# Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories Challenge 12-01: A Beginning



## Boc

Happy New Years all!

And with the commencement of a new year, begins a new streak of HOES!

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, totaled 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.

*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 either 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:

*A Beginning*

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)*Saturday, 21 January 2011*. Voting will be held from *22 January - 28 January*.

*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.

Partipation - 5 reputation points, everyone will receive this
3rd place - 10 reputation points
2nd place - 20 reputation points
1st place - 30 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*

Davidicus 40K - Reconciliation

Andygorn - Perchance, a Time for Lovers

Gothik - Bitter Moon

Adrian - The Files

Papa_Nurgle42 - A Beginning, Part I

Brother Emund - Birth of a Warrior

Adrian: The Vengeful Sun


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## Davidicus 40k

Wow, 5 Rep for participating? Plus, who wouldn't want to be part of a contest named "HOES"!?!? Well, I'm horrible at coming up with ideas for stories. This is a very early rough draft; I just wanted to get it down on paper (figuratively) before it slipped away. PLEASE criticize.

*Reconciliation* (1099 words)

Early morning light streamed into the hab through the bedroom window. Massanus Kuhn opened his eyes slowly, relishing the last moments of sleep before he had to fully wake. He felt oddly out of place sleeping in a real bed, but he didn’t regret a minute of it. The hab was small, dirty, and had bloodstains running down the walls of the main chamber, but Kuhn didn’t care. He’d rather be here than in a hard sleeping roll, cramped in a tiny Guard tent.

Today was the first day of Kuhn’s freedom, but he couldn’t relish it. His regiment, the Utherian 5th, had lost its homeworld many years ago. After twenty years of distinguished service and extreme losses suffered in its final battle, the Imperium disbanded the regiment and allowed it to settle the place of its death, a planet called Nex. Kuhn had spent the last eight months fighting for Nex’s capital, struggling to free it from a Chaos insurrection that had received off-world reinforcements. The battle had ended, finally, two weeks ago. Transitioning to civilian life was difficult, almost impossible, but Kuhn had survived innumerable horrors and had served the Emperor well. He was determined to enjoy his well-earned reward.

Kuhn rose from bed and threw on a shirt and trousers. He’d never been one for cleanliness, even as a Guardsman, and he glanced at the various belongings strewn across the bedroom as he dressed. His eye fell upon his dog tags, lying on top of the dresser along the far wall. Before he knew it, he was back in his flak armor, sprinting across buckled, broken streets as las-fire burned the air all around him. He remembered every detail vividly: the oppressive heat of the capital as it burned; the cacophony of explosions, weapons fire, and screams of pain; the smell of smoldering flesh, burning fuel, and charred metal. He could feel his las-rifle gripped firmly in gloved hands, trigger finger twitching, ready to shoot at anything that moved.

Before the reverie claimed him completely, he shook his head and finished dressing. As an afterthought, he grabbed his tags, then hurried out of the hab.

Kuhn didn’t know exactly where he was going, but he just had to get out of the hab and see the city through the eyes of a freed man. The battered residents of the capital were out and about, surveying the damage and assessing what remained of their homes. They had celebrated the Guard’s victory initially, but now that the Utherians had integrated, they paid Kuhn little heed. That was fine; he wanted to blend in. He kept walking east, towards the center of the district, until someone caught his eye.

It was a girl, no older than sixteen. She had emerged from a doorway along the street and was looking at him curiously. He stopped and stared back; what did she want? She seemed frail and weak, dressed in tattered brown rags with limp black hair that clung to her face. All of the citizens of the capital had been traumatized by the battle, of course, but she seemed especially harrowed.

Kuhn suddenly recognized her grey eyes. At the same moment, she seemed to recognize him as well, and she cried out in anger.

“You! It’s you!” she screamed, pointing. Kuhn looked around nervously; her shouting had drawn the looks of several passersby.

“Yes, I remember you too. Let’s talk about it inside,” Kuhn urged. He approached her and roughly ushered her into the hab from which she’d come out, then closed the iron door. The lobby was lit by pale yellow glow-globes, barely illuminating the filthy space.

As soon as they were inside, she broke away from him and glared at him with malice. “How dare you show your face around me?”

Kuhn sighed, shakily, and tried to stop the flood of memories from overwhelming him. He couldn’t resist; he saw the lobby as it was that day, three weeks ago, near the end of the conflict. He’d been with his squad, going from hab to hab, eliminating hidden cultists and Chaos sympathizers. In the upstairs bedroom, he’d found a girl, no older than sixteen, dressed in rags with limp black hair and grey eyes. She was being shielded by her parents, who begged the Guardsmen to leave. Kuhn remembered the fear in their tear-filled eyes. He wondered why they were so desperate; did they have something to hide?

That’s when the cultist had appeared. He’d been lurking in the closet, ready to attack. When he emerged, he charged the nearest Guardsman and thrust his knife into his neck. Kuhn, enraged, fired a well-placed shot to the cultist’s neck. Then he’d turned to the girl’s parents, who were even more terrified. They stammered excuses, saying the cultist was the girl’s uncle and he’d forced them to hide him in their house. Kuhn, charged by duty, had killed them both.

The girl had collapsed in the corner of the room, sobbing hysterically. Kuhn had raised his rifle to end her misery, but one of his squadmates had stopped him. Now, meeting the girl again, Kuhn felt a rush of grief. He’d been fighting for months to protect these people, yet he had killed two innocents because they were forced to harbor a cultist. Now that duty didn’t matter, Kuhn felt the full weight of his guilt.

“What’s… what’s your name, girl?” Kuhn whispered.

She hesitated. “No, you don’t deserve to know my name. Not after what you took from me. I hope you burn in hell!”

“I… I know I don’t have an excuse for what I did, but… can you understand what I went through? You saw the horrors of Chaos firsthand. You can imagine what happened to my friends, how many good men died in front of me. I was doing my duty, but… perhaps it was a little bit of revenge as well. I wanted to destroy anything related to Chaos. Your parents were innocent, but they looked like they were supporting the cultists. I… regret what I did. I can’t ask you to forgive me.”

Kuhn reached in his pocket and pulled out his dog tags. “These represent the last twenty years of my life. They represent pride, fear, sweat, and sacrifice. These are the most important things to me. I want you to have them. I hope they’re enough to begin the process of reconciliation.”

The girl reached out tentatively and took the tags from Kuhn’s outstretched hand. She read his name slowly, then closed her eyes and nodded.

“Hello, Massanus Kuhn. I’m Karliah Wright.”


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## andygorn

Hi all,
Inspiration struck me early this time, so just putting this out there.
I'm always trying to improve my transcription so, if there's any glaring spelling/punctuation mistakes or with sentence/paragraph spacing, please let me know and I'll change them.

*“Perchance, a time for lovers” (= 1088 words)*

In thrall to her beauty and exquisite longings, Sorceror Gunther Waldgren had served Katrina Forjetz for over twelve years, never faltering in his dedication.
Even the other lovers she brought to their room had not lessened their mutual ardour once the assisting partner had been emptied..and discarded, of course.

Still naked from their bed, his hands work manically at the scrying-devices, feverishly double-checking their accuracy and realising what they herald.

Unable to tear his eyes away from his beloved charts and texts, he whispers urgently: “Morrslieb lies at the correct juncture and the third Quadrant star cluster shall fall into alignment with the sun’s glare across the Sigmarite High Temple next week as predicted! Mistress, the stars herald a time of great turmoil; our plans are at hand!”

The discarding of bed linen tells of her approach, but he is still lost amongst calculation; even the slightest mistake will lead to complete and howling defeat.

The soft padding of her feet across the floorboards and the hot breath at the nape of his neck finally shakes him from his monologue and schematics, reminding him that they are lovers first and accomplices second:

“You and I shall travel this land, Gunther, seeking out every speck of sentiment and crushing it beneath our spiked heels, until there is naught else but adoration and worship.

“This so-called Empire shall fall and you and I shall walk amongst it’s defiled streets. You will help me and all will bow down before our glory. I, too, have seen the dreams and they presage a new age for humanity.”

“You, my dear chronomancer will drink from the same cups as the Grand Magisters themselves...sit in their very chairs...gleaning knowledge from more forbidden texts than you ever knew existed.

“I imagine that -naturally- you will wish to debase yourself with their willing wives, maids and daughters of sufficient age at your every leisure..?”

As she scratches her elongated nails down his cheek, more than one instantly draws blood and the hot scarlet liquid begins to drip onto ancient star-charts and sheets of lizard-skins coated with their inscrutable prophet’s ramblings. Yet he cares not, for Katrina’s embrace and love is all he has ever cared for, now and always.

Despite more vitae falling to the bench, the shudders which wrack Gunther’s entire being are not merely ones of pain, but more from imagined pleasures as he foresees the nexus of his darkest ambitions.

“I know such is the deepest wish of your beaten and abused heart. I am only doing this to please you and I only yearn to see you happy.” Although her voice sounds harsher than usual against his ear he discards any vocal change as inconsequential, still lost in visions of a lifetime of debauchery and exploring secrets that even Gods have forgotten.

His replying voice falters from the realisation of her affection:
“You would do *such* a thing? Slaughter all the garrison like cattle, just to help my dreams come to fruition?”

Her usually soft laugh turns into a much harsher bark and it touches his cheek with the impact of a punch, yet the power of her voice holds him aloft: “I would garland that guardhouse with their very entrails! I would do even more than that, just to see your first smile since they killed your village and drove you into my arms...”

