# Heresy Online's Expeditious Stories 12-07: Duty



## Dave T Hobbit (Dec 3, 2009)

Welcome to the year's seventh 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 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:

*Duty*

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)*Tuesday, 24 July 2012. Voting will be held from 25 July - 31 July.* Remember, getting your story submitted on the July 3 will be just as considered by others as one submitted on July 20! 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*

gothik: In Death Duty Does Not End 

Adrian: Next Time I Dream

Romero's Own: We Knew It Was Coming

Liliedhe: Rust

Bloody Mary: On the Nature of Duty: A speech delivered by the Chaplain Cadmus Gracchus of the Imperial Fists

Zinegata: A Shared Duty

andygorn: An Age Ago

VulkansNodosaurus: Chains of Command

VulkansNodosaurus: Is An Annoying Mistress
​


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## Dave T Hobbit (Dec 3, 2009)

A few thoughts to get people started:

If there is no real cost to doing it is it duty or just a job? For example, is kissing your wife a duty?

Do you have to choose something for it to be duty? For example, a Space Marine is bred and indoctrinated to fight for the Imperium, so is it actually their duty?


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## Liliedhe (Apr 29, 2012)

Only in death does duty end... Or not.


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## gothik (May 29, 2010)

In Death Duty Does Not End.

Word Count: 1085​
The old soldier looked upon his men and women, all with tired eyes and weary bodies. He did not blame them; this had been a hard fought battle. Now with the safety of this steam fuelled train to the barracks at Tay, their duty would end and they might get some needed rest. 

Sergeant McCray walked the length of the Flying Taymar and stood before her massive engine. Her steam chimney rose high into the skies and he thought that if he listened hard enough there were songs to be heard in her idling steam bursts. 

Like the ancient pipes of his forgotten home world Nova Celtia, it seemed to tell him that their war was nearly over. He would hope that it was. Many friends lost in the wars against the Archenemy and others to the fanatical ways of the Commissariat, especially if cowardice was perceived. He put his tabac stick out and shouldering his carbine rifle he walked the length of the train. He started checking every storage door to ensure that it was locked and, that the men and women of the Nova Celtia 34th Infantry, the so called “Warriors of Heart” were in their appointed posts and doing their watch duties with the same efficiency as their younger counterparts. 

He could hear the singing from the passenger carriages and shook his head, not one of the young bucks and young fawns had any idea what they were going to be facing. The war here had been on-going for over fifty years, they were in the arse end of the universe in the Shetland System and these young bloods’ had yet to see the real hardships of battle. 

The explosives crew had checked along the bridge and ensured that it was not rigged to explode. He doubted it would be as the powers of the fell ones had much up their sleeves and explosives would be too obvious, and yet part of him was relieved as he stopped to look over the massive iron bridge. 

It spanned the width of the mighty river Taymar. Great iron struts ensured that any train going over the bridge was protected from the harsher elements of this world. There was a walkway that had been constructed for the engineers to periodically re-paint the bridge to prevent rust setting in or check for broken struts and tracks. 

He heard his Commissar bellow for all to get aboard. With a sigh Sergeant McCray climbed aboard and waved towards the drivers cab. The sooner they delivered the new bloods and the tanks to the encampment at Carisbrooke the sooner they will all make a push to finally get off this rock, or claim it as their own, whichever came first. 

The steam erupted and the wheels turned, with a screech it began its slow move towards its destination and the Warriors of Hearts’ final battle. They never made it. Halfway across the bridge the Sorcerers of the Thousand Sons caused the river to swell to such a degree that the force behind it battered the pillars of rockcrete. As the Flying Tamar picked up speed the sorcerers sent the unnatural forces to the weakened structures. The moment the heavy train hit the weakened track section, the bridge broke apart. The weight of the train and the frenzy of the warp churned river had the bridge break in two; the train upended and plummeted into the freezing depths of the waters.

The steam hissed in anger as it entered the water, the screeching of the wheels mingled with the creaks of the armoured vehicles drowned out any human screams. The waters battered the train as it sank deeper into the water and swirled around it like a pack of hungry wolves. Once the hissing was done and the waters had calmed once more, the broken bridge was the only remnant to what had happened here.


