# Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories 12-05: Falling Rain



## Boc

Welcome to the year's fifth Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories (HOES) Challenge!

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:

*Falling Rain*

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

The deadline for entries is Midnight US Eastern Standard Time (-5.00 hours for you UK folks)*Friday, 25 May 2012*. Voting will be held from *26 May - 1 June*. The slightly lengthened period is to facilitate discussion amongst the writers about different angles to attack the theme from. Remember, getting your story submitted on the May 3 will be just as considered by others as one submitted on May 31! Take as much time as you need to work on your piece!

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

Participation - 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*

Bloody Mary: Unclean

Jonileth: Shards of Light; the Angels Come

Davidicus 40K: Bringing Life, Bringing Death

Liliedhe: Lacrimae Faralis or Tears of the Dead

Demonlord24: Civil War

Adrian: The End is Only the Beginning

Andygorn: What Happens when it Rains?

Andygorn: One Last Request

Dave T Hobbit: Blossom

Zinegata: Tears

KjellThorngaard: Night Rain

VulkansNodosaurus: Horizon
​


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## Mossy Toes

Testing a concept mentioned earlier: a meditation upon Falling Rain. Awfully specific, but it can be interpreted a number of ways nonetheless.

*1) First thought: rain is not necessarily water.*
A) It's raining men! Drop pods, drop troopers, aerial shock assault. Falling from on high.
B) Other liquids. Raining blood. Chaos rain? Sorcery? Acid rain, sulphur pollution rain. Rain of tears down grieving faces.
C) Rain of artillery, rain of orbital bombardment. As I said in last month's _To Comprehend_: "Fire rained. Destruction reigned."

*2) Second thought: Emotional/thematic accompaniment to rain:*
A) depression. Futility as the works of men are washed away. Grey and drab, choked, low visibility.
B) The wrath of the elements. Lessened by "Falling" in the theme (which implies a regular, steady rain rather than a whipping, gusting storm), but thunder and lightning accompanies a storm nonetheless.


Shakespeare said:


> * Lear:* Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
> You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
> Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!
> You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
> Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
> Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
> Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!
> Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once
> That make ingrateful man!
> 
> *Fool:* (...)
> 
> *Lear:* Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
> Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:
> I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
> I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children,
> You owe me no subscription: then, let fall
> Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave,
> A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man.


*3) An excellent theme for Warhammer Fantasy, which dwells more on the mundane and the small-scale.*
A) The Empire fits this well. Drakenwald forest, always foreboding, is wracked by a storm. Dark things lurk and stir. Water dribbles from evergreen branches.
B) Lustria or the Southlands? Rainfall is a constant in rain forests, and carries with it foot rot, interminable dampness, etc.

*4) *classified**
I know what I'll be writing my entry on. I have a small fragment of two hundred words or so from the distant past that embraces this rain rather well. Albeit... unpleasantly.


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## Davidicus 40k

Excellent breakdown, Mossy! I'm going to really have to think about this one...


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## Dicrel Seijin

Someone correct me if I'm wrong, but is this the first time that the writing topic has not been an abstract concept? 

When I think of rain in narrative, I automatically think of film noir (where if it's night time in the city, it's usually raining). And I think I have my story seed. (Seriously, I have the beginnings of a story). 

Oh, and let me add a tongue-in-cheek #6 to Mossy Toes' list: Name your character "Rain." Now have him fall, and considering the verb is in its gerund form, have him fall for the whole story (and never land). :biggrin:

(And what happen to #5? Like Mossy Toes' 4), it's classified.  )


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## Liliedhe

#7 there are a lot of scenes traditionally happening in the rain: funerals, deaths, executions, partings, somebody musing about his/her life... TVTropes also gives more examples about the use of rain as an empathetic environment.

Rain is associated with tears - tears of heaven/gods/angels, or plain old tears. Rainwater mingling with tears (or blood) is a strong visual. Rain can also be cleansing - see Redemption in the Rain.

Or, in case of weird rain (blood, ash, fallout, body parts) it can be a supernatural sign, mist often a bad omen, sign of impending doom, most likely. 

Rain also makes a variety of noises, soothing, or annoying, or unsettlig, depending the surfaces it falls on. It's strongly connected with mud , especially in scenes with battlefileds or trenches. 

It can be warm or cold, and that once again can mean positive or negative things. Tropic rain is associated with heat and disease, and uncleanness, while a gentle spring rain might be positive and maybe romantic. Cold rain can sooth overflowing emotions, or be a dreary, depressing, even hostile environment. Think refugees or soldiers trecking through endless rain, tents being soaked through, food growing bad, etc.

Just another brainstorming, I dont really have an idea yet...


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## gothik

thanks Mossy for that breakdown certainly gives me something to think about


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## Bloody Mary

What can I say? I was feeling very inspired today.

_Unclean_

Word count: 963​
She is kneeling in the mud, heedless of the mulch staining her heavy white gown and legs. Her hands are clasped tightly, knuckles white and she whispers a prayer over and over, as the rain streams down her face. Her hair is damp, plastered to her head. Down and down, the droplets fall, from her nose and eyelashes, from her hands to the ground.

She can’t remember how she got into the gardens. One moment, she was staring out the window, watching rivulets form on the transparent surface, distorting the view. Then, she was running, through the white corridor, screams and crying and soothing voices all around her. Someone called out her name, but she didn’t stop. They wouldn’t let her go outside and she knew she had to get out. 

Now, she is there, the rain all around her and there are no screams, only faint wet sounds, as the water meets the ground. There is her voice, rasping, words mingling on her lips, rushing out in a frantic pace, as if taking a breath might still them forever. 

They will come for her, she knows that. They will drag her back and feed her pills and strap her to a bed, and she will fight and bite and scream, beg them not to. She is not clean. She has to wash it all away and the showers will not do. She tried, but they were there, the fingers, the claws, the twisted limbs of the unclean reaching out for her.

They twisted everywhere, under the beds, into the ventilation ducts and brought their filth with them. She had burned them, as had her sisters, but it was not enough. They came and came and came, an unending river of mutant waste, howling their obscene prayers and reaching out to them. They grabbed and pulled, tore and bit, until only one was left.

The promethium had long run out, so she cut, the howl of her chainblade joining their screams. Her armor was stained, unclean, everywhere filth and the screams, they never stop, why, they are dead, they died, her sisters died and they touched her.

She needs to wash away their touch and they couldn’t have touched the rain, could they? The water will be still pure and so will she, if she just stays outside long enough. It will all go away, seep into the ground, away from her…

She can almost feel it, something sloughing down her skin, thick as tar and sinking into the mud, deeper and deeper. 

The rain is cold. It falls heavily. She rises again, slowly and tears away the stained gown. It’s wet and caked in mud, but it had touched her skin, her filthy, filthy skin and she needs to be clean again.

The change is minimal—she had been wet long ago, but now she can free herself from the taint. She cups her hands and holds them out, letting the water gather in them and then she looks at her hands and sees its still there, it’s under her skin, crawling deeper.

She needs to get rid of it, the taint it’s there, it will corrupt her, she will be one of them.

It hurts, but this is good, pain is clean and she scratches into her skin, tearing and tearing, at old scabs and scars, she needs to get it out.

Blood mingles with rain and they fall to the ground, pink little droplets lost as soon as they are formed. She doesn’t care, all she cares about is that she needs to get the taint away and its inside, so she needs to get the rain inside, but she can’t find the taint, only blood. 

Red—her hands are red now, like her armor had been, but it wasn’t the right red. It was their blood staining it, so she had to scour all away, her armor was desecrated, so she scrubbed and scrubed, and tore away the paint, marred the etchings, but it was all there and then she knew it was on her skin, it seeped through the armor and now it was inside.

And then she sees, it’s the rain, it’s always been the rain. She backs away and looks around wildly, but where can she hide? The taint is everywhere, she was breathing the air and drinking the water, polluting all that she touched, she cannot hide and she cannot wash it away, because it will be back.

She runs. Her movements are jerky, wild and she trips. Even now, even as broken as she is, she instinctively catches herself and picks herself up to run. She doesn’t look where she is running and she barely notices when she collides with another woman. 

The newcomer is dressed in serviceable simple clothes. Rain is simply rain for her. She is calm, solid, her face lined with age and worry. Without hesitation, she places her large hands on the naked woman’s shoulders and smiles reassuringly. 

The broken thing doesn’t seem to care that one of the hands that is resting on her shoulder is a cold augmentic limb. She stands still, like a statue, eyes wide. Her breathing comes in ragged gasps and she trembles.

“Come now, Sister Aurelia,” the newcomer says gently. “You will catch a cold.”

There is nothing to show that Aurelia understands the words. She is still for seconds, before breaking out into a scream. It’s a long wordless wail of a trapped animal, a sound that ought to never come from a human mouth. The other woman remains firm and pulls Aurelia away, towards the large square building. She drapes her raincoat over her naked shoulders and murmurs soothingly.

The rain falls around them, slowly washing away the footmarks they leave.