With her delicate fingers clasping around the back of his head in a vice-grip, Gunther winces as her deep violet nails dig eagerly through his hair.
However, despite the pain which now filters through his numbed senses, his voice remains strong and clear knowing that -despite all they have shared of each other- showing any weakness will mean her abandonment of him.
“This body is mine, but my soul is yours, Katrina. I am ready to serve my mistress however she wishes...”

Her silken words brush the lobe of his ear in a softness that the material could never equal and her scent fills his head. It enflames his renewing passions, even as her nails gouge his scalp whilst she turns him around to face her.
“Do not be too hasty to promise what you cannot give, my dear acolyte. But I agree to your terms.”

Pulling his head back by the hair, he now stares up into her eyes.
No! Katrina was always shorter than him and her ears were _never_ so pointed as they are right now!

Mouth agape, Gunther can only look on in horror as her eyelashes recede and the freckles upon her face -the ones he has kissed and adored so much- dissipate into her now-alabaster skin.

What’s wrong? Why the differences? Also, why can’t he extricate himself from the grasp of the Katrina-creature before him?

Most awful of all, her deep green eyes that he has lost himself in so many times change colour, hues dissolving as the orbs turn an impossibly solid pale blue.

One of her hands –now taloned- caresses up his body to hold his shocked face in a grip like steel: intricately carved golden nails hold his eyes agape so that he is unable to even blink in despair.
Supported only by her hands on his head, the rest of Gunther slumps as her soporific scent enthralls him to her beauty, yet his mind still attempts rebellion against the hidden terror which he has shared his bed with for over a decade.

Moving so close that their cheeks brush together like so many times before, she sees his eyes plead for the life that he knows is now denied him: “This world is ours for the taking, Gunther Waldgren...and I have *such* wondrous things to show you...”

His teeth open to scream, but there is insufficient time to vent any sounds before her thick, leech-like tongue delves powerfully between his lips, inflicting myriad bites upon the roof of his mouth. Spasming uncontrollably in her grasp, Katrina infects her victim with a portion of malevolence, enslaving him more perfectly than her human form ever did.

Allowing the stupefied form to fall to the floor, she giggles in the knowledge that he will soon rise as her unthinking bodyguard once the venoms fully take hold.

Katrina Forjetz, oft-called The Dominatress, neither glances down at the human’s slumped shape, nor spares her lover of eleven years a second thought: Gunther is just the first of many to march at her side and there is much to do.
Espying the village’s lantern-lit guardhouse she whispers: "Yes, there is much to do indeed!"


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## gothik

I've decided to do a series of origins stories for Halter Jovotch and the members of The Rapture and this seemed the best place to showcase it. hopefully you are enjoying the Flawless Host tales i am doing and this will be an extension to it...the before and after if you will. Any comments will be appreciated


Bitter moon

A Flawless Host Tale

HOES 1-12 A Beginning

Word Count: 1,100


Chemos 10,000 years ago.


“Halter…Halter is it not wonderful news about the Lord Fulgrim, his father has found him and we are to be reunited with most ancient Terra”

Halter Jovotch turned from the window where he was watching the people of his town celebrating the arrival of the Emperor with his warriors. They were singing the praises of not only this mighty being from distant and ancient Terra but the mighty and beguiling Lord Fulgrim.

Halter was only 16 and already had the knowledge of a man wrapped in a youths body. He could see people laughing and crying and he supposed that this could only enhance their once blighted worlds rejuvenation under Lord Fulgrim.

He had listened to the stories of his parents and his grandparents of how prior to the Phoenicians arrival everyone had to work all the hours of the day just to get some of the drained and meagre resources from their dying world.

When Fulgrim had arrived he changed the worlds fortunes, re-opened old mines and built farms. Under his workings Chemos no longer had to rely on off world trade, he had made it his goal to save his world and his people and that is exactly what he had done. 

Halter, like all of his people idolised their leader but when the call had come for sons to heed the call to become Astartes of the Phoenician he had decided it was not for him. 

He let his mothers prattling continue and fondled the ring in his pocket. He excused himself and with his mind made up left his house and headed down the street towards the woman he loved.

Several months ago he had met Tulita Havitz at a masked ball. For all the work that the Phoenician had put into rebuilding Chemos he had also insisted that the people of Chemos become learned and that their culture embrace more then work and that is what they had done. In fact Halter had a cousin who was a singer and had sung at the Phoenicians palace, not to mention an uncle who was renowned as a historian.

The masked ball in the city of Radex was one that was held every year in honour of the Phoenicians ascendance where all the youth were introduced to others from all walks of life. Tulita had been the most beautiful woman there and he had ensured that he had manipulated her time. 

When it came to revealing themselves he did so with flourish, removing his bird like mask and swept her off her feet. It had been quite an intense relationship from then on and sex had come into it one night after dinner with friends. That was it, he had fallen in love with her, and there was not a moment that had gone by where they were not together. 

He stood outside her home and gazed up at the marble columns that stood either side of the door. Her father was the mayor of the town and as such he had the biggest house and was respected for implementing many of the changes that the Phoenician still made to this day. 

He glanced down at himself and shook his head clear and adjusted his dress to make himself look presentable and smoothed his dark hair back. Taking a deep breath he walked into her house, nodding at the servants who watched him enter. 

“Tulita” He called and getting no answer he looked from room to room. He had half hoped that her father would be here, but with the Emperors arrival he would have been in Callex with the other town leaders. 

He was not stopped as he was a regular visitor here and he was told that the young mistress was in her room and had been all day. Halter thanked the maid and made his way up the marble staircase that was lined with red veins, passed pictures of the Havitz family all of them in the past had been leaders of the city through the good times and the bad. 

He stopped outside her door and taking a last deep breathe walked in and suddenly his world came crashing down. He stared to see his lover, the woman he had given his body soul and virginity too rising above some man like a whore in the mine towns.

He slammed the door behind him causing the couple to turn. Tulita uttered a yelp and reached for a sheet to cover her modesty and as the man that had been underneath her sat up startled by the disturbance and about to shout out whomever had disturbed them when his voice failed.

“Kenan” Halter hissed.

“Halter” Tulita went to get out of bed “Please this is not what it looks like”

Halter clenched his fists shaking from head to toe as his eyes took in the scene before him. He was a powerful built youth and he was well aware that if he lashed out he could break bones and as tempting as that was right now he dare not do it.

“Oh come Tulita this is exactly what it looks like” Kenan, his best friend sneered “Halter is no fool but then he knew that I would get what I want, I always get what I want” 

Halter narrowed his eyes and the rage he swallowed began to sit ill in his stomach. It would not do to attack Kenan his father was the chief of police. He glared at them both and as Tulita came to him he pushed her aside.

“Whore” He hissed and opening the door he walked out blocking out her apologies.


Kelva looked up as his brother came into the transport ready to head to the Fortress Monastery at Callex to be tested to become a true son of Fulgrim. 

“I thought you were joining the police,” Kelva asked.

“I changed my mind brother” Halter strapped himself in then looked up as Kenan boarded and sat across from him. 

Kenan leant over and with a sneer in his voice he whispered, “Tulita is with child” Halter went to raise his fist as the transport moved off “and it is yours”

Halter spat in Kenans face “I do not acknowledge whores or bastard whoresons, nor do I acknowledge claim to paternity” 

Kelva rested his hand on his brothers shoulder “Halter….”

“I will have my revenge on you Kenan of that you can be sure off, you are no friend of mine”

Halter sat back in his seat and turned his face to the window watching the city go by and wishing that he was away from here and the pain that his heart felt, if what he had heard about these Astartes then it would be good for him, to be among men with no whores in sight.


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## Boc

As a quick note, I will be out of town from 4 JAN - 27ish JAN doing military stuff, with more than likely limited accessibility (I don't think there's reception in the part of a desert I'm going to), so if I don't update the Table of Contents or if the voting thread is up a few days late don't fret. I'll do what I can to try and keep everything current, but I'll be left to my cell phone as my sole internet connection and not sure how reliable it will even be.

Also... damn one day in and 3 stories? Nice!


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## gothik

be safe BOC x


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## Ambush Beast

*The Files*

The Files.


“I hate this world. I always have and I always will.” General Grail thought quietly as he rummaged through the assignment details given to him two days before. Grail mumbled under his breath as he shifted a stack of files upon his desk. 

As he turned, his hip caught the corner of the desk. It shook and the files he had spent the better part of the day organizing fell to the filthy floor. ‘Damn, fekking filth!’ he roared as he turned to see what had become of his hours of work. ‘I hate this place.’ he stammered as he kicked the files across the tent’s interior.

Seeking to calm himself he sat at the table and placed his head into his meaty hands. Grail was tall and heavy, nearly two-hundred and ninety pounds, most of it muscle. Normally he was a disciplined soldier, but the endless fighting had begun to sap at his soul. He was tired, and who could blame him?

If he was not on the line fighting side by side with his men, he was here sorting out paper work; records, details of every single thing that had happened throughout the campaign to the best of his knowledge, remembrance or suspicion. The information was gathered by the commissar in the evening and shipped off to the Inquisition for inspection. Any sign of corruption would see he and his men put to death.

‘Fekking Inquisition.’ he whispered into his scarred palms. 

‘What was that, General Grail?’ a voice grated. 

“Fekking Commissar, go to hell where you came from.” Grail thought, but did not give voice for fear of his life. Instead he said, ‘Commissar Engals, so nice to see you on such a wonderful evening.’ 