Two fishermen were sitting along the banks of the Taymar. The war had ended almost half a century before. The Imperium won a costly but important victory, driving the forces of Chaos out of the system, with the help of the Brotherhood of a Thousand, White Scars and Raven Guards Astartes, peace reigned once more. 

They chatted about how peaceful life was round here. The bridge itself had never been repaired. Further along the stream a new Bridge had been built by the Mechanicum, the older one had been sealed off and left as a memorial to the thousand men and women of the Imperial Guard who had died in what had been seen as one of the Thousand Sons more cowardly acts by the Warmaster. 

They caught their fish and ate their supper then settled in for the night fishing they had decided to stay for. The more they caught, the more their families would feast at the weekend celebrations. The Priest would be there to say a prayer and honour those that had fallen in the defence of their world. They spoke about how their daughters and sons were doing and how their clan would continue to thrive with the blessings of the Great Chieftain and his sons. 

The celebrations also marked the games, when the Brotherhood of a Thousand would come to them and recruit more males for their sky warriors. They come once every twenty five years and both men had sons of age and hoped their sons would be chosen. They laughed together and then it died away as their attention was drawn to the old bridge.

A single light lit the way but was bright enough to bathe the opposite side of the vast riverbank and as the two fishermen raised their glances they saw a train, an old train, one that had not been used in fifty years come across the old bridge. Soldiers sat on the roofs of the carriages with their rifles held tightly and lights in the carriages silhouetted the singing figures of soldiers on their way to battle. The fishermen watched, terrified as the Train screeched, and the engine and its carriages fell into the river with the screams dying with it, it vanished as it hit the water.

The two fishermen left their tools and ran like the spirits of hell were after them. 

In death, duty did not always end. The next night Sergeant McCray boarded the train as he would for eternity to deliver the men and weapons that would never arrive.


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Next Time I Dream*

Next Time I Dream.


They say that only in death does duty end but is this really true? I don’t know. My pain is tearing away at me, ever grinding the soul from my flesh, my sanity from my mind. I have seen too much to be able to forget; too much to ever return to the childhood innocence I had once known. 

They say the enemy is called Chaos, but that is sometimes not the correct application to the attributes of the Great Enemy. Many times the measures the Great Enemy applies is measured, carefully planned and precise; glorious on infinite levels that mortals could never hope to achieve.

The World eaters do not apply many plans to their barbaric invasions and world domination, nor do the Space wolves. Their tactics are basically the same; destroy everything and let nothing stand in their way. But take the Ultra Marines and the Alfa Legion, the Iron Hands and the Word Bearers; now there is perfection in infinite planning. Discipline and structure are evident in their methods. Patient and detailed they move about with intention and devotion systematically annihilating the hopes of their enemies while gaining footholds that none can displace. 

Though some of the for-mentioned fight for Chaos and some for the Emperor of mankind the effectiveness of their strategies cannot be denied. I know, for the life I once lived has been torn apart by the careful planning of both Chaos and the Emperor. 

So where does my duty lie? I have suffered at the hands of both good and evil. During the invasion of Riamex the Word Bearers destroyed the cities by orbital bombardment killing most of my family and most of humanity that dwelt above ground. Once they set foot upon the blasted wasteland they had created they began to erect towers from the rubble, flesh and bone of the dead. Any who still survived were forced to work and any too weak to perform were grafted into the walls of the structure while screaming and begging for their lives.

The Ultra Marines descended from the heavens like living Gods and met the Word Bearers face to face. Blades of iron and steel clashed with armor that had been possessed with the souls of the tormented. Shrieks of agony and dismay were met with oaths of vengeance and devotion to the Emperor of mankind and silenced by shells from storm bolters and multa-rifles. 

What remained of the cities fell in flame and collapsed by the power of tank shells and shoulder cannons. Red armor met blue and white armor, curses from the lips of devoted enemies and screams of the dyeing. Between these two mighty armies the rest of my family perished and my heart grew stone hard from the losses inflicted upon my soul. 

I have found my duty in the death of my family. I want to kill them all. Eventually the Ultra Marines drove off the Word Bearers and declared victory and a world saved. I think they are blind to the destruction around them for their uncaring eyes fell upon me while I wept for my family and not a word was said to console my grief except the words, “The Emperor protects!” 