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## Brother Emund

Hey man, did someone say Purple rain? {said in an Oddball voice} :smoke:


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## jonileth

Shards of Light; The Angels Come​

Miya looked to the heavens as she did every night from the small shade tree not far from her small home. The stories her grandfather had told her of the realm above captivated her even after his death, driving her to sit beneath the tree as she had since she was a child and remember. The Eldar girl had never seen the fanciful things that her grandfather had spoken about, nor did she ever believe she would. Her parents had warned her many times that listening to her grandfather’s stories would do nothing but drag her into wistful wanderlust. And sometimes Miya had to admit they were right.

As the stars grew ever brighter in the night sky, the young woman wondered idly if her grandfather had simply imagined everything he’d spoken about. The great cities in the heavens, the ancestors who walked among the people in suits made of living bone. And the enemies that he had conjured up in many of the stories he told… were they too simply figments of his increasingly addled mind. As ardently as Miya wished it were not so, at times it seemed to be the only explanation.

Most of the tribal elders had spoken of the ancient times when her people once ruled the stars, but none of them had been alive to see such times. Most of her tribe thought of gallivanting through the heavens as nothing more than flights of fancy. Only a precious few even cared to hear the stories that Miya’s grandfather had once told, and of them only she still believed them to be true.

The young Eldar sighed as she closed her eyes for a moment, her mind conjuring up the images that had once been inspired by the voice she could no longer truly remember anymore. She watched in her mind’s eye as figures danced about before her, the tale weaving through her sight as if she had been standing their bearing witness. When she opened her eyes again, the images vanished as the world came back into focus.

A streak of light passed before her vision, a sight all too rare for her not to take notice. Miya rose to her elbows and scanned the sky in hopes to catch another passing of light along the evening skyline. She waited patiently for more heartbeats than she cared to count before she finally sighed and sank back down. No sooner did she give up her search that another streak of light appeared. And several heartbeats later, another made its way across the sky.

The longer she watched, the more frequent the streaks of light became. Before too long it was like the heavens were sending down a shower of lights, much like a gently rainstorm sent down streams of falling rain on a lazy spring day. Miya rose to her feet with a kind of childish joy at the notion that she might be the only one watching the star shower. She wondered for a moment if it might not have been her grandfather’s spirit sending down the shards of light, though deep down she knew it was most likely not the case.

Miya watched as the shards of light grew even brighter, now taking shape as pillars of fire and smoke descending toward the ground. Bright flashes on the horizon gave evidence that the lights were much more solid; something was falling to the ground from above. The girl’s curiosity got the better of her when one of the falling balls of flame landed not far inside the tree line. Despite the warnings of her parents not to venture off into the woodlands after the sun had fallen, Miya sprinted off to chase after the fallen star.

The soft amber glow of fire was her guide through the woods, bathing the entire area around the Eldar girl in an eerie light that threw more shadows around than it dispelled. Even so, Miya charged ahead undaunted by the tricks of light dancing playfully in her sight. Several times as she traversed the woods the girl had to stop and make her way around a cluster of brush and undergrowth too thick to simply go through. Despite this, the girl finally managed to reach her fallen star.

In the place of a glowing orb of light, or some other more whimsical interpretation of celestial bodies, Miya found an obelisk-like structure, most of it black either from the fall and impact or by design. Parts of the thing glowed in strange hues of green and blue, vastly different from any fires the Eldar had ever seen. And the symbols adorning the thing were unlike anything she’d ever seen. The most prominent was a symbol that looked like a bird, but it had two heads rather than one.

Miya thought to approach the strange metal thing until it issued forth a sharp hiss. Several more sharp hisses erupted from the thing before parts of it began to fall to the ground, crashing into the burnt husks of trees the thing had fallen on and practically incinerated. What the girl witnessed next was beyond anything she’d ever thought she’d be privy to. Men of iron came strolling out, their vibrant red eyes searching the fire-lit tree line before them. Miya counted three from where she stood, though the giant obelisk looked as if it were able to carry many more.

“What are you?” The girl asked the men of iron.

One of the men of iron stepped forward with a weapon raised in its hand, “Angels of Death. We’re here to purge your kind…”

The sound of thunder issued forth from the Death Angel’s weapon. In the span of seconds it took for the bolter round to reach her skull, Miya found herself cursing the falling rain of fire that had brought the Angels of Death to her world. A heartbeat later her head exploded and her body crumbled to the ground. Overhead, the rain of fire continued to fall…


_1001 words not including title._


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## VulkansNodosaurus

A good start to the stories....

To add to the rain discussion: 8. What, exactly, is falling? Remember that going around in orbit is, technically, falling. Or you can be falling into something other than a planetary surface. A stellar rain of dead spaceships, crashing into the star around which battle still rages, or the sinking rain of nutrients into the unfathomable depths of the sea.


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## JAMOB

Ohh this looks fun... so we basically post a 1k ish story about whatever... make it good...a and vote? I like this. I will post mine in a couple weeks... God I wish Id found this earlier.
When I hear rain, I think of fire (weird right?), like from a volcano or burning ship... or something. That's probably what I will do (feel free to steal that... its not great and neither will my story be, but it will be fun). Good luck guys  Oh, quick question, are we allowed to set our story in the modern world? Or would that just take the fun out of it?

*EDIT with the above, free falling. Thats it.


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## gothik

warhammer fantasy or 40K setting i believe, if you read the introduction by BOC on the first page he tells you there hope that helps


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## Davidicus 40k

gothik said:


> warhammer fantasy or 40K setting i believe, if you read the introduction by BOC on the first page he tells you there hope that helps


Pretty much, though if you can come up with an original setting that is also accepted. Just don't set it in a non-Warhammer, non-original IP.


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## Boc

Davidicus 40k said:


> Pretty much, though if you can come up with an original setting that is also accepted. Just don't set it in a non-Warhammer, non-original IP.


100% correct. I'd recommend shying away from simple modern day fiction as that takes away the basic sci-fi/fantasy interest of the readers and voters, though I won't say that you can't.


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## KjellThorngaard

Thanks Mossy for getting us started! 

When Boc first posted the theme the first thing I thought of the endless, heavy downpours I experieced in Paraguay. Sheeting rain that flooded the streets in minutes. 

Falling rain. Fine mist, steady downpour, sheeting buckets, hurricane-force sideways rain. All the effects that come after a rain.

Falling rain. Drop pods, orbital strikes, ordnance, shell casings, bodies.

Falling rain. Disease and pestilence. Plague. Sloughing skin and dripping pustules.

All that come to mind.


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## Liliedhe

@Kjell: I think you just dropped an inspiration into my brain . Thank you.


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## Mossy Toes

That's the fun thing about these informal mini-competitions--they're more of a writer's workshop than a cutthroat fight to win. We are actively racing to arm our competitors here with ideas. How wonderful!


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## Dicrel Seijin

VulkansNodosaurus said:


> ...or the sinking rain of nutrients into the unfathomable depths of the sea.


The proper term for this is "marine snow." (I watch way too much NatGeo.)

EDIT: and if you want to fall forever, there's always going past the event horizon of a black hole. I know relative to someone's (the person falling in or someone waiting the person falling in) point of view, going into the black hole will seem an eternity (of being stretched into spaghetti).


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## Dave T Hobbit

These are all good ideas: sadly they are not helping drive "He say you Blade Lunner" out of my head.


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## Davidicus 40k

Alright, folks! This is my first attempt at writing Warhammer Fantasy, and I must admit, many of my conceptions of the IP stem from Warhammer Online. Please read through and bring up any discrepancies with established fluff, because I don't know any better . I tried to make it as generic as possible to avoid such discrepancies.

*Bringing Life, Bringing Death*
(1,099 words, including title)

“Behold, Men of the Empire! Look upon the blood-red dawn in the east! See past the dark clouds that have plagued us for days! It is an omen, foretelling the slaughter that will mark this day forever. But take heart! It will not be our blood that is spilt today, but the foul beasts’! They will roar and howl in their base fury, but we will cut them down like the animals they are. They are not worthy of existing in the presence of Imperial knights! Kill them for their insolence. Leave none alive!”

The warrior priest bellowed a prayer to Sigmar, asking for the utter annihilation of their foes. Once he was done, Wilhelm let out an emphatic cheer, echoed by four thousand of his brothers-in-arms. The Imperial warcry carried over the field and permeated the heavy woodland beyond, causing songbirds to take panicked flight.

In response, the enemy made itself known. Emerging from between the shadowed trunks, the beastmen brayed and grunted as they struggled to restrain their bloodlust. They stomped their hooves into the muddy earth and growled, eager for battle. The display was grotesque; gors of all types, their thick fur caked with dirt and dung, were assembled. Powerful bestigors paced amongst them, keeping them in relative order. All of them shared an insatiable thirst for carnage, and only malevolence could be found in their abyssal, black eyes.