‘Don’t shove a bayonet up my ass, Grail. I need the files an hour ago.’ the Commissar growled. 

‘Well, as you can see, Commissar, the files are not ready. The blessed Inquisition will have to wait for them until I can reorganize them. I do hope that will not be a problem.’ Grail said. 

The Commissar looked around the tent and sneered, the scar that bisected his face bending in mock understanding. ‘I’ll come back in two hours. It will not go well for you if the files are not ready, General. I know you understand me.’ With that he turned his back and stormed out of the tent.

‘Yes, I understand you.’ General Grail whispered. Slowly he stood up and gathered the files and placed them on his desk. Pulling a flask from a box in the corner, he unscrewed the topper and drank deeply of the bitter wine. Sitting back in his seat, he put the wine away and began his work once more.

In the distance he could hear the chanting of the Chaos hoards as they prepared to strike. The battle would soon start up again; the 109th Valdorian Infantry would fight for their lives once more. 



In the beginning Grail’s goals were just like any other man’s when they joined the Imperial Guard. Defend those who could not defend themselves. Fight for the helpless. Defend the Emperor’s worlds from the forces of darkness.

But now time had passed. Twenty-two years in the Guard was long enough. Seeing his men die around him on a daily basis was taxing. Fighting against the great enemy was brutal to the mind as well as the soul, but to have to constantly watch your back from those who were supposed to be on your side was intolerable. 

The Chaos war-guns began to fire once more and the earth shook. Screams filled the evening air and fires blazed all around. General Grail donned his helmet, chain-sword and las-pistol and ran from the tent just as it exploded in a ball of fire and shrapnel. 

Two thousand men were under his command and he would not fail to be their leader at the forefront of the battle. The lines were holding, but the trenches would be overrun within the hour. It was clear to see that the 109th had to retreat or die. The setting sun upon a cloudless night was blotted out by the smoke of battle, exploding shells and the mist of burning flesh. 

Fifty meters away a chimera exploded sending shrapnel and fire into those gathered around. Their screams filled the growing darkness, but the lines held firm. Thousands of daemon worshipers began to pour across the open fields and General Grail gave the order to retreat. 

He knew there would be hell to pay, but there was no other option but to run; to give up ground. In the distance flamethrowers fired from Chaos engines lit hundreds of faithful soldiers on fire. Like moving, screaming wax candles the bodies began to run in all directions while the Chaos hoards laughed with delight.

The wind changed direction and brought the searing chemical stench of burning flesh back onto the retreating 109th. People fell to their knees vomiting and screaming as the enemy closed on them. This was not a battle, but a slaughter and by the Emperor’s will General Grail and his men would survive. 

‘Rear guard, form up and leave your fear behind you,’ Grail railed over the din. ‘Kill those damned souls and send them to their makers.’ Seeing his example, the 109th steadied themselves and began to do what they were made to do; kill.

With his chain-sword revved up to full spin, Grail speared three skin clothed men. Their guts churned with the spinning blades and their bones were turned inside out as the roaring blades sawed through their bodies. Blood bathed the area around Grail and clothed him in ichor, but he kept fighting. 

‘For the Emperor, kill them all!’ he bellowed. A bullet turned him around, blood pouring from his shoulder. The attack did not come from an enemy, but from the Commissar’s own gun. ‘General Grail, I warned you to have those files ready for me and they are not ready.’ the Commissar yelled. His face was blood covered and insanity was written in his eyes. ‘So by the order of the Emperor and the holy Inquisition as well as the satisfaction of the Commissar’s office I do hold…’ 

‘Shut the fekk up and die, Commissar.’ Grail said through clenched teeth as he drove his chain-sword through the Commissar’s chest. ‘Maybe you will find the files where you’re going.’

All around him the fighting continued and he knew that he would die soon, but he laughed as he continued to strike the commissar long after he had fallen to the ground. 



1,100 words.


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## Davidicus 40k

Boc said:


> Also... damn one day in and 3 stories? Nice!


Again, who wouldn't want to compete in a contest named "HOES"? This is great :grin:.


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## Serpion5

Have to do this one. 

Have to.


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## Dicrel Seijin

I think that last time I was on the forums was over two weeks ago. 

I remember when the last deadline passed, I was still correcting essays. I need to enter this one, though I am surprised at the number of stories so soon.

I may re-purpose the story I was supposed to submit last month.


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## Brother Emund

Great, here we go... :victory:


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## Papa_Nurgle42

This is meant to be a humorous read about what it must be like if the rules of Warhammer 40,000 came up in conversation amongst the troops. I do not fancy myself a writer nor do I know a lot of the in’s and out’s of 40K. I could not tell you the differences between MK IV power armor and a 1987 Volvo sedan (although I am sure that both of them could go through a concrete wall and come out in working order). I also do not intend this (or these, depends on the feed back from this one) story to spark any debate of complaints about the CSM Codex and the rules there in. It’s the army I play and have played for quite some time now. It is the only codex I know so it is what I chose to write about… and poke some fun at. This is all supposed to be in good fun. 

PART 1: 

Lord Groth`naw stood upon the rubble that was once Sector 9’s communications relay giving praise to his Gods. He gazed upon Sector 10’s fortifications and knew in his tainted soul that the enemy would be crushed where they cowered behind their defenses. His muscles ached under his groaning and battle damaged power armor but the victory he tasted was well worth the minor wounds and the heavy losses he sustained over the past several weeks. His combi-melta slung at his side, its barrels still hot to the touch. The power fist hung by the armor alone for he was resting his shoulder as it healed. He placed his right hand over the handle of his holstered bolt pistol and his soul filled with pride. The ground beneath his feet started to tremor as a dull roar began to build behind him. Lord Groth`naw turned to see the silhouette of what appeared to be a Landraider on the scorched horizon. Just below him the remnants of Tactical Squad Charlie were dividing the spoils of the recent scrimmage.

Groth`naw’s vox crackled to life “Aspiring Champion Thornison, to what squad does that Landraider belong?” The dull rumble was building but the debris was high and the assault vehicle was still too far off to make out markings.

The squad looked up the pile of misshapen concrete. One of them spoke “My Lord” one could almost here the faint sigh come out of the marine’s vox “It’s much easier and time saving to call me Sergeant”. The remaining four, down from ten, of the squad policed up their new belongings and slowly stepped away from their squad leader as if they might know what was about to transpire.

“This again!?” howled their Lord “For the last time Aspiring Champion Thornison, we do not have ‘Sergeants’ in our ranks. What we do have are those amongst the masses who have distinguished themselves from their peers and are starting to gain the favor of our Gods. It is an honor, speak no more of it or I shall remove the life from your body just before removing the title from your name. Now to what squad does that Landraider belong?” The squad turned to the direction of the approaching tank but could see nothing. It had entered into the debris field and their vantage was too low. “I can see that it’s green, but my optics are damaged, so other than that, I can make out nothing. I was not aware of a green Landraider in our ranks. Thornison bring your squad to higher ground. Do be careful, this is pretty dangerous terrain.” 

Thornison and his men grabbed up their bolters and made their way up the jagged concrete and twisting rebar. As it were, fate rolled against his men. As they neared the top of the collapsed bunker Private Jenkins slipped on a loose boulder and was impaled through the throat and left optic lens. The back of his helm stayed intact against the blow from the rebar and Jenkins was left partially suspended like a cast off marionette. 

“DAMN IT!” The Lord yelled at the unlucky Private “I told you that this was dangerous terrain, this kind of shit happens!” but Jenkins’ body had started twitching and his soul had fled to the void. Lord Groth`naw shook his head “No one listens.” He turned back to his Aspiring Champion “Thornison, about that Landraider…”

“It has the markings of our enemy but our men are atop of it.” Thornison looked to his Lord “It appears to be a spoil of war My Lord.”

“It is a gift from the Gods then. Get your men, divide Jenkins’ belongings and ammo, then voluntell what stragglers you find to fill your ranks. I will be joining your squad for the upcoming assault on Sector 10.” Groth`naw started making his way down the rubble, Thornison and his men on their Lord’s heels. “Meet me at our new Landraider, I must assess it and see if will be allowed to join our ranks in the upcoming assault”.

“Joining my squad sir?” Thornison inquired. He tried to pass it off like he misunderstood his Lord but Groth`naw heard the doubt and arrogance in his voice. “My Lord, It might be a better ide…” Lord Groth`naw cut him off.

“Better idea if what Thornison?! I join some other squad? If I go trampling into battle alone?! For the love of Nurgle, I am getting tired of your insubordination Thornison! Look, I am not allowed to have a retinue, I am not allowed a ‘command squad’ and I would make a really nice target running across the landscape all by my lonesome wouldn’t I? That’s why I need your squad to be at max personal and equipment. To protect me so I can continue to lead you. This is an honor Thornison, like your title.”

“… So the enemy can’t single you out on the battle field. So you can hide behind my men and sacrifice them so you shall live.” Contempt filled the air between their voxes.

Lord Groth`naw sighed, calmly approached the marine, and placed his Powerfist on Thornison’s shoulder “Aspiring Champion Thornison, it’s a leadership thing. I do not expect you to understand my decisions but I do expect you to follow them.” With that he turned and headed into the settling dust clouds and smoke toward the, ever growing closer, Landraider. 