Curse the Emperor. Damn his immortal soul. Where was he when all I loved burned away in the fires of war? The Emperor does not protect, nor does he see the struggles of his children. I wish I could kill them all but alas I am only human and helpless to vent my pain. 

In my dreams I watch as my enemies and saviors, both Chaos and those devoted to the Emperor are torn apart. I laugh as their ships are ripped from the stars and turned inside out. I bathe in the blood of them all while I dance upon their bones. In the ashes of my mind I hear them scream, begging for mercy while I cut the meat from their bones with my screams of mourning.

I can see them all lying in the ashes of my home world. Their blackened bones lie in the streets and I laugh as I see my family walking amongst them. My laughter turns to tears once more when the wind blows and carries away their memories like ashes in a storm. 

Am I really so weak and helpless? In my dreams I am mightier than a God. What will happen if I stop dreaming? I find out when I open my eyes. Their before me are the ruins of my home world. I see the bodies of the dead and the mourners wailing over them, but I also see the broken forms of Space Marines whose armor has been torn away from their flesh and the flesh ripped from their bones. All around I see the shattered burning hulls of the star-craft they used to unleash hell. All around are the skeletons of my enemies, burnt, broken and splintered.

A child comes to me and smiles. Her red hair is filthy as is her face and clothes but her eyes are bright and green. She is a beautiful girl around ten years of age. She speaks words that set my soul aflame and gives me purpose once more. ‘Your family says they love you. They say your duty is clear. Kill them all!’

In my dreams I see them running through the fields that once were so green and lush. My children are laughing and I can see my wife smiling at me through the windows of our home. The breeze is blowing through the trees and with it comes a song. I don’t want to awake from this dream for I know what I will find, but even as I think the thought the fires come and blow away the memories of my loved ones once again. 

I hate them for what they have done. I will kill them all next time I dream.

995 words.


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

We knew it was coming.

Even if you hadn’t heard it from a colleague at the fabrica, or caught a whisper of it on the public riser-cars, or seen graffiti daubed on some hab stairwell being burned-off by the Vigiles, you knew it was coming. You know something was coming.

The holo-networks had been different for weeks, Ecclesiarchy programs ran from power-up to power-down on some channels. Others just ran war-vids, real or fictional, a endless low-res procession of Imperial victories and crushing might. The Arbites were everywhere, stopping crawl-cabs and kicking down doors, demanding names and serial numbers, stopping and searching. 

All this might have been overlooked, I suppose; it had been no different the time the old Lord Governor had died, and the Public Mourning Decrees were in full swing. The Arbites were everywhere for months that time, and they were everywhere this time, too. Like I say, no different. But the Navy never turned up when the Governor died, did they? Well, they did this time. Just kind of arrived, with no announcements or ceremony or visits or marches. Just sat there, in high orbit, everyone pretending they weren’t there, weren’t watching us. Word was they had brought other ships with them. Dark ships, if you know what I mean. You knew something was coming, alright. 

“Don’t look,” they said. “Just don’t look, and it will be ok.” But we had to look. And we knew it wouldn’t be ok. It would never be ok again. Everyone knew that, but no-one would say it. 

So the day approached, and somehow you knew what day it was going to be, despite no-one ever actually telling you. Somehow, the date just kind of got around, like the flu, passed from person to person without anyone really doing anything. Maybe we just didn’t mention the date at all, and that was how we knew. It was the date no-one would talk about. It was the date no-one would schedule anything for, or meet anyone on. It was the date people wanted to forget before it had even happened. 

And so the holo-networks kept up their diet of plastic happiness and military awe and iron faith in the Emperor, and then the day came. 
I went to work as usual. I remember thinking it was funny; no-one stayed away from the fabrica that day, not one person. Even Tarn Coilette, the guy with the dodgy sus-heart, came in, and just sat at his bench wheezing. No-one wanted to be remembered as having stayed at home that day, as having stayed away from their fellow men. Why did you stay at home? What did you do? Did anyone else join you there? Give us their names? Sign this confession. We all knew that, if the crackdown had been bad before that day, it was going to be ten times worse after, and the people up in those ships I mentioned, they wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. They were famous for it. 

So the fabrica was full, and everyone was working away, and the Supervisors were shouting and joking like it was any other day, although the shouting was a bit quieter and the jokes a bit louder, just like they were doing across the whole city, I guess. And then it happened. 