Wilhelm had spent ten years as a knight in the Order of the Golden Aegis. He was confident in his sword-arm and in the stalwart allies on his flanks. He felt safe beneath his articulated plate armor and barbute helm. The rousing words of the warrior priest had bolstered his courage and faith. While lesser men struggled to tame their mounting anxiety, Wilhelm envisioned the raucous celebration in Suldenberg’s taverns after their resounding victory. The heavy rainfall of the past few days had not dampened his spirits, like it had dampened the recently tilled field before the forest’s edge.

War trumpets sounded a long, blaring note; another hearty cheer filled the morning air. Drummers began to pound a steady cadence. The front rank, comprised of lightly armored conscripts three men deep and five hundred wide, marched forward. Behind them, the heavily-armored knights acted as heavy infantry support; they, in turn, were backed by a thinner militiamen line. Archers and crossbowmen took up the rear.

The beastmen remained where they were. The bestigors shouted orders in their brutish tongue, and their minions grudgingly obeyed.

As Wilhelm plowed forward, he became troubled. His heart was strong and he was eager to spill the enemy’s blood, but with every step he took, he felt his energy draining. He looked down and saw just how thick and high the mud was, reaching shin height; from afar, the field had looked crossable, but now, he realized that raising each armored foot required much effort. The wet earth greedily sucked him in. He was no stranger to exhaustion, but there was still much distance to cover.

Despite his fitness, he began to pant. Hot beads of sweat coalesced on strands of lank hair and dripped into his eyes, irritating them immensely. His tight, corded muscles burned as they bore the burden. He glanced to his left; his knightly brothers were struggling as much as he was. If the militiamen ahead were cut down, then the beastmen would face fatigued knights with hampered mobility and agility. 

In other words, a massacre would ensue.

Wilhelm had no choice; he had to push onward. Nothing would stop him from killing the enemies of the Empire and upholding the honor of the Golden Aegis.

As if Sigmar had seen his secret plight, the trumpets blared once more, signaling a halt. The ranged rearguard began to lob their payload towards the distant horde. For the enemy, direct attack could not be tolerated. The bestigors roared and their underlings surged forward, traversing the bemired field on cloven hooves. They trampled the dozens among them who fell, pierced by arrows and crossbow bolts. Two more volleys filled the air before the beastmen closed the distance.

Wilhelm heard the clashing of steel and cries of pain and rage as the enemy smashed into the front lines. With crude battleaxes, clubs, and other primitive weapons, the children of Chaos battled the men of the Empire. Spears penetrated flesh; axes cleaved heads; swords sent limbs flying and entrails spilling onto the field. The conscripts held their ground, but it quickly became apparent that they were outnumbered and outmatched.

The knight gripped his blade tightly and raised his trademark gold-plated kiteshield, set in a defensive stance. He could see blood and body parts flying into the air; he could smell the overpoweringly rank stench of the beasts, mixed with the odors of death and fear. When the man in front of him was hewn asunder, Wilhelm faced his first gor. He rushed forward, thrusting his longsword into the beast’s gut. It moaned as it collapsed, its life slowly draining away. The beastman behind it was no challenge, and Wilhelm easily brought it low.

Wilhelm battled fiercely until a bestigor emerged from the pack. It carried a heavy mace and was bedecked in rusty chainmail. He landed a few feeble blows on his adversary, but to no avail. The bestigor sent him staggering with a quick backhand slap, then brought its mace around and crushed the side of Wilhelm’s head.

*****​
Only one thing brought Wilhelm out of the darkness. He slowly opened his eyes as chilling drops of rain splattered his nose and lips. The sky above was overcast, and a light shower was cleansing the bloody field. He could barely remember where he was or what had happened, but none of it seemed to matter; any recollections of the battle were like half-lucid dreams. With his body and his mind quickly expiring, all he could focus on was the rain.

Why? They had been so sure of victory, sure of righteous slaughter, yet the rain had stolen that triumph in a most devious way. Had it punished them for their arrogance? Did it fall now to spite their broken remains?

Pinned under the crushing weight of a slain gor, Wilhelm stared into the heavens. He mused upon the rain, about how he’d used to love the warm showers of Pflugzeit that had washed his skin and provided water for new life. The flowers had always bloomed brighter after those springtide storms. Wilhelm weakly chuckled at the irony, before the blackness reclaimed him and he expired under the falling rain.

Edit: Grammar!


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## Liliedhe

Far quicker than I thought, my story. I might edit it a bit yet, if my beta finds mistakes. 

_Lacrimae faralis or Tears of the Dead_


The world was alive. Dark, yes, strange, but alive. Ne’sat dug his fingers into the ground and let the moist, black earth smear against his armour. The sensation was… unfamiliar, disconcerting. It clung coolly to the joints, leaving dark-brown smears on the blue ceramite. With closed eyes, he savoured the smells of soil and plants, the faint trickling of gentle rain against his metal skin. More than anything, he wanted to take off his helmet and bury his face in the grass growing under his feet, each stalk thin and silken, topped by a rain drop. 

How long had it been that he had done this? Not since he was child on Prospero. And this was so distant that he had trouble believing it had even happened. Slowly, he got up again, joints purring softly. His white tabard was drenched by now, and stained green where he had knelt on it. He tried to shake the loam from his fingers, but it clung. A tiny insect scuttled over his gauntlet and he followed its progress up his arm, legs scrabbling for purchase on the ceramite plates, pausing momentarily to dip a proboscis into a droplet and partake some liquid refreshment. 

“Life…” His voice was low, husky, hoarse. A whisper, scraping over his senses with its painful unfamiliarity. “It still exists.” How long? How could he even ask? Time was a fleeting, treacherous concept, madness in the making if he’d tried to track it during his stays in the warp and the Eye, on ships and outposts, and daemon worlds, where all was fluid and despair could choke you with desiccated hands as real as your own. To look around and know that what he left behind was still there when he turned. To give a sigh and not see it scuttle away on a multitude of legs. 

To feel, absorb sensation through the tissues in his nose, the retina of his eyes, specialised cells in his skin, not through whatever remained of his soul. And yet, he still asked himself inane questions like how long it had been since he had spoken, or felt the cool touch of rain on his skin. “It is more tenacious like vermin. I still think like I’m alive.” 

His warp gate closed behind him and his brothers and he looked around again. Where had he ended up this time? A planet. A living planet with forests, and rain and insects and probably bigger animals, too. Once again, he shuddered under the weight of the memories this drove back into his mind. 

How long? What did it matter? Ten years? Five hundred years? Five hundred thousand? Why was he obsessing over this? So many living things. He saw them, smelled them, heard them rustle through the underbrush. But most of all, he felt them, clean and bright, bouncing against his shields, their primitive minds fixated on biological needs. And he felt the void of his brothers’ presence behind him, still, dark, and dead. Their lights extinguished. Dead.

Yes, he was still alive. It was just so easy to forget. The brittle dust existence of his brothers around him, all he had to cling to in the unreality of the warp. What made him any different from them? As always, when the pain grew great inside his heart, he hoped. For Tianshat to put his hand on his shoulder, for Renakten to make a stupid joke, for Sementet to play around with his flamer and curse up a blue storm when he inevitably burned his hand. Ne’sat closed his stinging eyes, dust and death on his mind, as the rain gently fell on his armour like a thousand caresses. And then the hand was there, and Tianshat stood behind him, a gauntlet on his pauldron squeezing lightly. He did not speak, could not, of course. But he was there, and picked Ne’sat up from where he knelt, hauling him to his feet. 

“Thank you, brother.” Ne’sat closed his eyes for a moment, and gently pried himself out of the sergeant’s grip. The moisture of the forest had pooled on his brother’s red armour, and his trembling fingers slipped, just a little, and the sound was hollow. Still, the familiarity of the motion was comforting. It grounded him, stopped him from feeling disembodied. Finally, he could reach up and take off his helmet. 

He had braced himself for the intensity of the new contact with this world, outside of the shield of ceramite and the wards worked into the metal. Scents flooded his nose with new intensity. The rustle of leaves dimmed, and the perpetual murmur of the rain grew more pronounced. And there was the feel of the water on his skin, gently, softly, three cool droplets hitting his shaven head, his right cheek and the tip of his nose. They tickled, and warmed to his body temperature, as they rolled down the contours of his skull. Another two joined them, two tiny rivers of moisture on parched desert skin. Slowly, he raised his head, inviting them to come, to wash away the stench of the warp, the old blood from wounds long healed, and psychic exertions long forgotten. 

He lifted his face to the sky, where it was visible through the canopy of leaves and branches, covered in black clouds and lit by an enormous silver moon that must account for the weird tone of the light down here, the silver glow that washed over everything and turned it into something magical and wondrous. 

As if it felt his need, his desire, the rain intensified. More drops came down, the murmur changing to a rush. It was no longer possible to follow individual droplets meandering over his face. Caught in the moonlight, the rain became silver mist where it pattered off his armour, surrounding him and his brothers in a halo of shimmering light, when – unbelievably -, he saw them echo his gesture, raising their helmeted heads into the rain, welcoming a touch they should be unable to feel... And suddenly, hot droplets mingled with the cold ones running down his face, as his eyes that had seen every depravity imaginable poured forth moisture of their own. 