Word count (not counting intro paragraph) = 902


----------



## Brother Emund

*The Birth of a Warrior*

*Birth of a Warrior*
(1092 words)

“Cut him” said the voice, a hint of restrained violence in its tone. 
Arden studied the boy. He was an upper-hab youth, no older than himself. He was well-fed and manicured and smelt of soap and perfumes. 
Fate had dictated their paths. 
One, a rich boy, educated and fit; destined to high office and luxury; the other, a feral, uncultured thief, heading for an early grave.
Arden sighed. He had no choice. He had to carry out the act to gain the rest of the gangs respect. With blood came promotion, and after that…

“Do it… runt”
Arden looked into the eyes off his prey; and a face grey with abject terror looked back.

The boy had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and would now pay dearly for his mistake. He had kicked his ball across the street from his gated community, and the ball had rolled into the territory of the Boulevard Blood-Hoodlums. Arden and his group had been keeping watch on the crossroads when an opportunity arose.
“Jake’ came the familiar voice of Cadesen, his one true friend ‘you must”

The boy’s eyes were pleading, and streaming with tears. He bucked and kicked with renewed strength, almost knowing that time was short. 
Jake flicked his wrist once, opening up the boys face from his left ear to the corner of his mouth with his Guard-issue combat knife. 
The rest of the gang immediately began pummelling the boy until he stopped struggling, blissfully going into unconsciousness, his pain forgotten. The ‘gangers’ laughed as blood flowed freely onto the dark-grey asphalt of the highway, and they nodded at Arden with respect and awe. 
The boy was not dead, no, that was never the object. The boy would live, and he would show others the mark that they had given him. 
This was the Hoodlums turf.

Arden leant up against a graffiti-covered wall and watched them roll the boys body out onto the street. Like ghostly ghouls, the gangers then disappeared back into the shadows waiting for their next victim. 
It was an hour later before a passer-by stopped to check out the shape lying in the gutter.

Cadesen joined Arden, handing him a mug of a strong-smelling liquid.
Arden shook his head.
“It will make a man of you” grinned his friend and then cocked his head. Arden looked up and tried to smile.
“Before my dad left for the wars’ he began ‘he told me that only I could decide what I wanted to do with my life. He and my Ma could only guide me in the right direction. You could do nothing and be nothing, or you could get off your backside and make something of yourself. Then he...” his voice trailed off.
“They just talk trash Jake. My so-called father was a narc-dealer who died with an Enforcers slug through his head. They only care about themselves. No-one gives a damn about us”
Arden looked up. “There is one who cares for us all Cadesen. He looks over us and guides us”
“Yeah’ quipped Cadesen ‘and the Emperor Protects and all that I suppose?”
“I believe he does. I believe that he does watch over us and guides us. He is watching me now. You have lost hope Cad, you think that this life we live is all there is”
Cadesen laughed hollowly “And what do you believe Jake?”
Arden stood up, slowly drawing his combat knife again.
“I believe that one day ‘they’ will come for me’ he paused ‘and take me to the stars”

Two days later, the Blood-Hoodlums met The Lower Forty-five Precinct Arbites Cohort.

It turned out that the father of the boy that Arden had wounded, was an Arbites Precinct Squad leader, and now, was deemed the right time to rid the lower hab area, up to the Sixth Boulevard and Ten, of the troublesome feral gangers called the Blood-Hoodlums.

The monthly ‘cook-fest’ was a party of debauchery and mayhem where the local gangs met on neutral turf to settle border disputes and territorial matters. It was also a chance for young ‘gangers’ to show their skill and prowess in bouts of unarmed combat. Large wagers were laid on promising youths, who would kick, bite and punch their adversaries into unconsciousness. Winners could be elevated to more prestigious gangs and even move on to the upper echelons and rich pickings.
Arden had been looking forward to making his mark at the ‘fest’. 

The small group had bolted when the first meat-wagons arrived and disgorged its cargo of heavily armed Enforcers. 

Arden ran. 
He ran as fast as he could and never looked back. The ubiquitous Cadesen was with him of course, along with another ganger called Sligo.

Sligo had always been the slowest of them.
As they reached the end of an alleyway with sirens blazing and strobe lights turning the scene into a vision of hell, they hit the wire fence. A cyber-mastiff caught Sligo by the ankle and dragged him down. Before the Handler reached the boy, he had already been reduced to a bloody pulp.
Cadesen was next. Arden’s only friend was a good street fighter, and his skill with a nailed club was second-to-none. No one told that to the seasoned Arbites who caught up with him, and then stove his head in with a Power maul.

That was enough for Arden. Little Jake Arden, ganger, runt. He screamed out in grief at the death of his friend
“It will not end here’ he shouted ‘my Emperor will help me”. He leapt at the Arbites and his combat knife, produced on a planet called Cadia, entered the helmets eye slit. 
He was only ten years old and did not weigh much, but it was enough to plunge the sharpened blade deep into his enemy’s brain and kill him instantly.

And it was over. 
He had crossed the line. He had killed an Arbites and now his life was forfeit. 

He slumped to the ground and stared at the bodies in front of him. 
He did not see the figure approach from the shadows.
“Did the Emperor help you?” said the voice, deep and low. Arden looked up.
A huge figure stood in front of him silhouetted by the street lights.
“You are…” stuttered Arden.
“Yes I am. Are you ready?”
Arden slowly stood up and dropped his blade.
“I knew you would come for me one day”
The large figure cocked his head.
“Now I will take you to the stars”


----------



## Boc

Great stuff, keep the stories coming!


----------



## Ambush Beast

*The Vengeful Sun*

The Vengeful Sun


The vengeful sun reveals all but the most hidden of things as does the Emperor’s will. The Inquisition is that vengeful sun and also the extension of the Emperor’s will. Blessed Terra has survived five world wars, thousands of civil wars and two alien invasions since the dawn of time, but it has only survived because of the greatness of those willing to lay down their lives in the protection of the world they love. 

When the blood of heroes grows thin so does the will of the people to remain pure. The Inquisition runs thick with the blood of heroes. We root out the veins of impurity, depravity and rebellion; we root out heresy, treason and terrorism, we root out Chaos in all its depraved forms. 

The shame is that sometimes we root out what is not there. We sometimes must kill the innocent in order to determine who is not. Chaos does not always present itself boldly, but shrewdly, craftily and seductively. Chaos is a cancer eating away at the very foundations of purity and devotion. Chaos is what caused the downfall of all we hold dear and all that could have been.

I am the Emperor’s right hand, a burning sun that reveals all that is Chaos in the hopes of salvaging something greater than myself, the Empire or the remembrance of what has been. My hope is to salvage from the wreckage, humanity. 

It is lost to me the total numbers of those of whom I have killed. There is no way of knowing how many were, Quote “ innocent” unquote. The fact remains that under my supervision and leadership Chaos has been revealed and abolished upon the four worlds that I have been assigned.

In my experience, there are not many in this accursed universe that could be accurately described as innocent. The only ones who can call themselves innocent; and I do use the term innocent in the most extreme, would be babes, fresh from their mother’s womb. Even that is sometimes a stretch as their bastard father’s and whore mother’s spread Chaos through the bloodstream. 

It is with this in mind that I have left Micirus II for the last stage of purification. From the bridge of the Innocence Found, I look down upon a world that has pledged its support and devotion to the Emperor of mankind and his holy will, but in truth harbors the shameful acts of Chaos deep within. 

I know firsthand what lies within the hearts of men. I have seen deeply into the souls of those who hide corruption and depravity within their souls. I am not blind as to what goes on. Therefore I will deal with them the only way those who are truly faithful can: Exterminatus.

I have seen the Inquisitor at work. I have watched him from afar as well as up-close and am convinced that he is bordering upon the precipice of insanity. We have left four worlds in flames in the belief that Chaos had infected the minds and souls of the inhabitants of the people living there. 

The Inquisitor has not set foot upon any of those worlds nor has he made any effort of conversing with their governments before raining fire upon their worlds. Now we sit above Micirus II waiting for the judgment to be handed down. 

I cannot be convinced that Chaos is even present upon this world, nor can I sit idly by and watch as the Inquisition devours another six-billion people, faithful citizens guilty of nothing except an Inquisitor’s suspicions. 

I am watching him now standing there at the view port. His face is set in an eternal scowl, his eyes cold and dark. The robe he wears is black and made of the finest quality and his boots still look as new as the day he bought them. He is a tall man with thick raven-black hair and has broad shoulders. 

I am afraid of this man, this inquisitor, this judge that holds both life and death of worlds in the palm of his hand. He terrifies me, for it seems that he does not possess a soul. He is cold and brooding and unfeeling of anything but hate and suspicion. This is the man who now holds the balance over one of the Emperor’s worlds. 

I know they hate me. I can feel them boring their eyes into my back, watching me, wishing for my death. They do not understand Chaos the way that I do. No, they cannot know the depths of darkness involved with the workings of the Great Enemy. Unless the crew is tainted. I will look into that when we are finished here. 

‘I sense darkness upon this world. I can feel it coursing its way through the very fabric of the planet’s core. Chaos is thick here! We must root it out, now or it will find a way off the surface and corrupt us all.’ 

The man next to the Captain reacts as I seek to release the Emperor’s will upon Micirus II. Before I can press the button he strikes at my head with a shock-maul; he tries to kill me. I draw my bolter as I roll out of the way. He is screaming something about me not knowing what I am doing and says I am insane. 

But I am not out of my mind. No, I am thinking more clearly now than at any other time since gaining my rosette. The crew stands idly by and watches as one of their own strikes out at me. They are guilty of inaction and therefore tainted just as I had thought. 

