her children stay behind. We, who remain, owe it to her to take care of those she gave life to, as we have been given life by our mothers. Who among you will take these orphans and raise them as his own?”

Salamoon hesitated for a moment. Sometimes, it happened that someone else would step forward, be it because one of the children was especially close to their own, or because they had recognised an aptitude for a craft in one of them. 

“I’ll take the girl.” This was Sannu, the chief’s sister, who stepped forward. “As you know, my baby boy died of the fever last week. I can still nurse.” She placed a hand on Salamoon’s arm. “It’s better that way.” 

He nodded, relieved. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done with her.” 

Sannu took the girl and went to stand beside the chief again. 

Salamoon readied himself to accept responsibility for the boy – after all, he was almost old enough to learn a craft and there was no reason for him to shirk here... 

“Juhani stays with me.” 

Everybody – really everybody, even the Shaman – stared. It wasn’t Salamoon who had spoken, but Mirkka. The healer took the boy’s hand. 

“Why?” Salamoon had to know. Was it that nobody thought him capable of taking care of his sister’s orphans? He might have hesitated, because there was no other woman in his family, but he would never have shirked. 

The older woman pushed her greying hair out of her face and pulled the boy close. He stood very still, wet and bedraggled, and looked at his uncle without expression on his face, neither sadness nor relief. He had inherited Nietta’s almond shaped blue eyes, but his mother had never looked this way. 

Salamoon went down on his knees before his nephew and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Why?” he asked again. “I would take care of you, I really would.”

Slowly, the child reached out with a small, cold hand and touched his uncle’s cheek, brushing away tears Salamoon had not been aware of crying. “I know.” He turned slightly, to look at the woman who still shielded him from the rain with her beaded skirts. She gave him an encouraging nod and he continued. 

“But you can’t. Mirkka will teach me to be a healer, so I can help others, like I helped my mother.”

The man looked up in confusion. Nobody had helped Nietta, she had died. 

Mirkka smiled sadly at the expression on his face. “He stayed with her. The entire night. Despite the blood, the screams and the pain. He held her hand, he sang to her, he soothed her. And when she died, she was calm. There is more to a healer’s work than fixing broken bodies. Sometimes, all we can do is fix broken souls.” 

Juhani embraced his uncle fiercely and Salamoon held him close. He felt the boy’s warmth and calm radiating from his thin, fragile body. “He is a born healer.”

Salamoon nodded, understanding dawning. He got up, still holding the boy. “So often, all you can do is watch your patients go home.”

“Indeed.” Mirkka stroked Juhani’s hair. “Learning about herbs and fixing bones, almost everybody can do that. But to stay around when you have seen you will fail, accept it and still go on without despair, and help your patient to do so also that is a great gift and a rare one.”

Salamoon remembered the old stories, the old lessons. “So he is touched, isn’t he?”

The healer nodded, taking the child from him. “Yes. He carries the Mother’s Grace.”


Words: 934.


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## Romero's Own (Apr 10, 2012)

Was the deadline not at 5.00?


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

It was, and despite the fact that I failed miserably by not posting the voting thread on time (i.e. yesterday), the post was made past the deadline. Sorry Lil, you may throw rocks at me later...

Also, voting post will be up in a little bit (apologies!) but don't have very long and I've got to get some real life work done haha

Edit: Correction, I previously stated:


> No extension since no one asked, however if I'm late closing out the entry thread then the comp stays open.
> 
> Buuuut on that note, comp closed, expect the voting thread to be up momentarily!


Link: http://www.heresy-online.net/forums/showpost.php?p=1227308&postcount=42

So Lil's story is still good to go.


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*hi*

funny. lol


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