Words: 1032


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## KjellThorngaard

@ Mossy Ain't that the truth? :biggrin:

@ Liledhe My pleasure!


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## gothik

wont be taking part in this one, we moving soon and then will be again after that so will give this one a miss....might not be on line for a while after this week so speak to you all soon and good luck


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## demonlord24

Okay, now I'm feeling a little intimidated here. I hope my story has at least a little chance of success.

Word Count excluding title:1003

*Civil War*
"Hurry into the tunnels!"

Captain Dorvilus motioned towards a large tunnel that lead out of the city and to a secret evacuation bay that was meant to transport civilians and soldiers alike that the "Empress of The Dark Light" deemed a heretic. Though most believed her to be the next heir, some, especially some of the space marine chapters, thought of her as a heretic but complied with her orders. When the Empress called for an Imperium wide purge, most of the chapters that thought of her as a heretic hesitated. Some struck without a trace remorse or pity. Most notably were two original chapters, the Ultramarines and the Dark Angels killed every single mortal that openly blasphemed against the new leader of the Imperium.

"Captain, more of our battle brothers are attempting to bring back more civilians, but are being cut off by the Dark Eagles and the Storm Wardens."

"Send two squads of the Draco Kin to aid in breaking through to the trapped civilians, show our enemies the might of the Frost Dragons!"

The Frost Dragons were secretly aiding civilians that had been deemed heretics by the new order, sending them off world to their temporary allies, the Tau Empire. Much was changing these days, word of Eldar craft worlds aiding in the defense of human worlds, Chaos Space Marines fighting along side Space marines, and necrons forming alliances with every single race in the galaxy. Had Dorvilus been told this years before the Purge of the Fallen Angels, he would have shot the fool on the spot after laughing.

"Sir, enemy forces has broken through our perimeter."

"Numbers?"

"Seven squads of Terminators and ten squads tactical space marines from the Nova Marines and the Ultramarines. Reports of Land raiders also coming in, sir!"

"Send the Dragon Fang Devestator squads in to deal with the land raiders. I also want assault troopers to deal with the enemy tactical marines and have the predators force the Terminators back so we can pin them against the enemy tactical marines. Form a new perimeter ten miles away from the evacuation site."

How had this happened, he thought to himself. We were united for so long against a common enemy, why must we fight again?

"Captain, transmission from Chapter Master Velrin to all sectors."

"Play it."

The Vox receiver crackled to life.

"To all remaining Frost Dragons. What I ask of you, I ask with a heavy heart. Abandon your positions and report to your evacuation zones. We are falling back to the Tau cruiser in the next system. We will be regrouping with the rest of the 4 Brethren Chapters. But know this, we will be back and we will be sending the fury of a thousand dragons towards these defilers. But for now, we must flee this world in order to save it."

"Captain, orders?"

"Sound retreat, brother. Chapter Master Velrin is right, we must flee to fight another day."

A loud siren sounded through out the camp, a siren that all of the Frost Dragon space marines listened to with heavy hearts.

Marines grabbed what they could and escorted civilians into the tunnels bellow and prepared to depart with the last of the civilians.

Dorvilus waited anxiously as he waited and heard the sounds of battle drawing closer.

It had not even been an hour before he saw his brothers firing into the frozen forests, keeping back what ever enemy came towards them. Lieutenant Zoraktus readied his bolter and looked at his captain.

"Sir, there are no more transmissions coming from the monastery any more, most of our battle brothers have made it out or..."

"Then we wait for the last of our battle brothers to return and hold off any advances towards the tunnels. Lieutenant?"

"Sir?"

"It has been an honor serving with you and for the Emperor."

"Aye sir, same to you."

As if instantly, a land raider bursted through the out cropping of the forest, badly wounded and baring the marks of Calgar, Chapter Master of the Ultramarines. The only weapon left was a storm bolter that sat upon the hull of the land raider.

"Brothers! This way, to your ships!"

Dorvilus counted the remaining battle brothers that were retreating. Several squads of Draco Kin were falling back and carrying three Frost Wryvern Imperial Guardsmen with them. A squad of Imperial Guardsmen being led by a lieutenant of the Frost Dragons were trying to draw the attention of the land raider and a few terminator squads towards themselves. A land raider that was advancing through the forest exploded as Dorvilus saw twelve assault troopers and a chaplain of the Black Templars burst through the clearing. They descended upon a squad of Nova Marine terminators with deadly speed, wiping them out almost instantaneous before jumping out again and heading towards the tunnels.

"Captain, I think this is all we can expect. Let us take our leave."

Dorvilus said a prayer to the fallen guardsmen and his battle brothers that had fallen in combat, hoping they did not suffer long at the hands of the enemy.

"Right then, shall we go?"

Dorvilus readied his storm bolter and lightning claw and jumped out of the communications tower along with his lieutenant.
+++++
"Sir? The Humans made it off the planet."

Kan'Wrek nodded 

"How many were able to escape the purge?"

"Barely 500,000 men sir accumulated."

Kan'Wrek sighed and griped his staff of light.

"I should have seen this sooner..."

"Sir, orders?"

"Prepare for phase jump, we go to meet the 4 Brethren Chapters and offer them our aid and assistance."

The warrior nodded and walked away.

"A unified galaxy will end this, but how to you unify a galaxy that has been at war ever since it existed?"

Kan watched as fire and drop pods rained down upon the broken world before phase jumping.

The Apocalypse Gods, in a matter of monthes, had dismantled an empire and turned battle brother against battle brother again.


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## Ambush Beast

*The End is only the Beginning*

The End is only the Beginning


Strange that I did not think of the end of the world as being anything else but the end. When I think of the end I think of it as nothing else can come of it, nothing else is left but nothing; it’s all done, finished, the end. But that’s not how it works sometimes and in this case the end was just the beginning… the beginning of hell.

The Emperor’s Children began the invasion with an orbital bombardment. We watched as the torpedoes plummeted and fell like rain from a cloudless sky. We saw them fall slowly, too slowly, almost as if they were not falling at all, but drifting. We did not know what they were at first. They looked like people silhouetted by the sun drifting from one end of the sky to the other. Slowly they fell until we were able to make out the features of the bodies. 

They were scorched and split from entering our atmosphere from space. The bodies had been grafted to the torpedoes, nearly ten of them to each of the bombs. Children, mothers and fathers, dogs and cats, most likely family pets included to add to the morbid humor of the Chaos devoted. By the time we knew what it was we were looking at it was too late for us to run.

The streets had become full of spectators all watching the spectacle from above; windows full, rooftops packed with people just wanting to find out what it was that was falling ever so slowly from above. We all heard the screaming start as the souls bound within the torpedoes wailed and begged for release. We began to weep at the torment we heard. Some fell to their knees in anguish and depression as they struggled to take in the sight drifting before them. 

At last they began to touch the ground. We could see them clearly, as clearly as the sun on a summer’s day. Their eyes were still open and their mouths still moved. Arms still shook and legs still kicked. They wailed for release and we mourned, for we knew there was nothing we could do for them. Some fled the scene holding their ears trying to stop the cries from seeping into their souls, but the damned could not be ignored.

At last when the final torpedo touched the ground the crying stopped. Everything became deathly quiet and hushed, not even a child spoke or stirred. No pets barked, no mothers or fathers moved, for the shock of what we had seen was numbing and beyond anything imaginable. 

We thought it was the end, but as I stated earlier, the end is sometimes the beginning of things to come. 

There was no place to go to escape the horror before us. We could not move from one street to the next without seeing the daemonic totems. The smell of the dead caused us all to vomit and become ill. We knew we had to remove them, remove the vile things from the city if any semblance of normality was to return. The chance never came.

The bodies began to explode one and then another like morbid popcorn in a fiery kiln. Their chests erupted, arms and heads and legs and hands, fingers and bone. Skin and intestines, muscles and bile and shit flew in all directions like shrapnel imbedding in the flesh of those nearest, slamming into onlookers and preachers seeking to remove the curses bestowed upon the city.

Nobody was untouched except those holed up in homes and other buildings. The psychological impact could not have been planed any better. After the bodies blew the torpedoes fallowed suit. Thousands died in seconds, building crumbled, dust rising in billows and blackened ash. Bridges fell and streets cracked. I do not know how I survived, but I wish that I had not. We longed for this to be the end, but alas it was not too be for they fell from the heavens as the sky grew dark; space shuttles delivering torment.

I do not know if the other cities upon my world were under attack, but I suppose they were. The P.D.F. was helpless before them and the sounds they made. Noise like daemons torn from heaven blasted through the streets; vibrations ripping people apart, shaking the bones and flaying skin from muscle. They marched in groups of five and laughed as they tormented us. Children erupted as the sound-waves hit them at full force, their tiny bodies too weak to be held together by frail bones and soft undeveloped muscle.