‘You are all heretics and I will kill you all.’ I fire the bolter into the stomach of my attacker and he falls to the floor. I watch as he bleeds out and laugh as his life fades away. ‘Heretics. Accursed traitors! I hate you all. 

I make my way back to the command booth and set my finger upon the execution but and apply pressure. Nothing happens. They have turned against me. The power has been diverted from weapons and now they are staring at me with contempt and murder in their eyes. Chaos has them. 

‘I am the Emperor’s right hand and the extension of his will.’ I lift my bolter screaming the Emperor’s will, but they do not listen, instead they charge me and drag me to the floor. 

I watched as the Inquisitor was dragged to the floor screaming incoherently. Chaos had corrupted him from the beginning.

1,100 words. I know; two stories. Vote for the one you like most I guess.


----------



## Serpion5

*Another chance...*

A continuation of the God Hunters from my last entry. If I can, I will consistently use these guys.  


Another chance... 

1,099, excluding title.

--- --- ---



‘Start again.’ The command came, flat and emotionless as it had always been. Row upon row of gleaming metal lychguard followed through their attack pattern in perfect unison, Warscythes rising and falling with unrivalled precision and unity. 

Alkvar nodded in satisfaction. The Master of the Lychguard gestured for the elite warriors to continue even as the telltale footsteps of an approaching individual sounded. He turned on one foot and dropped into a bow. His Phaeron, the once renowned King Mithrahc, bade him rise without a word. 

‘They are performing quite well.’ Mithrahc nodded, as ever impressed by his bodyguard’s diligence.

‘Only the best, to serve you My King.’ Alkvar replied. ‘Have you need of my services?’ His grip tightened on his own warscythe, a habit from the time of flesh and blood. 

‘Yes.’ Mithrahc answered. ‘Select two of your finest and come with me. We have visitors.’ 

* * *​
Mithrahc’s palace was a stark reminder of what it meant to be one of the Necrons. Alkvar noted every detail as he led the way back to the main throne room and audience chamber. His Master had refrained from providing further details and as such he employed his own judgement. Behind him strode Mithrahc with his own staff flanked by the two Alkvar had selected to accompany him. 

Time seemed meaningless, and after however long it had been they arrived at the throne room, entering from the western wing. Alkvar quickly broke into a longer stride, tensing as he noted everyone in the large room. The indentured cryptek Seprin stood off to the far right, and the subdued flayer Re’kyt shambled around in the shadows. 

There were three visitors, one had the look of a noble, or if he had to guess, a former noble. The second one had the air of a lychguard except for his poorly kept weapon, and the third was clearly a Deathmark. The sniper was immediately the greatest threat, but Alkvar did not discount the other two, nor the familiar cube like object in the grip of the would be lychguard. All this he had surmised in moments, coming to rest in position even as Mithrahc seated himself. 

‘Welcome guests.’ Mithrahc spoke. ‘It is good to see others of our kind survived the great sleep. So tell me, what brings you to my doorstep?’ 

The noble stepped forth. ‘Great King. I am Lord Nemreth. As you know the Necron dynasties are divided and spread far, and in this vacuum many of the young races have filled the void. As a result, our grip on the stars has loosened and the threat of the C’tan breaking free has increased.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Mithrahc replied. ‘I once had several such creatures in my possession, whereas now I have none.’ 

‘That is why we have come to you.’ Nemreth nodded. ‘Your time is well remembered, and I for one would rejoice in seeing you returned to power. I have come here to propose an alliance of mutual benefit.’ 

Mithrahc was visibly intrigued. Alkvar and the other lychguards flinched slightly as Nemreth took the cube from his own servant and approached the throne. At a thought link command from their ruler, they stood down yet remained alert. 

‘We recently acquired this one.’ Nemreth explained. ‘A shard of the Deceiver Mephet`ran.’ 

Mithrahc took the cube and examined it. The power fluctuating within indicated that indeed it contained a shard of a star god. ‘You captured this. The three of you?’ It seemed unbelievable that such a feat could be achieved by so few so ill equipped. 

‘Yes.’ Nemreth explained. ‘We searched long and far before coming here, Great King Mithrahc. The other lords hand Phaerons have forgotten the lessons learned long ago. They have become arrogant and complacent. And so, I sought to find you.’ 

‘And so, with my support and backing, you could capture... more of these?’ Mithrahc could already see the benefits of such an alliance. 

‘Indeed.’ Nemreth answered. ‘But as you can see, we are in dire need of essential maintenance, both to ourselves and our equipment. In addition, I would require your cryptek to fashion us some more of these tesseract labyrinths.’ 

Mithrahc looked at Seprin without a word. Seprin simply nodded and left the room. 

‘It will be done.’ Mithrahc said. ‘Alkvar, let it be known that our guests are to be accommodated. Have the Lychguards form an escort and take them to the canoptek chambers. You and I will see to the necessary arrangements with the cryptek court.’ 

‘Your graciousness is much appreciated Great King.’ Nemreth bowed as Mithrahc returned the gesture before filing out of the room with Alkvar close behind. The remaining two lychguards stepped forward to escort the trio to the repair bays. 

‘May we have a moment?’ Nemreth’s guard spoke up, acting in a curt manner that they felt compelled to respect. Giving them a respectful berth yet staying within sight, they allowed the guests a moment of privacy. 

* * *​
‘Are you sure you wish to do this Nemreth?’ Arakyr asked. ‘We would, lose all freedom we once had.’

‘Our freedom has not kept us well equipped.’ Socous interjected, his gaze not having moved from the flayer lurking in the shadows. ‘We need support, and Lord Mithrahc is willing to provide.’ 

‘Socous is right.’ Nemreth said. ‘We can provide what Mithrahc wants, and he can provide what we need. It is logical, it will serve us all.’ 

‘Forgive me.’ Arakyr bowed. ‘I am once again humbled by your wisdom.’ 

‘That’s the way of it all.’ A rasping voice sounded, and the three of them turned to behold the flayer, standing in a mockery of its former glory. Tattered skin of some unfortunate was draped around it in shambling imitation of royal garb, and it took a single further step, its bladed hands flensing silently the whole time. 

‘What?’ Arakyr growled, levelling his weapon at the flayer and drawing a stern look from the two escorts. 

‘Warriors one and all.’ The flayer rambled. ‘Always you look to see an ending. Always you look to see a result. And when it is not the result you sought, you feel cheated?’

‘Make sense.’ Arakyr demanded. His temper was all but gone. 

‘You see a result. A conclusion.’ The flayer giggled, before darting back to the darkness. ‘Silly warrior...’ 

‘I see what it means.’ Nemreth nodded. ‘This is not just the result of our labour. This is, a completely new opportunity to rebuild what we once had. This, my friends, is our true beginning.’ 

With a new outlook, a new purpose, the trio followed the lychguards into the tomb...


----------



## The Lone Wolf

_This is actually my first work on Heresy Online, and I hope you like it!_

The Living Shadow 

1,013 words 

He was a shadow. One shadow in thousands that cloaked the street. He was the only true shadow, for he was Darion, Sorcerer of Tzeentch, the Living Shadow. Long ago he had embraced the gift of moving in the night unseen by all as a shadow. He had known what he would gain and lose. But he was a true servant of Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways. He embraced the gift, in exchange for being the immortal servant of the Chaos God. Darion became a shadow, hiding in the day in dark corners, and by night roaming the street, doing missions for the Changer of Ways. The Sorcerer had not lost his magical powers though. They were beyond what a human mind could think of, dwarfing those of the High Elves, except perhaps Teclis. But Darion didn’t like to think about him. Their last run-in hadn’t gone that well. 

Now Darion had been sent by Tzeentch to assassinate a human mage that was causing problems for the Chaos Cults in Nuln. He was unhappy, to say the least, for he thought that the mage was beneath him, he knew no human could match him in magical prowess. 

His target appeared, walking down the dirty street, not noticing the evil that was so near. Or maybe he was. The human mage stopped, and looked around, looking for the source of evil power. That was what mostly gave away Darion to mages, but it never helped them. Silently, the Sorcerer glided towards his victim. At that point the human looked straight at the Living Shadow. He understood. The Chaos Sorcerer saw fear. So much fear. With an evil laugh, the Shadow shot a fireball of sickly green light. The other created a shield, but it burst from Darion’s attack. 

“Puny human! You think you can stand the power of the Living Shadow?” Darion asked, in his horrible rasping voice. He cackled madly, a sound that would chill even the grimmest veterans. “No. But I can try!” the other replied. His voice was full of fear, and his words trembled. In all he didn’t sound heroic. “Many have tried, and all failed!” the Shadow said, and sent two spears of the green light at the human. “Teclis of the High Elves did not!” the mage cried, dodging the spears by pure luck. Darion hissed, “He did, I am not banished or dead!” 

With a cry the human mage sent a bolt at the Chaos Sorcerer, but the other, distracted though he was, dodged it easily. The mage sent another one, but Darion created a shield, and the attack sizzled on collision. “Fool!” the Shadow said, and sent a bolt of his own at his opponent. The other answered with the same, and the two magical energies collided. Both watched, and were not fast enough when the two bolts exploded. Stone and dirt pelted both, as the street was seared with blinding blue light. The battling wizards covered their eyes, and when they opened them, a huge rift separated the two. The human took this opportunity to run on his side. 