We were indoors, but even so, we felt it. We all did. I know you did, despite what you say. It was like that feeling you get when you wake up in the middle of the night, and it’s dark and quiet and you’re warm and comfortable and you’re falling back asleep, and then you hear the sound that woke you up in the first place. You hear it properly this time. And you’re not warm or tired any more. And your heart is thumping, even though it’s just a sound, and it probably doesn’t mean anything. It’s probably just the pipes, and the kids are safe in bed. But your heart is still hammering a different beat. That feeling, and we all got it at once, as if we had all been asleep, and we’d all just got a knock on the door at three am. 

We all stopped working, and we went to the tall windows. Not a view I’ll forget. Usually we can just see other fabrica towers crowded around, big, solid, and featureless. Faceless. But not that day. Every window in every one of them was filled with people, workers standing there, just like all of us. Looking at each other, but mostly looking up. 

Light travels slowly in a galaxy this big. Light dawdles, while the ships of the fleets dance from star to star, winking here and there like flashbugs in the night. So we knew what was coming, long before the light got here. Thousands of years before the light got here, if truth be told. And it was a day for telling truth. Cold, horrible truths we’d rather not be told. 

We looked up and saw it in the gloom of the evening sky, almost invisible at first, slowly forming, but getting brighter and brighter, and also somehow darker and darker. A stain, seeping out into the night, one that could never be removed. Seeping into the night? Worse. Seeping into us, too. That feeling? That feeling never went away after that day, it’s still with us all now, an ashen cloak of dread no-one can take off. Even in the brightest daylight we can feel it there, above our heads, watching us. Ever since that day the slow light of an historic horror finally reached our home world. 

The day we saw the Eye of Terror open.

And that was the ultimate test. When we saw the very sky torn apart we all knew it was now. But I knew what I had to do. It was duty. We all stood and watched but we knew it was our duty not to fall down and cry. It was our duty to our families, to the God-Emperor and to ourselves. That is what duty is. But what choice did we have. For we were being watched by the darkest men of the Imperium. They were ready to bring hell to any who forgot his duty.

1039 excluding title.


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## Liliedhe (Apr 29, 2012)

*Rust*

I am a child, staring at a sky of iron grey, while snow falls onto my skin. I am alone, surrounded by rocks, mountains rising to the heavens like towers. I feel lost, alien. I do not belong here, even though I am here. I look into the sky and search for an answer to my existence, but only snow falls, in silence. There is no answer, and I have been forgotten.

I am a young boy, staring at a ceiling painted in garish colours, velvet clothing covering my skin. Around me, humans mingle, talking in hushed voices, their glances touching me like snowflakes, cold and invasive. I hear them, but I do not listen. I follow the ornaments painted unto stone with my eyes, seeing their flaws, where curves and angles are breaking the pattern. They hold no answer to my question, and neither do the men and women around me, with their concerns and plots. Surrounded by living, breathing beings I am still alone. They do not have the answers I crave.

I am a man, and around me is war. I wield a weapon and I kill, with ease. Blood spatters my skin, and my blows rend flesh and bone. Behind me, an army follows, shouting, struggling to keep up with me. They cannot, but they do not matter. Before me, the enemy falls. They look at me with horror, they curse me. And they die. I am beyond them, as I am beyond those who follow me. In battle, I know peace. I feel I am close to the answer to the question of my existence, because battle I know, and weapons are familiar to my hands. But I have no purpose, no reason to fight, and I understand I will not find my answer here, either. And so I lower my sword. The enemy attacks me, but they cannot harm me. Their blows are like snowflakes on my skin. And I am still alone. 

I am a son. I see my father, and my existence is redeemed. He answers my questions and explains. And I understand. I have purpose, and duty, and I was born to fight his wars. He does not need to ask for my help, it is given as it was meant to be. I do not mourn what I leave behind. I can look up to the heavens and see my future beyond them. A sword without purpose is nothing, and a warrior without duty is just a killer. I am more than that. My father has found me and I am no longer alone. 

I am a father. My sons carry my purpose to the stars.