We tried to fight back but what could we do. Tears fell like rain as our helplessness was revealed. We tried to flee but there was nowhere to run so we hid in the sewers, basements and shadows, but they fallowed us and blasted their soul horns. The screeching that they made sounded like tormented captives gnashing their teeth and begging for death. My ears popped and I became deaf but still the vibration of the horns shook my bones and weakened my joints until I was no longer able to stand. My eyes burst within their sockets and I screamed in misery and pain as I felt the blood streaming down my face. 

I wailed as hands grabbed my arms and broke them before dragging me out of the sewer I was hiding in. Fresh air, tainted by Chaos threatened to kill me, but a mask was placed upon my face. I could breath; I was going to live. I did not want to live but I had no choice in the matter and as I was tossed into the shuttle I knew my pain would not end soon.

Days turned to weeks, insanity threatened to rip my mind apart, but the Emperor’s Children did not want me or the others to lose our minds. They wanted us to feel and understand what was happening to us; they wanted us to weep in our helpless state and beg for the end to come. 

I am falling now and it is cold. I can feel my body freezing. There is no air. I am burning and now am fully awake as I enter the atmosphere of an alien world. My voice joins thousands of others as the song of terror reaches its crescendo. I understand what is happening but am unable to warn those I know are coming out to watch the floating bodies falling from the sky.

They are all going to die but the end is only the beginning.

1,097 words not counting title or word count.


----------



## andygorn

Great stories here, everybody - really characterful and intriguing.

Not sure if I might even be able to get a 2nd entry in for this HOES, but here's what came to me initially.

As always, the inspiration comes from wherever inspiration comes from (call it ''the ether'' for want of knowing what else to name it) and the words are mine, I hope they may prove sufficient to convey the concept.

Comments, criticisms, feedback will be most gratefuly received.
I guess like a lot of people, I'd adore to get published by BL or someone else one day (speaking personally, it'd not be for my own fame, but it's because my pets need the most secure future I can give them), so people's responses are really helpful and welcomed.
AndyG.

************

*What happens when it rains?* (1096 words)

Where the heck was he?
All Lieutenant Dervan could remember was a fusillade of shots, his snipers falling all around him to unseen bullets.
Somehow he had escaped -an obvious court martial for cowardice- but he had a duty to warn the others.
They’d know what to do: deploy the heavy armour, sending the intruders straight to hell.

Fading in and out of vision, he had staggered towards Base Primus for what seemed like hours, but still his senses had not yet returned to full accuracy.
Even the urgency of his escape hadn’t cured the numbing throughout his body, nor his deadened senses.
For a vaunted scout like himself, such loss of connection to the world was much more debilitating than the horrendous defeat his forces had just suffered.

Having seen many similar cases before in his men, he feared head wounds:
Faltering fingers ran shakily through matted hair and across his body, but found no bleeding.
Instead, his exploring digits found several lumps -most probably caused by flying debris- and his reeling senses were undoubtedly the result of various concussions.

Hearing the rustling of a deluge of rain rapidly approaching, he took shelter beneath a rusted Chimera, a casualty of a battle long before his recent posting here.
Ever since the battle ended, it had always seemed to be raining.
Why couldn’t he have been posted somewhere closer to his beloved verdant Arctoros, instead of this hellhole?

The rustling and scratching gave no signs of abating as he watched curtains of droplets cascading down upon the blasted terrain.
Despite the volumes pouring down, the deep earth of age-old craters and abandoned fortifications greedily drank up the water almost instantly, leaving no trace of it’s existence.
He realised he’d have to risk getting soaked through in order to get to safety.
Pulling his tattered shirt around him -a futile human gesture at best- the rain-smeared sight of the distant bulk of the command centre gave him new impetus.
Even though his legs felt like rubber, they carried him slowly across the ground to salvation.

Approaching the slab-sided compound, the rain somehow looked sharper and clearer here.
For a moment, he even dared to hope it was a good sign; his renowned eyesight returning to normal.

Ushered into the bunker, eyes closed in sheer relief at finding his comrades, Dervan blurted out his account of the slaughter of his sniper teams by the unknown assailants:
No, he had not seen one of their assailants; no, he couldn’t give any reason why the Regiment’s expert hunters had been assassinated before they were even ready to begin overwatch.

Slumping to a nearby chair at the end of his report, Dervan awaited their reponse -or judgement of his cowardice- vocalising that he was glad to be inside, away from the torrential rain.
Had his eyes been open, he would have seen the worried glances cast at him by several of the command staff.

Finally opening his heavy-lidded eyes, something which should have been instantly obvious took several seconds to filter through into his consciousness:
“Why the hell is it...raining...in here?” he enquired. Nervously scanning the ceiling for battle damage, yet he found it was whole and intact.

A corpsman approached, asking if he was alright and if he wanted stimms for the battle-trauma?
Refusing the medic’s attentions. Dervan repeated his request, louder this time.
However, it was not their lack of hearing which had prevented replies, but the bizarre nature of his question.

Ever calm in a crisis, Captain Indara laid a hand on his Lieutenant’s twitching shoulder, laughing softly: “Perhaps you have been out in the field for too long, my friend! There is no rain during summer; it has not rained on this planet for weeks.”

Pushing his officer away abruptly, Dervan backed into a corner, as though uncertain of who these people were any more. Had they been kidnapped and replaced by impostors? A ruse to trick and lure in any escapees from the conflict?

“Why the hell aren’t you all soaking wet through?!” Dervan queried stridently.
“Saturated...like me?!” he pulled at his clothes, showing them the articles, yet all they saw were bone-dry fatigues.

The rustling sound and the speed of the droplets increased in fury now, becoming brighter and harsher, almost too fast to follow, nearly blotting out his sight completely.

Virtually blinded, he grabbed hold of the company’s standard bearer and yelled: “What kind of sorcery is this? Tell me who you are and what you have done to me!”
The other struggled in his grasp, reluctant to strike out at a ranking officer, even a crazed one.

Several pairs of hands tore Dervan away from the soldier, forcing him to sit, their combined strength more than equal to the task of immobilising him.

Swiftly marshalling the situation, Indara orders succinctly:
“IF Dervan’s account is true, we just lost several of our best Scout Platoons to this menace. Our forces are already thinly-stretched as it is, holding the dockyards in the South and stifling worker unrest in the factory sector.
“The best we can summon is a demi-company and a squadron of Russes, with a Basilisk and Hellhounds in support. Dispatch Major Harnell at once to quell this threat. Let’s blow these intruders to...”

Dervan’s agonised scream halts the orders and he convulses in his seat, limbs contorting in every possible direction as he clutches firstly at his chest, then his head.
Before anyone can react, his body comes apart, revealing a dozen flittering insects which quickly achieve full size and begin skittering across exposed circuits and machinery, almost instantly reducing the unshielded units to slagged electronics.

Weapons blazing, the humans swiftly let loose volleys of cerulean laser bolts, cleanly eviscerating and bisecting the buzzing creatures before they can do any more damage, yet they have served their purpose: almost half of the battle-auspexes and comms equipment are rendered useless and melted.

No-one spared a thought for the unwitting traitor, Lieutenant Dervan, whose shredded corpse now garlanded the remaining holographic battle-consoles.

***
Vision fades to static as the watchers’ connection is finally ended:

The smaller of the two complained: “Host 241/33B terminated...I _told_ you it was too early to enact the protocol; we could have learnt so much more from it!”

“We already have more than enough information about their defences...*Never* think of yourself as my equal: you are a mere servant, nothing else!” The Overlord shouted in response.
“_Unlike_ this time, Cryptek...ensure that the mindshackle scarabs’ energy resonances do not interfere with the senses of the next prisoner.”


----------



## andygorn

Was struck by a second set of concepts this month, I hope you enjoy:
******
*One last request*
(1093 words, not including title)

The battle has gone well, inflicting heavy casualties for only light losses, yet Alluriad of Iyanden deliberately remains behind, traitorously derelicting his duty to his species.

Unheeding of the danger, he remains motionless as the creatures approach.
There are already too many foes, but he has chosen to die by the claws of the first: this one could offer no more agony than any of the others. Fighting will merely prolong the inevitable.
After only a century of combat, Alluriad is already tired of running, exhausted from fighting The Endless War.

Hands at his sides, powered blade and shuriken catapult lifeless in his grasp, Alluriad does not even glance upwards as the thing delicately plucks the largest gems out of his armour.

Teasingly delaying itself the ultimate taste, the Daemon Prince extends it’s tongue to lick the warm material of the enemy’s soulstones, attempting to taste the life-force and histories inside.

No matter how many times this ritual has been repeated, regardless of how many lives Shaelron reaps, there can be no comparison between now and the final release of absorption.
Yet the daemon cannot help but torment itself with the indulgence.

Using a gentleness the once-man never knew in mortal life (the very reason he turned to Chaos), wizened claws slowly close, crushing the smooth gems above it’s head.
Thousands of cyan fragments and shards rain down upon the beast, each one is a snapshot of time...a battle here, a lost love there.

All drawn to it’s essence, many are just left where they lie upon the daemon’s fractured skin, callously ignored yet to be sampled and perhaps fought over at some later stage.