Darion was annoyed. This was supposed to be quick; he had wanted to do other things tonight. But life, or Shadow Life, was full of surprises. The Sorcerer glided over the rift, unheeding of the darkness below him. He saw the receding back of the mage, and followed. The human noticed, and he looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening in uncontrollable fear. “Run! But I will catch you, nothing stops the Living Shadow!” Darion cried. He reached out into the Winds of Magic, and groped around for the power he needed. With a horrible roar he sent a storm of magic at the back of the human mage. The storm closed in on the other, but he ran and ran, obviously aided by magic. But the evil of the Living Shadow caught up, and started ripping apart the mage. His screams cut through the air, like a knife through butter. Abruptly they ended. As Darion came closer, he knew what he would see. He always saw it. A skeleton was all that was left of the human mage. 

The Chaos Sorcerer slinked away, to find a dark corner in which to protect himself from the light of day. It was dawn already. He passed little people, none knowing of the terrible power that passed but inches from them. No, none. Only a shiver indicated that anything was out of the ordinary. But that could be because of the brisk morning. Darion didn’t know though, he had given up petty things such as cold and feeling, after all, he was the Living Shadow. 

Darion closed in on an old tavern. It looked like any other tavern, two-storied, with large windows, grim bouncers on the doorsteps. A sign swung in the morning wind, with the words “Sigmar’s Strength” imprinted on it. How incorrect that was. What would Sigmar think if he knew that one of the darkest creatures of Chaos lived in an inn called his strength? 

The Shadow slid through the wide open door, the bouncers shivering like any other. He sneaked through the shadows of the tables, filled only half-way by humans. There was an old crack under the stairs, and he slid into it, and appeared in a small room, long ago blocked out by sturdy wood. I was small, but dark, exactly as Darion liked it. He sat down and stared at the other shadows, all of them sanctuary to him. There was light. Where had that come from? The Sorcerer looked around in confusion, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He felt an itch, and almost screeched. Shadows did not feel itches! He looked down, and did screech. A horrible, evil, screech, which carried fear and rage like nothing else. He was unraveling. Huge holes had appeared in him, trimmed with bright blue light. They spread, centimeter by centimeter. The explosion in the street hadn’t gone without consequence. It was the beginning of the end of an evil, beyond human imagining.


----------



## Brother Emund

*Grubsnagga*

*Grubsnagga*
(1068 words)​
In the beginning, there was Grubsnagga.
To the millions that followed him, his name was a mystery. He became a ghost from the past, a legend, their great father.
It would cost thousands of Imperial lives and the very best war machines in their arsenal to rid Terra of his legacy, and they would curse him.

For now, he was only Grubsnagga, Fuggin’ Useless Grubsnagga.

When he first hatched, they put him in the fungi fields, but the plants in his care died.
“Fuggin’ useless Grubsnagga”, and they sent him to look after the squig herds.
Then the squig herds ran off, and many of his tribe died of starvation.

“Fuggin’ useless Grubsnagga”, so they sent him to be a driver on one of the new fancy wagons, wiv gunz and all. On the first day he crashed a Nobz prized racer into a fuel tanker and set fire to the village.

“Fuggin’ useless Grubsnagga”, and they sent him to be a sentry, as far away from the rest of them as possible.
“Fuggin’ useless Grubsnagga. You are a menace to da boyz” they said ‘go up on that ‘ill and wotch owt for de hoomies. Wen ya see ‘em shout”

So Grubsnagga climbed the big hill, and when he got to the top he was tired and sweaty, so he decided to take a nap.
One hour later, an Imperial Guard regiment, complete with armour (I may add), drove passed the tall lump of granite and attacked the village and slaughtered everyone in it.
“Fuggin’ useless Grubbs…..”

To John Babcock, this salivating, gyrating, bag of green bile… was most definitely… useful.
“Well, well’ he hummed ‘why are you up here out of the way, when the rest of your lot are being minced in the valley below?”. 
It was not a question, Babcock never conversed with aliens (well apart from that Eldar wych with the big.. but that was another story).

John Babcock was a trader in ‘exotic’ artefacts and wares to the rich and famous. If a client wanted something that was, shall we say, _risqué_, John Babcock was the man to see. His plundering and outright thievery meant that he was a wanted man on a hundred worlds. But John was very resourceful and very… discreet.

“Right, my long-armed, snot-nosed xenos pig’ he growled ‘you are scrawny to be sure, so we’ll have to toughen you up. My next drop off has certain tastes”.
He stuck something in Grubsnagga’s side and his world exploded in pain.

This was to become a bad time in the wretched Ork’s short life. The pain stick followed by a lump of bloody food. 
_Pain, food. Pain, food. Day in, day out._

Grubsnagga became angry, and hated the Hoomie that hurt him every day. He screamed and stamped and punched the bars that held him in, until blood flowed freely.

One day the Hoomie never came, but the others gave him more food and some new clothes. His old rags were too small for him now. Since he began to get angry and hateful, he had noticed a physical change in his body. He was getting bigger… and meaner.

One day they sent in a Hoomie with a large club of wood. The Hoomie looked strange to Grubsnagga. Its arms were made of metal and there were wires coming out of its head. It looked very sad.
Grubsnagga ripped out its heart and kicked its head across the cage, and when they sent two more of the strange Hoomies in, he killed them as well.
More food followed.

The next day they sent in two of the strange Hoomie's. This time they had blades and fought with great strength. The result was always the same. Grubsnagga killed them then he was given food.
In Grubsnagga’s tiny brain, he realised that this was not a bad life at all.

* * *​
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Honoured guests’ roared the fat compare, his corpulent face glistening with sweat and hair oil. He spread out his arms in a sweeping, grandiose gesture ‘the Van Andel _Pugna Barathrum _presents this afternoon’s _Primoris_”

He paused, letting the tension linger. With practiced reverence, he pointed to the Iron Gate at the far end of the arena, and a sigh went up from the tiers above.
“From the furthest corner of the galaxy, from the darkest recesses of our nightmares, I bring you the _Inhumanus Belua_, the Beast”.

A great roar went up as Grubsnagga entered the arena, and though he now towered above them all and was angry to the core, he hesitated for a fraction of a second.

_Hoomie’s, lots and lots of Hoomie’s. _

“From the killing grounds of the Cadian gate, and undefeated _Paegriarius_. We present Saul Fraxis, The Slayer”. A tumultuous roar, screams and undignified, outright favouritism.

_Hoomie’s. Must kill Hoomie’s, then Grubsnagga get food._

The Ork began to run towards his blaring tormentors, dropping his club so his hands were free… to throttle and kill.

Fraxis only struck once; his twin blades scything through the tough muscles on either side of Grubsnagga’s thick neck, plunging down through sinew and bone and deep into his heart. He kept running for a few more paces until he realised that something was not right. His legs began to buckle and his blood was spurting everywhere, just like it was when he ripped Hoomie heads off. He fell to his knees and groaned.

“Shall I?” came a shout near his ear, and a great roar went up again.
Grubsnagga tried to pull the blades from his neck, but the Hoomie had already done it for him.

_It weren’t a bad life_

In the shadow of the Petitioners Gate, they found a quiet overhang of rock where a Mygou cesspit had stood for a Millennia. It was apparently bottomless, which would hide the xenos body from suspicious eyes. Grubsnagga’s body was rolled in glutinous mess and covered over with a discreet layer. 

His short and unmemorable career as a pit fighter was over... just another dumb Ork smuggled in to boost flagging pit schools ratings.

Until, that is, a small growth appeared on the fertile soil, a tiny insignificant mushroom, that grew bigger and bigger until the ground opened up.
In the heart of the Imperium and a mere stones throw away from the Golden throne an Ork was born.

All down to Fuggin’ Useless Grubsnagga.


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## Brother Emund

*We Need To Shout!*

Only *17* replies and *ONLY* *387* views so far. And the last entry was meee...

We need to advertise this competition!!! More viewers, more stories!
:headbutt:


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## Davidicus 40k

Brother Emund said:


> Only *17* replies and *ONLY* *387* views so far. And the last entry was meee...
> 
> We need to advertise this competition!!! More viewers, more stories!
> :headbutt:


Not necessarily. 17 replies and 387 views in 10 days... we still have 21 to go. Don't worry, there will be enough stories. In fact, we should be worried that there are too many and people won't want to read each one .


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## Ambush Beast

*1/2*

This is the classic example of the cup is 1/2 full and 1/2 empty. I would like to see each reader vote on maybe 10 to 15 stories per month. That would place over 350 votes per month and a fair idea of who's stories are truly the best.

As is, the few of us who write the stories are the ones who votes on each others work. Not bad really since we each have a steak in this, but more would be nice.


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## Shogun_Nate

Eh, that's always been a point of contention with me. Few will remember but getting more folks to chime in here on the OW forums has been tried before. Years ago (three now?..Maybe more :biggrin, folks like Concrete Hero, Unknown Soldier, Plossy and even myself tried to get more interest here in the forums. It's just one of those things. :biggrin: Last year Boc and I tried it as well I think. Was it you Boc? Hell, I can't remember lol. We tried to get a little more interest in the HOES competition when Boc first started it. Like any board here on the forums, each one will have its devotees. Yes, there will be the occasional lookie-loo, but the inhabitants here are pretty much the only ones who reply. 

The only suggestion that I can put forward is that, for those interested in increasing the views and replies, you sacrifice up some of your sig space with a link to the thread each month. Mayhaps a small blurb about it and how you'd like to see others join in on the competition and/or reading/commenting. 

As for on-topic, I'm at logger-heads with my story idea. I don't know whether I want to write a serious piece of 40k fiction or go with a comical piece featuring my insane necromancer. Only time will tell, I guess :biggrin:!