I am a general, and I fight on countless battlefields. I lead armies, and build fortresses. They have no flaws. There is glory to my name, but I do not crave glory. All I want to do is my duty, fulfil my purpose. Surrounded by my sons I stand under alien skies. We carry this war into the future, for none can fight it like we do. I have brothers, and they say it is usual siblings like us have rivalries and are at cross-purposes. We argue, we boast. But we are united in duty. And yet… 

I am a monster. Blood I have shed before. I have killed, in battle and outside. Not like this. I look to bleeding skies and the snow, once white and grey, is red with blood and yellow with grease. Those whose gazes touched me are now buried in the skies. The mountains are no longer stone, but flesh and bone. What I built, I tore down. I see shock on the faces of my sons, and disgust, and anger. It is in me, too, but there is more. I am lost again. My duty, it led me here, my purpose made me do this, for I am made to kill. And yet… I am supposed to be more, and I am not. A warrior with duty is a killer, too. It means nothing, and I have been lying to myself. No war ever meant anything. No war will ever mean anything. I am nothing but a weapon and I will always be alone. 

I am a monster. Before me rise the walls of my father’s fortress. Of my brother’s masterpiece. I will tear them down. This is what I was made for, to destroy. To kill. I no longer ask questions. They have no answers. All I feel is blood and the sting of explosions on my skin; their residue cloaks my armour. I lie to myself again and tell myself I feel satisfaction, gratification. It is not true. I feel nothing. I am like a piece of a complex puzzle finally falling into place and like this piece, I do not know the pattern and do not care. And this is a lie, too. Lies are all I have left. 

I am nothing. I build fortresses and tear them down again. Around me, smoke rises to heavens of blinding white. Stars were a promise but they are gone now. I had something, but I tossed it away. I have forgotten what it was. Or maybe I never knew. I am more than I ever was, and beneath my tread millions are crushed. The puzzle of my existence is as unsolved as ever, the pattern shattered, and no destruction will make it whole again. I have been defeated once, but I can be defeated no longer. I can do whatever I want. I can tear the world asunder. But for what purpose? Gratification? It is empty. Iron within. Iron without. A weapon without purpose is useless. And iron unused will only rust. I had a duty once. It filled a void I had not known existed within me. It was a lie. Now, there is only hatred to fill that void. Of what I fought for, of what I fought against. Of what I was, and what I have become. I look up to an empty sky and feel it burn. Gods whisper in my ears, and war beckons. Lies. Whatever there is around me, whatever I do, it never changes anything. I am lost, and alone. Only one lie ever gave me satisfaction. Only one lie stirred my empty heart. Duty. I tossed it away. I should have known better. In a universe of lies, I failed to choose my own truth. 

Words: 1076 without title


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## Bloody Mary (Nov 6, 2009)

*On the Nature of Duty: A speech delivered by the Chaplain Cadmus Gracchus of the Imperial Fists*

_905 Words_

What is duty? 

Each of you would give me a different answer. This is not a flaw—yet. But ask your sergeants and you shall receive one answer. There is only one true duty for us—to kill for the good of Mankind. Everything else, every other obligation stems from this one duty. 

As Marines, you must live and die by this duty. As Marines, you must and you will take lives of mutants, heretics and xenos. You will be deployed over a thousand and more fronts, and there you will confront all sorts of enemies of Mankind. It will fall to you to protect humanity from them and there is only one way you can do this: to kill.

But do we have not other duties? 

As naïve as this question is, you are permitted to ask yourself this. The answer is yes. You have the duty to keep your gear serviceable and clean. You have the duty to train and better yourself. You have the duty to help your comrades, to support them as brothers. You have the duty to hate the enemies of Mankind.

Yes, you have other duties, but they all serve one greater purpose: you must kill!

Do not assume you are anything more than a weapon. You were taken from your homes, your families for only one singular purpose. Once you became initiates you have cast away all other obligations, goals and dreams. Perhaps, have you not been chosen, you would have lived different lives and served the Emperor and His Imperium differently. For make no mistake—you are serving the Emperor whenever you take a life. This does not make you less, then an Adept, who serves the Emperor in the guise of the Omnissaiah or a governor, who serves Mankind by ruling a planet. It does not make you more than a farmer, who serves by growing his crops or a teacher, who serves by guiding children. Every duty is as important as the other as long as it is united in serving the Emperor’s purpose. Do not forget this. 