Others fizz and pop along the former Marine’s sticky tongue, impacting the roof of his mouth; even the briefest of remembrances sharply burns his delicate flesh.

The rest even catch between it’s teeth, hotly chafing against welcoming gums; deliciously annoying treasures to be savoured later.

As the monster’s shadow falls across him, Alluriad recalls the old Farseer’s comments from the last time he stood in the Dome of Seers, stunned into shock and silence by the sheer volume of thoughts and consciousnesses contained there:

“And there shall be a time for summer rains, washing all away, yet it will be also a time for stillness and you will know it when such time comes. Woe to us all if you shy away, but I sense that you shall instead stand tall...even though you cannot comprehend it’s effects.”

Oblivious to his prey’s last moment, Shaelron’s toothy maw closes around Alluriad's weeping head, finally ending his lifelong pain.
Carnality and savagery abate as the daemons put the remaining Eldar to the sword, the Daemon Prince stands immobile to better appreciate the Dire Avenger’s flavours.
The familiar honey-like viscosity of the soul dribbles down it’s throat, further warming his insides as Slaanesh takes his latest victim through Shaelron’s mutated form.

Turning to face his jubilant followers, this last morsel is especially satisfying and the warm glow becomes a slow-burn, suffusing it’s entire body. The portal opens to Shaelron’s realm and they return to the Palace of Sighs to await the next summoning.

None of them could have known that the now-headless Avenger’s armour had disguised one who was the last of his Autarch-born lineage.

None amongst the foe would have stopped to consider...let alone care...that Alluriad carried the remaining soulstones of his noble ancestry, each saturated with their race’s fury and vengeance, yet such was shielded from enemy attentions.

Even Shaelron, consumer of the last of the Fialderann name, believes the heat is just another pain. Over centuries, he has been subject to far greater discomfort from the Corpse-Emperor’s followers and necrotic toxins from the Tyranid beasts-of-the-field.

Reclining on his throne beneath azure skies, breezes flit coquettishly through jade pillars carved with obscene images. The shamelessly entwined naked bodies depicted are vulgarly holed; winds carry the myriad voices of former enemies and lovers through these jutting instruments.

Shifting restlessly, the enraptured voices no longer soothe his soul as they once did, so he calls instead for his closest handmaidens. Attending swiftly, they hiss and bare too many rows of sharpened teeth in triumph at the rest; each seeks the choicest part of his body, attempting to cool his now-fevered skin with their kisses and various fragrant greases.

A rapidly approaching pleasure-barge carries visitors from his former Legion, a cabal of Chief Sorcerors come to fawn and tempt him to their cause with their own bared flesh and narcotics from mortal planets as yet beyond his grasp.

As the sailboat docks, vast caskets of gold and rare woods are manhandled ashore by straining oiled servitors. Their bloody combat-shears and rusted pliers speak of new tastes carried from afar. Such things pique Shaelron’s interest a lot more than the contents ever could. 

However, like an itch which cannot be scratched, the heat continues through his veins, becoming increasingly irritating.
The thin, reedy voice of the first ‘negotiator’ only adds to his torment.
With his lovers’ ministrations similarly providing no relief, he lashes out with a barbed and taloned arm, beheading the spokesperson as well as two nearby courtiers.
The rest run shrieking from his presence, yet he cannot concentrate, for the heat is now unbearable, even for one such as him.

“Detecting spike in psychic energy...” warns one of the conjurers, turning to run.
Yet it is too late for any of them, as Shaelron explodes in a blast of azure bolts, torn asunder by the power of a dying race.

Fragrant daemon-blood showers those nearby, covering them in acidic downpour, before they too are crushed by the massive shockwaves of mind-shredding energies.

+++
From his decaying mansion across the yellow pustulent seas, the diseased maggot form of Grandfather Derzdek Gatrog Nurgle softly chuckles in liquescent mirth, watching as clouds of cerulean stars envelope the former Palace of Sighs.
His eyes burn brightly as he urges his familial underlings to also witness the cascading explosion of psychic power, raining down like the mortal deluges he himself once loved.


+++
Back in the realms of mortals, an ancient Eldar psyker shakes his head as the stones fade from view.
For the first time in years, he finds the strength to stand without his attendants’ help.
His eyes burn strong and bright at the sacrifice he ordered, tears staining his pale robes for only the fourth time in his life.
He regrets the loss of lives present and past, yet feels grateful to have been able to fulfil the last wishes of a coward’s family.


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## Boc

Eight stories thus far? C'mon Heretics!

If anyone needs the suspense pushed back let me know


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## KjellThorngaard

I have a story done, I just need my wife to type it for me. I suck at typing and she doesn't. We have been remodeling a bathroom and haven't had much time. It will be up next week, though.


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## Kaiden

I'm in for this month with somemore Deathwatch flavoured goodness. Need a few days to get it out of my head and into some sort of readable state.


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## JAMOB

Damn finals... *grumblegrumblegrumble* ill post one if i can :/


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## dark angel

I have an idea.

Trouble is, it's set in our world - An historical fiction - Are they allowed?


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## Dave T Hobbit

I have 860 words so far so will be probably be posting my entry next week.



dark angel said:


> I have an idea.
> 
> Trouble is, it's set in our world - An historical fiction - Are they allowed?


They are:



Boc said:


> 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.


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## dark angel

Aye - I didn't know if it would count as original or not. Being real and whatnot. 

Thanks, Dave. I'll get working on my entry tomorrow.


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## Dave T Hobbit

*Blossom*​

_Summer, 881_

Mari put down the handcart and wiped the sweat from her brow. The air felt like treacle. With the drought entering its second year, the barrels of water were barely enough to soften the ground let alone sustain the ploin trees. Worse, even with the discount for hauling it from the cave herself, it would likely cost as much to buy water as the crop would be worth. If there even were a crop this year.

If Jerek was here then maybe they could dig a well in the back acre where the stream used to be. But there was too much needed doing just to keep the farm running alone. She had no time to dig hole after hole all day in case there was water down there. Picking up the handles again she remembered how different it was supposed to be after he joined the PDF.

* * *​
_Spring, 879_

“They came looking for soldiers and you said yes!”

"It's good money, and if I volunteer the Sergeant said I only need to serve five years," said Jerek, giving a half-smile.

"Five years? How am I supposed to run the farm on my own for five years? A stupid idea like that could get you killed!" screamed Mari raising her pan meaningfully.

"I know the Farm isn't doing well. That's why we need the money. They said you get bed and board so I could send most of my money home. It would be better than having to sell even if you can't keep everything going."

"Well you do what you want Jerek Austan. Don't let the fact I'm your wife change anything. But don't you go thinking I'll be sitting her crying over you while you're gone." Running into the bedroom, she started to push clothes into a bag. "I'll even help you pack so you can be off and earn that money you obviously care about so much."

* * *​
_Summer, 881_

She remembered driving him out of the house that night. Emperor knows where he slept. He turned up next morning to tell he about the Recruits’ Parade but she was told him in no uncertain terms she was too busy tending the farm to watch him prancing around in a fancy coat.

* * *​
_Autumn, 881_

Mari read the letter again: deductions for excessive wear; deduction towards a present for the Colonel's birthday; deductions for mandatory recreation. Pushing the few coins around they still refused to make a living wage. It turned out that the food was free but you paid for everything else, even if you didn't want it.

Cursing she threw the letter across the room. It wasn't really Jerek's fault. Maybe the letter might even make her feel better if it made sense, but something had happened just after he finished training and the letters came less frequently. When they did there were so many words censored that the man she married was disappearing like water on a hot stone.

* * *​
_Winter, 882_

Mari paused at the sound of hooves approaching. Straightening she noticed the Post-Chaise coming up the track. There was only one person who would send her post. Maybe he had even finally got leave. Carefully putting down the water bucket she ran to meet it.

Arriving at the track she was puzzled to see Postmaster Jarks himself at the reins instead of one of the hired hands. Grabbing the proffered envelope she torn it open and began to read.
++++ To: [Mari Austan]
From: CENSORED, CENSORED
Date: CENSORED

Dear [Mrs Austan]

It is with regret that I write to inform you that [Jerek Austan] [has] given [his] life in service to the God Emperor.

[He] was killed whilst CENSORED. [His] body will [not] be returned for burial

[Jerek] was [well liked amongst his unit] and [spoke of you often].

The prayers and condolences of the CENSORED are with you in your time of loss.

Yours in His Service,

CENSORED ++++
​She realised she was sitting in the dust. Postmaster Jarks was saying something but the words would not make sense. After a while they stopped. Later she noticed she was alone. She picked the bucket up off the ground and headed back to the orchard. It was not until she arrived that she noticed the water had evaporated.

* * *​
_Spring, 883_

Mari put down the handcart and wiped the sweat from her brow. Without a wage coming in this was the last barrel of water Mari could afford. Jerek had received death benefits but the PDF had used most of them to discharge the debt he incurred by not completing his term and the remainder had gone on a funeral she did not know about. Water trickled down her cheek. Pausing to wipe it away she cursed herself. Crying would not bring him back.