Good luck and good gaming,

Nate


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## Ambush Beast

*Hi*

insane necromancer. i remember him and... yes very fun story indeed. 

Who do I need to kill in order to get a zombie smiley face added to the smiles?


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## Shogun_Nate

I vote Plossy. I think his face would make a WONDERFUL zombie smiley... Just don't tell him I said that...

On-topic: I was thinking necromancer as well. I haven't done anything funny in a long time and I'm honestly getting tired of gloom/doom/heroic blabibidyblah as of late.


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## Serpion5

What if the doomy guys ARE the heroes? :shok: 

And I would dedicate a place in my sig, but I kind of have my own thing going...


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## VulkansNodosaurus

Heresy Online Expeditious Stories 12-01: A Beginning
Title
VulkansNodosaurus
990 words​
No celebration met the _Spear of Truth_’s arrival. The spaceship landed, rather, in absolute silence, disturbing neither the landing platform nor the Eldar standing on it. Its cerulean form, indeed reminiscent of a spear, glided to a complete stop.

The vessel’s doors opened, and two figures stepped out. One was easily identifiable as the leader- he wore a ceremonial, multicolored cloak not unlike those of the fabled Harlequins, and his gait was sure and insistent. Lekaila saw his scowling form advance onto the landing platform. She herself would, she knew, present a far less clear visage; she wore only the standard cloak and weaponry of the Rangers.

Weaponry, on her own Craftworld. There had been a day when she would have found that ridiculous, or even treasonous; now, it seemed to merely be a small comfort in a world gone mad.

“Captain Nifastet,” one of the greeters announced.

“Indeed. Osenic is not here, I expect?”

“The Duskbreacher is gone.”

“Then might I ask why I have been summoned here?”

There was a terse silence, as there always was at key moments like this. Though Lekaila’s walk on the Path of the Seer lay far in the past, she could still instinctively sense what was coming- a divergence, a decision that would shape her life, and not only hers.

She could get only glimpses of it now, and thus her attention returned to the conversation as Nifastet began explaining his theory. It was not a reasonable decision- even Nifastet should have known better than to tell the ones that could be his enemy he knew of their plots- but given the captain’s recent state, it was not a surprise.

“You want to kill me?” he asked, loudly and mockingly. There was something of the Harlequin in him, indeed; perhaps a potential future sucked into the maelstrom of the present. “You will succeed. I have tried to ensure my ship will escape, but you’ve likely sabotaged that too.” He was rambling now, yet sounding oddly heroic nevertheless. “I will only say that order begets chaos, and the worse the law-”

Lekaila saw the gun- not with her eyes, though they were near perfect, but with her foresight- and was about to shout a warning when the Long Rifle expelled its cargo.

It hurtled towards Nifastet, and then the captain noticed it as well. But there was no time.

Nifastet collapsed, his right side covered in blood. Even Lekaila could see the wound was not fatal, that the monofilament had only grazed Nifastet. As it extended to full length, the captain crawled away, an accusing look on his face. For a moment the thread attempted to find him again; its energy supply ran out too soon, though. The wire fell still.

Lekaila fired her own Rifle at the failed shot’s origin; she could only barely see the Eldar who had fired it, but that could be enough. The greeters seemed frozen in shock.

“On Alaitoc itself…” one Seer muttered.

Nevertheless,three of the party ran towards the shot’s origin. Lekaila’s shot impacted, and she watched with some regret as it chewed apart the Ranger (the figure was that, it had become clear). She had not truly wanted to kill him or her; it was a quick decision that the attack had made inevitable.

It was only a mild melancholy by Eldar standards. It left her able to think.

Nifastet sat back up, taking an accusing look around the hangar as he did so. He had the gaze of a being whose perceptions had been both shaken and confirmed simultaneously, a being who was unsure what to make of the whole situation.

“What’s… happening?”

“It wasn’t us.”

Nifastet wasn’t surprised at the statement as he observed the Artisan, who continued. “Osenic. The Duskbreacher. We have uncovered evidence of dark plots, and wanted to warn you.”

The captain continued staring, now in disbelief, and Lekaila joined him. This was not making any sense- except, perhaps, it was. The explanation was quite reasonable- Osenic had been acting suspiciously for some time- but for even the reactionaries on Alaitoc to recognize that was unexpected.

“Nice job warning us,” Nifastet muttered.

Lekaila took the following pause to make sure the renegade Ranger was dead. He was, the ruined body lying in place. The three Warriors who had run to ensure the conclusion were returning.

All was calm- all would be calm, at least until another assassin would come out and finish the first’s job. If Lekaila was uneasy about the situation, a number of the other Eldar were terrified, and their faces showed it. They were not Rangers, she reiterated in mind, and there was reason for them to be afraid of a rogue in their home.

“As Reasine so promptly observed,” the Seer from before said, “we have found evidence of Osenic Duskbreacher making deals with the Dark Eldar and, perhaps, even the pantheon of Chaos. You had been chosen to hunt him down, to prevent the stain on our Craftworld; for all your flaws, Nifastet, your sense of justice is infallible. And your crew has good aim.”

“And how should I believe you?” Nifastet shot back.

“Look at your numbers. Look at ours. If we wanted to kill you, we would have.”

Grudgingly, Nifastet nodded.

The preparations passed quickly enough, and soon enough the _Spear of Truth_ was ready to leave the confines of Alaitoc once more. Lekaila was in the ship by then, observing the final loading take place below her. The distrust she had felt for her homeworld’s leaders had, it seemed, been unfounded; in the end they had found out the truth of Osenic’s betrayal before the _Spear_’s crew. Perhaps they were stuck-up idealists; perhaps they were tyrannical traditionalists. But as the mighty Void Stalker lifted off the surface, Lekaila forced these prejudices to the back of her mind.

This was no time for strife. They had one mission now, and it had begun.


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## Boc

Aye, Shogun, that was us talking last year about getting more eyes on here. It has worked a little bnit, people are starting to rear their FanFic heads haha.

The best bet would probably be via sig links. I've got one but it probably isn't sexy enough to click on...

On a side note, I'll have internet again intermittently starting the 19th... right now its once every two days for 10 minutes haha.


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## Dicrel Seijin

Expeditious Stories 12-01A: Beginnings
“From Darkness Into Time Immemorial”
Dicrel Seijin
Word Count: 1,100


From behind his storm shield, the Eternal Crusaders’ castellan, Dedrick, swung his thunder hammer, clearing the cavern entrance. 

*****

Neophyte Eckardt woke to pain and darkness. He swallowed hard against the impulse to vomit. Shaking his head made him wish he hadn’t as the pressure behind his eyes exploded, sending multi-colored filaments crawling across his field of vision and into the absolute darkness. 

After a few moments letting things fade and settle, he began his assessment. His ears were ringing. He felt his secondary heart beating. Not good signs. He had taken considerable damage… somehow. He set aside that thought; he would not be side-tracked.

Rockfall trapped his legs and right arm. Any effort to extract caused excruciating pain. More rock pinned his left arm to his chest. Through hesitant experimentation, Eckardt found they would shift. 

Clenching his teeth, he arched his back, twisting his body to the side. His shout was lost among the echoes of tumbling rocks. 

Though Eckardt breathed easier, he couldn’t get enough air. Panic flared, something else was wrong; he suppressed it through meditation. In that calmness, he listened and heard the faint crackling in his lungs over the ringing in his ears. 

Gingerly he explored, ignoring the new blossoming pain. He hissed at finding clotted blood. Not rocks, but a weapon? Where was the enemy now? No, he was getting side-tracked; assess the injuries. He confirmed it by pressing down on his breastbone; severe pain erupted from his side. If he had been better, he would have had earned his carapace and suffered a less grievous injury. No. Focus.

Eckardt eased his head back, resting it on the dry gravel. He had a concussion, broken legs and arm, a dislocated shoulder, a sprained wrist, broken ribs, and a punctured lung. With the assessment complete, he tried to remember what happened and found he had trouble. And still the ringing in his ears persisted. How could that be? He should ask—Brother Anselm! 

Fragments of memory tumbled from a dark corner of his mind. The crusade had arrived at Ambrosia. He had not acquitted himself in that first assault wave on the orbital stations nor impressed Brother Anselm. More than ever there was a good chance he would die before earning the rank of Initiate. No. Focus. 

Then, there had been an orbital bombardment. He had followed Brother Anselm up the drop pod’s assault ramp. 

As time passed, Eckardt lay there, trying to puzzle together more. Faintly, he could hear the echoes of shifting stone. It was a long moment more before he realized the significance.

He reached up and felt his goggles fragment. The echoes of footsteps grew louder.

*****

Apothecary Lexer sealed the progenoid gland into an armorcrys vial. 

With seeming undue haste, Techmarine Hewett knelt. Prayers to the Omnissiah tumbled from his lips as he fine-tuned the device he held. Satisfied he had placated the machine-spirit, he paused to convey his respects before bathing the fallen Black Templar in a light that initiated quantum entanglement. After consulting another device built into his vambrace, he removed the pauldron of the fallen Astartes and scanned it separately. Should their return be successful, the quantum entanglement insured the Crusaders could trace the pauldron’s worldline through the manifold and back to this cavern.

“Apothecary. This one’s still alive.” 

Dedrick groaned inwardly at Chaplain Traugott’s matter-of-fact statement over the vox. They didn’t need this… complication.