Now, that your realize that your duty is as sacred as any other, consider its nature. Consider why it is essential. Each mutant, heretic or xeno you kill, brings humanity close to their rightful place as a masters of the Galaxy. All those aberrations from the holy human form need to be destroyed, for they offend the Emperor and so, they must offend us. We were created by Him for this very reason. We are His chosen soldiers, His weapons against humanity’s many foes. It is His will that guides our hands and our guns. 

The Emperor is our Lord and to Him we swear to uphold our sacred duty. It is for Him and through Him that we learn our purpose and that we fulfill it. He demands that we kill in his name and that of Mankind. It is not our place to question His wisdom.

But is our duty only towards the Emperor? 

No! Our duty is for all of Mankind. We kill to protect them, to avenge them and to free them. We are its weapons, aimed at those who seek to subjugate and destroy us. We take the fight to all corners of the galaxy, to those who turn away from the light of the Emperor and to those that seek to extinguish it. 

Does this mean our duty is a dual one? Does it mean that our duty towards the Emperor can ever contradict our duty towards Mankind?

No! The Emperor is Mankind. His will, His word is what should guide us. It is implicit that what we do for Him, we do for Mankind. To presume otherwise is nothing short of heresy! Do not dare to ever think that there is a duality here!

I have said that you are nothing more but weapons, created for one purpose. That is true. You need to accept it. However, there is another facet of this truth. You are no less than weapons. A man may spend his whole life searching for his purpose, but not you—you know it. There cannot be any place for doubt in you, for you are certain of all that you are.

Follow your duty and do not question it and you will not stray. 

Again, ask yourself what you will answer when asked what duty is. Consider it carefully, and consider carefully what I have said. 

Your duty is your life.

Your duty is to kill.

Your duty is to hate.

Your duty is to protect and serve.

Learn those words. Take them into your hearts and make them the core of your being. In the coming trials, they will be the sustenance for your spirit. They will stave away any doubt, you may have. 

Duty is the light that will guide you in the dark.

When in doubt, ask yourself “What is my duty?” Once you remember this, you will know what needs to be done. 

Duty is what unites us. 

From this moment on, you share your duty with all of other Imperial Fists, even your Chapter Master. We are all guided by the same purpose. When you receive orders, remember that they all stem from this one purpose. Your superiors live by their duty and so should you.

Subjugate your life to duty. Submit. In every action, seek to follow your duty. 

Dismissed.


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Hi*

Hey what happened to all the writers? Hello to all the new ones, but to all you retrains, common and stop slacking. :biggrin:


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## Zinegata (Jan 25, 2012)

Still working on mine. I should be able to finish in time.


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## andygorn (Apr 1, 2011)

RL been getting in the way of stuff this month (goldarnit). Got something which came to mind, but am trying to put in a bit of structure so that it's more coherent (which is what people seem to have been saying about my posts).


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## Zinegata (Jan 25, 2012)

*A Shared Duty (1,097 Words)*

Battle-Brother Felix knew that the end was coming soon.

The Archenemy had achieved complete orbital superiority. Their ground troops had taken most of the planet. The few remaining Imperial defenders had withdrawn to the capital city, only to find themselves surrounded by an enemy force that outnumbered them ten to one.

But Felix continued to do his duty nonetheless. For once, it did not involve using his sword. Instead, Brother-Sergeant Pontius had assigned him to make a show of force in the city's remaining residential districts - hoping to reassure the civilians and preventing the inevitable panic.

"We should not be here," grumbled Brother-Logis Cicero, who Pontius had also assigned to this task, "It is not our duty to protect these people."

Felix chose not to respond, grateful only that Cicero had used the private vox to voice his misgivings. He and Cicero would never see eye to eye on what it truly meant to be an Astartes. Cicero believed that everyone was but a variable in the cold algebra of war. Felix wanted to be something more than that.

Still, the civilians were wary of them. They feared the two giants encased in ceramsteel almost as much as the thundering roar of artillery fire that was coming ever closer. Only one had the courage to speak to either of them.

A young woman stepped in front of Felix, wearing the blood-stained robes of a Medicae. There was little life left in her eyes as she spoke.

"How goes the battle, Space Marine?"

"We are slowly losing ground, but reinforcements are en route," Felix said, choosing his words carefully. What he said was not entirely a lie, but he sought to change the topic of conversation nonetheless, "How is the situation in this district?"