Little puffs of dust spattered the track. Looking up she felt first one then many drops falling on her face. The crash of thunder finally broke her trance and, abandoning the cart, she ran through the rain.

* * *​
Next morning the rain had slackened, but the butts were full and there were more clouds on the horizon. Putting aside her plan to finish dragging the cart to the house, Mari ran past it to where the telegram had lain for months. Scooping up the sodden mass of mud and paper she headed for the orchard. Without a body, this would have to do. She would bury Jerek among the trees he had planted, where he could see the blossom had just started to open.


- Word Count: 923


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## Serpion5

I'm just not feeling this one.  

But, the last two were written in half an hour each on a whim, so we'll see I guess.


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## Zinegata

(1,061 words excluding title)

*Tears*

Every variable had been accounted for. The target's speed and direction. Its armor's capabilities against the Predator's own twin lascannons. Even the prevailing atmospheric conditions did not escape notice - particularly since it had quickly turned from a light drizzle to a torrential thunderstorm.

It was thus already a certainty when the twin beams of light struck the renegade Leman Russ tank. It paused for a moment, as though surprised by its own impending demise, before exploding in what the Guardsmen liked to call a "catastrophic kill". 

But while Pride 07 was aware of this terminology - it had served alongside several Akkadian tank regiments in the past - it chose not to record the apt description of its latest kill. It was simply not mission-critical information. It would instead simply be logged as kill number seventeen for the Platean Campaign, while a separate function logged it as the machine's three hundred and sixty-fourth kill overall.

Brother Pollux, the tank's commander, began yelling instructions. Despite the downpour, he had spotted another rebel tank hiding ahead of them. 

Subtly, Pride 07 began to adjust its servos in anticipation of what was to come. The gunner, Brother Decimus, bid the turret turn. In one smooth action, the turret snapped into place, locked on the enemy tank. Decimus hesitated for a half second, mentally rechecking his firing solution calculations, before finally pulling the trigger.

Pride 07 always found this habit unnecessary. One of its main functions was to do the rechecking for the Space Marines; freeing them to focus on other more vital tasks. But Decimus was persistent. Neither the reprimands of the Techmarines or their eighteenth kill on this planet was about to make him change his ways.

Brother Pollux's life signs then began to change. Pride 07 could not relate to the emotions felt by non-machines - even the limited range exhibited by Space Marines - but it had come to recognize when the commander was feeling duress. A quick diagnostic scan immediately revealed why: The auspex was beginning to malfunction.

Pollux shouted some orders, directed at Brother-Logis Socrates. The Logis had been told to repair the auspex. The Logis complied, pulling out some panels at the bottom of the tank's main compartment, but Pride 07 knew that no amount of repairs would restore their auspex to full capability. The problem was outside of the tank.

Suddenly, Brother Decimus gasped. He told his comrades to look out the viewports. Pride 07 could only wait for someone else to speak. A Machine Spirit had no eyes but its instruments.

Pride 07 began to record an increase its weight, even as its crew watched silently at what was happening outside. It began to realize that the rain drops were striking much more powerfully than expected. It was as though the Predator tank wasn't being drenched by water. It was being drenched by a much heavier liquid. It was...

"Blood..." Brother Pollux said out loud, before Pride 07 could finish its calculations. Immediately, the machine spirit was thrown into an endless loop of contradictory queries. There was nothing in the database that suggested this was possible. It was a violation of physical laws. Unless...

There was a terrible shriek to the west of Pride 07. Its crew did not hear it, but the Predator tank knew that it had lost one of its brethren. It had heard the dying code scream of a fellow Predator, Pride 03.

Instantly, Pride 07 knew they were in danger. It began flashing warnings on the auspex, announcing the death of one of their tanks. Pollux was attentive and began barking orders. He was about to finish when Pride 07 heard another terrible sound. This time, the crew heard it too.

"_Ruinos Monstrum Rex!_"

In an instant, everything was clear to Pride 07. It knew the name. It was that of an ancient enemy - a superheavy tank under the service of the Ruinous powers. Many loyalist machines had died because of this monster; and the bloody rain which precedes it is said to be the tears of those it had slain.

But it was too late. A massive Baneblade round struck the frontal armor. Miraculously, it did not penetrate, but the resulting explosion nearly annihilated them anyway. The Predator was rocked to its core, with most of its systems knocked out. Internal spalling instantly killed the Brother Logis, while Brother Pollux cracked his skull and broke his neck. Only Decimus survived out of the crew, but Pride 07 - now on its last legs - could detect that his life signs were fading fast. There was something that had pierced all his lungs and one of his hearts.

Defiantly, Decimus grabbed the turret controls. Painfully, Pride 07 tried to comply. Decimus was trying to execute a snap-shot: A quick reply in the same direction where enemy fire had come from.

The turret somehow swung into position. Decimus adjusted the traverse. Pride 07 waited as Decimus paused for a half second, rechecking his firing solution for one final time.

He fell unconscious before he could pull the trigger.

Pride 07 tried to revive Brother Decimus, operating through a shared link with the Astartes Power Armour. The monstrous enemy superheavy had now appeared out of the bloody rain, and it was fortuitously right between the crosshairs of the Predator's twin lascannons. But the guns could only be fired by a human crew member, for Machine Spirits were intentionally left crippled in this manner to prevent another Dark Age of Technology.

Suddenly, Decimus' life signs vanished. He had died.

An instant later, the twin lascannons fired. _Ruinous Monstrum Rex_ was caught by surprise. The twin beams sliced through an ammunition magazine. Its millennia-long reign of terror ended in a ball of flame.

But Pride 07 did not log this kill. Instead, it logged the exact moment Brother Decimus died. It should not have. It was not mission-critical data. Nor was the fact that Pride 07 had never known any other gunner in its two centuries of service.

The unnatural rain began to subside, the monster that created it now slain. But Pride 07 realized that a different rain had begun.

The Machine Spirit's final log entry would report that the tank had developed a fuel leak, and black drops of oil were slowly dripping down to the ground.


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## Kaiden

Looks like im gonna be out of time on this one (_which had nothing to do with diablo 3_:gamer1 I have however come up with an idea I want to write, and will aim to do so by the end of the month.


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## KjellThorngaard

Night Rain
(1,036 words)

A brilliant flash of light brightened the pitch-black night, but just for a moment. The rain slowed to a mere drizzle, still hard enough to limit Karl’s vision to a few feet.

“Are you sure Richter? Are you sure it is here?” he said.
“Yes Karl. I just need to find it.”

Karl Bader was a Holy Witch Hunter tasked with smiting the evil foes of the Empire. Tonight would end a decades long hunt for the Vampire Malhund.

“Here it is!”

Lifting his lantern towards Richter’s voice. The light was too feeble to reach his acolyte’s position.

“Where are you?”
“Behind the crypt master.”

They were in an ancient Garden of Morr, long since overgrown and abandoned. Karl stepped gingerly on the sodden soil hoping against hope that his feet would not break through an ancient tomb. Stepping around the decrepit tomb he found himself sheltered from the cold rain.

“A portico for a tomb? Malhund has a sick sense of humor,” Richter spat.
“So this is where he has sheltered all these years. Are you ready?” Karl asked.
“Always Karl.”

He held up his blessed blade twisting the holy steel so it flashed in the lantern light. Rainwater ran down the blade and dripped from the hilt.

Karl held a similar blade. Both had been blessed by the Archlector himself. Across his chest was a bandoleer of sharpened stakes. Oak from a hanging tree. A cross bandoleer held a dozen vials of holy water and oil in leather sleeves. A small hammer adorned with the icon of Magnus completed his ensemble.

Laying his sword and lantern on a cracked stone Karl shrugged off his dripping oilskin and hung it from a corroded sconce.

“Into the breach?” Karl asked.
“For Sigmar and Empire,” Richter oathed.

The door to this tomb had long since disappeared, leaving a dark void that led into the clutching earth. Holding the lantern aloft Karl stepped into the tomb.

The base of the stairs opened into a large crypt. A central plinth was empty though the wall niches still held moldering remains. Across from the stairs a low tunnel gaped with evil omen. Crouching down Karl looked back at Richter then shrugged and dropped to his hands and knees. Karl looked up at the ceiling before crawling into the low tunnel. Steady droplets fell from cracks in the crypt ceiling. Underground rain.

The tunnel twisted and turned, carved from the cold earth. Gouges and marks in the tunnel looked enough like claw and finger marks that Karl didn’t even look closer to check.

The dripping water had slowed, but didn’t cease entirely. Even a hundred or more feet underground the water fell. “How long does this tunnel go?” Karl murmured.

As soon as he did he almost fell out of the shaft. The tunnel opened into a much larger chamber.

“Careful now. We’re in his lair,” Karl whispered.

Dropping out of the narrow tunnel, the two witch hunters stretched their cramped muscles. Opening the hoods on his lantern Karl held it high to illuminate the chamber.