*****

“…phyte? Neophyte?” 

Eckardt woke realizing that he had passed out. He blinked in the harsh light. An apothecary knelt over him. Automatically, he eyes darted to the pauldron: an hourglass silhouette on a tan field. He didn’t recognize the Chapter.

“I am Apothecary Lexer of the Eternal Crusaders, a successor-chapter of the Black Templars.”

Eckardt had not heard of them, but it wouldn’t do to voice that. He fumbled for a topic, “the orks?”

“We came upon your drop site and simply followed the fallen. Once we saw the landslide….”

“My brothers?”

“All dead.” Lexer tapped his reductor. “I have their gene-seed safe.”

“What now?”

“That depends upon you, neophyte.” A sword brother in terminator armor loomed into view. “I am Castellan Dedrick. Upon my word, I cannot promise we will cross paths with another Black Templars crusade. I can promise a place within our ranks. Initiate Wernhar,” Dedrick glanced over at someone out of Eckardt’s sight, “has agreed to take you on as a neophyte.”

“I thank you for the honor, but I can—” 

“Castellan!”

Eckardt followed the castellan’s gaze and saw an initiate holding aloft Caliburnis, the relic blade and the chain that bound it to Castellan Oberon’s red gauntlet and black vambrace. “No! You—” He didn’t feel the carnifex against his temple, nor hear the trigger pull. 

Dedrick left Lexer to his thoughts. He didn’t doubt that this was the first time the apothecary had administered the Emperor’s Peace to an Astartes unawares. In truth, he himself needed time to reflect. The legend built up by the Lost Fighting Company Oberon during the Declates Crusade centuries ago was glorious; the reality of its end here and now was not. If only they had arrived too late, though that could never be a possibility….

“Castellan, we are done.”

Dedrick looked over to Chaplain Traugott and the rising Lexer. He surveyed the rest of his company. Each held a piece of Templar armor that would be venerated as relics upon their return. He triggered the vox, “Close ranks, my brothers.” All turned to look at Techmarine Hewett.

Hewett waved closer a servitor laden with a lacquered wooden box made baroque by brass fittings and ivory buttons and levers. As he whispered the last words of an activation litany, he pulled a switch’s ivory handle.

*****

The translation taxed even the Astartes’s vaunted physiology. Though still nauseous, Dedrick strode across the deck plating toward a waiting figure.

As the fighting company approached, Inquisitor Idan of the Ordo Chronos kept glancing at Initiate Wernhar, who reverently bore the relic blade and gauntlet. 

After the company came to a halt, Idan nodded, “Castellan.” 

“Damn you but it works. When and where would you have us go now?”

“Here and there. You’ll recover archeotech, and perhaps even battle-brothers,” Idan glanced at the apothecary, missing the emotion that flickered across Dedrick’s face. “We’ll have a year before we destroy the galaxy as we know it.” He smiled.

“The Horus Heresy.” Dedrick’s whisper was a low rumble.

“Yes,” Idan smiled again. “For being our first chrononauts, your company will have a rather singular honor. Where? When? Who will you choose to fight shoulder-to-shoulder with?”


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## Shogun_Nate

I have half of mine done! Hope to have it up either tomorrow or Saturday! :biggrin:

Also, good stories all around so far folks! Keep up the excellent work!

Good luck and good gaming,

Nate


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## Ambush Beast

*Hi*



Shogun_Nate said:


> I have half of mine done! Hope to have it up either tomorrow or Saturday! :biggrin:
> 
> Thanks for the warning.
> 
> Also, good stories all around so far folks! Keep up the excellent work!
> 
> I agree.
> 
> Good luck and good gaming,
> 
> Nate


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## Shogun_Nate

What will probably the the recurring theme for this year's HOES... I give you the first installment of the von Vandersnoot Chronicles :biggrin:

*Sometimes Leaving is the Hardest Thing to Do*
Shogun_Nate​
Silently, he made his way barefoot (something recommended in the stealth manual he’d read before this adventure began, though, given the positively freezing temperatures, he was beginning to think he‘d erred foolishly) through the pitch black empty streets of Altdorf. He was like the suffocating cloak of night itself, moving with a deftness that would have earned a nod from the most sure-footed member of clan Eshin, the assassins of the skaven race. Even the kagebushin in the far off lands of Nippon would be hard-pressed to match his sneakiness. He was a shadow.

Of course, if one were being honest, had it not been for the howling winds tearing down the alleyways like a screaming banshee, he, Eric von Vandersnoot (insane necromancer and master of the Dark Arts of Nagash), would have been spotted in a heartbeat. However, von Vandersnoot did not think of these things. His mind was set. He had a plan; one foot in front of the other and as quietly as he could manage hauling his pack of knick-knacks and staff.

“_I am the shadow_,” he muttered to himself, blissfully ignorant of the clatter following in his wake as he slinked through the dark. . 

Whispered allegories spilled from cracked lips the color of a bruised eggplant; the mantras lost in the gale around him. Closer and closer, he edged towards the gates leading out of the city. 

“_I am the silent killer that takes all filthy, whoring Tileans to their death, scratching their loathsome scrotums in agony as the pox takes them, Sigmar damn their filthy, whoring ways_.”

He continued to chant. Sure, it didn’t do much to get him across the threshold but it did make him feel like he wasn’t alone. At that thought, he gave his staff a side-ways glance. Thankfully, the inscribed cat entrails (contrary to popular belief, there is actually only one way to skin a cat…) were holding and the rock-jawed orc skull was still quiet. He’d have never made it this far if he hadn’t silenced the damnedable chittering thing beforehand. Oh for sure and certain it was a loverly conversation piece when one was all safe and sound behind locked and warded doors, showing it off to some stupid sod who’d dared to show up on his doorstep right before Eric sent him to his maker. But, out here in the open, where stealth and sneakiness were key, a mouthy staff was not high on his list of covert, sneaky things.

Freedom was looking more and more realistic as von Vandersnoot sidled a few more furtive steps forward. It was so close he could almost taste it on the tip of his scabberous tongue.

“_I am the sparrow’s fart, lost in the swirling vortex of a hurricane_.”

Ok, so not all of his witty allegories were winners. Even he had to shake his head derisively at the last one. But, if one was being fair, the human mind isn’t meant to live five centuries. Once you get passed that middle-aged hump of twenty (twelve if you happen to be one of those unlucky sods born in the frozen hell that was Kislev), the mind starts to think a good, old-fashioned holiday is in order. Really… Who in their right mind (or wrong, depending on your stance on the matter) wouldn’t like to steal away into the blissful ignorance of dementia? Perhaps to spend some time all doe-eyed and drooling, waiting for some loving (or more likely, resentful) member of their family to wheel them around in a cart, showing them off to the neighbors like some carnival show freak?

“Just get to the gate…,” he breathed.

Such a simple thing to do for most. Just a quick walk up, show your papers and trounce away happy as a clam straight out of the city. However, given that he was a necromancer, his chosen profession ensured that the easy way out usually involved lots of screaming, burning torches and some overly officious zealot waving around a pitchfork while demanding his head on a plate.

Von Vandersnoot paused, the sound of a howling dog filling the night with its lonesome cry. “At least I hope it’s a bloody dog…”

The last thing he wanted (or needed for that matter) was to have to go toe to toe (well, toe to paw?) with a damned lycanthrope. He’d seen more than his fair share of the hairy bastards and honestly, no one likes being looked at like the next appetizer for a four course dinner (certainly not one of his cowardly stature, that was for sure). He stood in the middle of the thoroughfare; his mind waffled back and forth as he thought of the last time he’d faced one cursed to fumble about on the night of the full moon like some pox-mad dog. The poor thing had sure been surprised when Eric had uttered a word of power and burned half the fur off its arse. The werewolf had yelped loudly, flailing at said arse in a vain attempt to extinguish the green flames raging their way towards his colon. Vivid images of it dragging its buttocks across the muddy field skittered to the fore, eliciting a chuckle from the old necromancer. 

So caught up in the moment he was that Eric forgot to watch where he was stepping. Countless hour’s worth of planning went out the window as his foot found its way straight into a cooling pile of horse dung, the brown mush squelching up between his toes. 

*“SHITE!”*

The shouted exclamation was more a statement of fact than a curse. Of course the heated words that followed weren’t much in the way of quiet either.

“What thrice damned goblin-fondling, ox-rutting moron lets his horse defecate in the middle of the thrice damned ROAD?! WHO?!? Blessed Sigmar in heaven! Does no one clean these streets?!”

Harsh yellow lantern light poured from the doorway of the guardhouse beside the gate as guards stumbled out to see what the cause for all the ruckus was. 

Not content with simply running off, von Vandersnoot spent a few moments shaking his (albeit slightly warmer) foot. When that didn’t remove the offending offal, he began vigorously rubbing the smelly appendage back and forth across the cobble stones.

“Son of a...! It’s on my robes!” he shrieked to the heavens.

The sound of coarse calls were a not so gentle reminder that he’d been outted. With no other recourse, Eric slinked back towards his laboratory, shit-covered foot in tow.

He sighed, taking one long look back at the gates.

“Well, there’s always tomorrow….”

Word Count: 1,100 sans the title!


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## Mossy Toes

Well, I didn't even finish my story this month, so...I abdicate? Somebody keep my throne warm for me...


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## Boc

Oy, sorry, a few days late! Just got in late last night from training, so posted here as soon as I could!

Thanks all for making this first HOES of the year such a resounding success! Voting thread should be up shortly...


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