"We know the truth," the Medicae said bluntly, "Survivors have been streaming in from the adjoining districts. They told me how they were killing everyone. They also told me what they do to the women they capture. I... I don't want those monsters to take me alive."

"A reasonable request," Cicero said suddenly, earning Felix's ire. But Cicero ignored his fellow Space Marine and handed something to the Medicae, "This is a powerful grenade. Three second fuse. Just pull the ring hard, and the end should be quick."

Felix balled his hand into a fist, ready to strike Cicero, but stopped as something caught his ears. Though he did not feel fear, he felt an icy chill in his veins as he recognized the sound.

"Enemy aircraft! Incoming!" Felix shouted, just before the world turned white. Felix felt himself flying through the air, before smashing hard into the ground. He almost blacked out.

But Felix was a Space Marine, and every instinct told him that he would not be waking up again if he allowed the darkness to take him. Painfully, he stood up and drew his sword, in time to witness everything turn into hell.

Renegade Valkyrie aircraft were flying low overhead, dropping their bomb loads on the civilian housing and setting it ablaze. Felix could hear the screams of men, women, and children as they were burned alive - and felt his own heart fill with rage. 

But Felix instantly found an opportunity for vengeance. Some of the Valkyries were now dropping troops; to establish an aerial bridgehead to flank the beleaguered Imperial defenders. Felix was about to make sure it would be the last mistake they would ever make in their treacherous little lives.

The next ten minutes of Felix's life would be shrouded in myth and legend. Alone, Felix faced three platoons of elite Harakoni mercenaries and slaughtered them to the last man, without suffering a single scratch in return. 

No one knew exactly how. Cicero did not witness what happened, for he was busy setting a record of his own by shooting down seven Valkyries with his plasma gun in the same time period. Felix himself could not exactly recall what he had done, only that he would never again feel such a blissful execution of righteous fury - and that it was Brother-Logis Cicero who had broken him out of that spell.

"There are more of them coming, Brother!" Cicero shouted, grabbing the battle-maddened Felix, "We must warn command of this air-assault!"

"But the civilians!" Felix shot back, ready to charge forward again as another wave of Valkyries appeared.

"It is not our duty to protect them!" Cicero repeated, "Our duty is to make command aware of this new threat!"

Before Felix could argue, lasfire began to bounce off their armor. It was followed by a grenade launcher round that knocked both Felix and Cicero off their feet. Felix cursed as he spotted a fresh squad of Traitor Harakoni advancing towards them, armed with specialist anti-armor weapons to deal with the two Astartes.

But the Archenemy troops never got to use them. Out of the corner of his eye, Felix saw someone running towards the enemy squad. 

It was the Medicae.

And she was holding Cicero's grenade in her hands.

Before the Harakoni could react, she was amongst them. They shot her, again and again, but by then she had already pulled the pin.

Felix managed to see her face just before she disappeared in a ball of flame. It was full of relief.

"Enough, Felix! Let her sacrifice be not in vain!" Cicero told him, "Command must be warned!"

Felix did not argue with him this time.

===============

Ten hours later, the situation had been completely reversed. The promised reinforcements had, for once, arrived earlier than expected. The Imperium had achieved total orbital supremacy. Massed enemy concentrations were being obliterated using orbital fire. The siege on the capital had been broken.

Yet despite the victory, Felix felt disquiet. He found the time to visit the spot where the Medicae had died, only to realize that someone else had the same idea.

"Why are you here, Brother-Logis?" Felix said as he spotted Cicero, "Have you come to gloat?"

"I stand by what I said," Cicero said defiantly, "It was not our duty to protect any of them."

"Then why are you here?" Felix asked, anger rising in his voice.

"To honor her," Cicero replied reasonably, "For reminding me of a greater duty that we all share."

Felix had not been expecting that answer. In a more conciliatory tone, he asked, "And what duty is that?"

"That we must all protect each other," Cicero said, before turning to face Felix. He offered his hand.

Felix paused only for an instant, before taking a step forward to take it.


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## andygorn (Apr 1, 2011)

Brilliant stories here.
I'm not asking for the 'sympathy vote' here, I'm trying to be realistic and humble:
I think I know what Andy Murray in tennis feels like...trying to do what I do, but in an era of people who are true masters of their craft.