It was a natural cave, the floors and wall closest to them were worn stone. Water dripped here, too. The drenching rain leaking through soil and stone to wet the witch hunters still.

“For the love of Sigmar,” Karl complained and turned the lantern to light the ceiling.

As he did he had a strange thought. This rain was warm and salty. “Dear Sigmar no…” he started.

The beam of light spilling from the lantern lit the ceiling and made Karl’s horror real. Across the entirety of the cavern ceiling were impaled corpses. Large nails and spiked chains held the recently dead in place.

Not recently dead. Still alive.

Puncture wounds covered the flesh ceiling, droplets of blood falling like rain.

“Master…” Richter started. He stood transfixed by the horrible visage above them.

A growl somewhere between feral beast and deranged man rumbled low and threatening across the cavern. Not a cave, a tomb. This place was an extension of the mausoleum behind them.

“Show yourself fiend!” Karl shouted.

The lantern light strove to illuminated movement deep in the shadows. It was so fast. Just a flash from a shadow to a shadow.

The growl rumbled louder, deeper and more threatening. Again the thing flitted from shadow to shadow. “Sigmar help us, we thy servants of light…” Richter started to pray.

“Steady my friend. This monster can be destroyed.”

Shadow to shadow. Closer now.

Karl wiped blood from his eyes with the back of his hand. Salty and sticky blood.

Kneeling he set his lantern down and pulled two oil vials from his bandoleer. Each vial had a small wick instead of a stopper. Holding a vial through the lantern shutters he lit the vial and watched the oil-soaked wick sputter. Hurling the vial across the cavern it smashed against something solid and a flare of burning oil spread.

Lighting and throwing the second vial left another circle flame.

The Malhund was visible now. Flickering flames cast the monster in terrible shadow.

He flashed across the cavern towards Richter moving as fast as the eye could follow.

He didn’t even have time to raise his blade. Malhund struck him a lethal blow and rebounded from the wall and shot back behind the flames.

“Richter!” Karl screamed.

Richter turned to look at his master, sword slipping from his fingers to clatter on the stone floor.

“Karl…” he mouthed and fell dead, his throat a ruin, blood bubbling from a gaping chest wound.

Karl flung his lantern and chased the vampire, a wordless howl on his lips.

Hunter met prey in a crash of undead flesh and blessed steel. Karl’s blade bit deep into the shoulder of the beast before he was hurled sideways. Blinding pain over took him crushing his righteous rage and his vision faded to darkness.

Sometime later Karl drifted back to consciousness. Terrible, piercing pain wracked his body. Something felt wrong. Where was he? “Malhund!” he remembered. The pain. Unconsciousness. Turning his head he saw the spikes through his hands and arms. Cuts and punctures covered his exposed flesh, blood oozing out and dripping to the blood slick floor before. 

Warm and salty.


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## VulkansNodosaurus

Hope I'm not too late....




*Heresy Online Expeditious Stories 12-05*
*VulkansNodosaurus*
*1100 words*
*Horizon*​ 
The _Faith in the Goldpipes_ was falling.

The Space Marine frigate had suffered- and almost withstood- a lot of punishment in the preceding engagement. The Tyranid fleet had been traveling to Yetra, a vital agri-world whose loss would have caused a sector-wide famine; the Imperial Navy had barely caught up with the xenos, and that only because their path had slowed down in this black hole’s vicinity. So the Navy had come, at maximum speed, to intercept the splinter fleet.

The Imperium had won- but only after a difficult battle, despite the element of surprise and the brilliant tactics the admirals had constructed with the singularity. And that had proven fatal. The _Jubilant Saint_’s engines had failed as it entered the Warp, and the Gellar field- its generators damaged in the fighting- had failed in the same moment. There was an explosion, rendering the _Faith in the Goldpipes_ inoperable, and now- as the ship streaked towards Singularity 97-45.7 alongside debris- a full-scale daemonic incursion had erupted into the ship.

“Black Dragons, to me!” Idrann bellowed to his squad, spread out across the ship’s bridge as they unleashed fire and fury onto their daemonic enemy. That, at least, was real- Space Marines were meant to be transhuman, but often enough Idrann found himself admiring the Imperial Guard more than Chapters like the cold Ultramarines or the robotic Iron Hands. Perhaps it was simply the Black Dragons’ heritage. 

Carapaces of pink and light blue charged at the Space Marines; the Black Dragons fought back, crushing the light- fragile, really- abominations without much difficulty. Yet in the clang of battle, though none of his brothers had fallen yet, Idrann could see the daemons’ attacks did have an effect; and their sheer numbers were overwhelming.

Squad Idrann made their way to their leader, scales on edge. There were humans with them too, Idrann noted with some surprise; apparently some of the bridge crew had survived the incursion. United, they presented a significantly harder position to assault; as his brothers attacked with sword and claw (a peculiar mutation caused bony outgrowths on the Black Dragons’ bodies), Idrann felt himself almost relax. He was at his brothers’ side now; proud Hutraan, rash Quattu, analytical Zirtrial…

“Brother-Sergeant?” Zirtrial called from his position, next to the illuminator.

Idrann turned.

“We’re crossing the event horizon.” Anger, previously barely held in, exploded over Zirtrial’s face. “We’re doomed.”

Idrann risked a glance out the window- his guards was better than most of his squadmates’, so the distraction would be safe. Indeed, from ahead, no more light could be seen. Only the ships to the back and side were still visible, sinewed and shining raindrops in a rain of fire, splattering into an all-consuming maw. The horizon was coming up.

He felt it soon after- the indoctrination had claimed it would be intangible, but it was not like anyone could check. It was a cold, compressive sensation spread out across his superhuman frame.

“The ship will hold out for a while,” one of the crew members offered, “but not forever.”

The battle, at least, was over. The Black Dragons had won. Of the Warp-spawn, only dust remained.

And then, _it_ entered. It was impossible to look at it long enough to determine its form; its lilac radiance banished all such attempts. It could probably shift whatever it was anyhow.

Quattu tensed as soon as he saw it, the Black Dragons’ trademark anger fully directed at the arch-abomination for no apparent reason beyond its hostile nature. He leapt at the daemon-prince, and Idrann had to follow. The pearly deck of the bridge flashed below his tumbling feet, and then there was no more deck, only the slime-drool the daemon-prince had exuded. Behind, the remaining seven members of his squad followed up the charge. Still, the daemon-prince was impossibly strong, bursting with energy not of this world. It batted Quattu aside.

Idrann rammed his blade into the daemon’s surface. It reached out with its horrible light, weeping in injury- but it was not the cry of the weak. A claw holding a sword of its own emerged from the formless space, parrying Idrann’s blows.

Still, it could not keep its attention everywhere at once. Even as Idrann hit again and again, blade crackling, eyes rubies of malice, pressing the attack, scoring hit after hit, his peripheral vision witnessed Hutraan within the light’s center, surrounded by impossible hands and weapons. Hutraan had always been good with the blade, but in those moments he was divine; adamantium and bone meshed with metal and blood, and the demon wailed, this time from true pain. It cracked within itself, though, crushing Hutraan even as eight pairs of gauntlets crushed it in turn.

Hutraan died silently, but the fury was there until the end. Logically, it should have been impossible for him to have been visible, unless the daemon was transparent; Idrann remembered from his indoctrination, though, that logic had nothing to do with the Warp.

The daemon, under silent assault, snickered.

“You think you have won? This ship will fall apart in the singularity; I can merely continue my conquests!”

In a moment, a gate stood on the bridge, directly across the daemon from Idrann. The cloud-white fields of Yetra glistened on the other side.

“Get into there!” Zertrial screamed.

“And don’t let the daemon follow you!” Idrann followed up.

They followed the order. Idrann, for his part, ran to the human crew. They had assisted from a distance, with lasguns and the like- brave, though not that useful. They needed little urging to go to the portal; but when he turned around to run himself, he knew it was too late.

The gate was closing.

“Jump!” Quattu yelled from the other side.

Idrann didn’t jump.

Tossing the three remaining officers was an automatic action. If he had not done it, Idrann would have survived. As it was, the hole was too small by the time it was too late.

“Why?” Quattu screamed.

“Because we are sons of Vulkan too,” Idrann responded, “no matter how much some claim otherwise!”

Perhaps later, he would understand.

The portal closed, and Idrann looked around the room- only to find a large hole in the ceiling where the daemon had been. The Sergeant leapt into it.

Outside, all was mayhem. Idrann felt the sheer gravitation of the center; he would have likely been pulled to pieces by tidal forces had he not been so close to the daemon.

The wounded warp-prince leapt at Idrann again, and the sergeant responded in kind.

Under a sky of white fire and ceramite rain, they clashed.


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## Davidicus 40k

VulkansNodosaurus said:


> Hope I'm not too late....


Made it with 15 minutes to spare. Too late for anyone else, though (unless Boc extends it, of course).


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## Boc

No extension since no one asked, however if I'm late closing out the entry thread then the comp stays open.

Buuuut on that note, comp closed, expect the voting thread to be up momentarily!


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