I really hope people here go for the BL competitions...many of the stories on "Heresy" deserve to be published.

Anywho, have tried to think about some 'structure' for this (not sure if it succeeded).
Looking back over these words, I think I was trying to capture the feel of the "duty vs. bleakness" theme that I feel 40K intrinsically has (amongst loads of other wondrous emotions too).

Like almost all of the time, the visions again didn't show me how all of the technology operates, just the basic concepts and certain pieces of it.
I always think that readers are a lot more inventive than I can be about the mechanics of "how stuff works", so please fill in the gaps with your technology of choice.

I am always attempting to improve (to give yourselves a better story to read), so I really would be grateful for anyone's thoughts and impressions/suggestions - AndyG.

*****
*"An Age Ago"* (1004? words, not including title)

In a far corner of the Segmentum spins a world, one of three revolving around a dying red giant star.
Held too deeply in their decreasing gravitational orbits, the planets will begin to fall into their sun within the next eight years.

This used to be a system of importance and a fleet lay at anchor to repel the interests of The Imperium.
However, a Crusade by those invaders had seen an end to all of that.

Overwhelming the defenders en masse, the carcasses of both sides’ ships-of-the-line careened through the thin atmospheres and into the planetary surfaces, carving great gouges through the factories and hive-habs.
With air-recycling almost annihilated and factories in ruins, there was little hope but swift extinction for the survivors.

Despite appearances from the primary planet’s blasted surface, all is not silent, nor is it uninhabited.
Yes, plasma-bombs and melta-lances had scorched away the remainder of it’s atmosphere and wiped out the former advanced civilisation.
Yet the victors nevertheless seeded it for their own purposes.

Fifteen darkened chambers had been laser-gouged within the bowels of the planet.
Safe from irradiation, these rooms are kept at an exact 5 degrees by heat extractors and softly pulsing purple crystals embedded in the crowded walls.
These vie for space amongst the largely silent sentinels of ancient brass machines and cogitation-engines.

The arcane mass of pipes and cables is unknown to nearly all the galaxy, especially to the ones who operate it, for fear of what they might do to it.

Shadows flit across a wall, evidence of the rooms’ sole surviving occupant.
A slight moan accompanies a series of spasmodic twitches, as well as a frenetic scratching sound.
Several vox-units emit more moans...these are now discernible as pain.

If it still had the wit it was born with, it would have known not to write anything at all.
Yet, if it had possessed the faculties of motion and to truly comprehend the words, it would have gone to the surface; facing it’s doom with a mindless, slavering face and an idiot grin at what it had written.

Both hands are cramped into claws due to the repetitive strain and stresses of decades of near-constant writing.
Even severe arthritis would have been some kind of a mercy.

This duty was why the “men-of-brass-and-gears” had taken the young man away decades ago, removing him from the home he grew up in and transplanting him to places unknown.

An age ago.

Built to accommodate a hundred similar scribes, he does not know if the facility has ever been used to it’s full capacity.
Whether this was the case or not, myriad alcoves hold flickering electro-candles which are now his only companions still capable of motion.
Like the man, they use little in the way of energy.
Similarly, they share his fate of showing increasing signs of failure.

Connected by metres of ribbed hosing and wire which pour information directly into his brain, the scribing tools flash back and forth, faithfully recording every last detail for his superiors in a base which is years away.
‘The reports will be sent away.' ‘The station will remain secure.’ That is all he now knows.

Once upon a time, he ran through bright, sun-dappled forests which clamoured to touch cyan skies.
Beneath their soaking wet boughs, his handsome form yearningly kissed women in the rain and they returned such affections with equal intensity.
He harvested honey from the nearby shaded hives, cramming the insects’ succulent produce into his eager maw until the stickiness dripped from his lips.

An age ago.

Now, the stooped half-man can no longer support himself.
He leans against a marbled column which took twelve years to engrave with ‘The-Lists-Of-The-Tasks’ and the names of his colleagues and predecessors.

Now merely a jumble of rusted supports, pins, corroded tubing and cables, his seat-frame lies discarded on the floor around his prone form. Like himself and much of this place, it is a victim of long-term neglect and lack of maintenance.

A spasm and a more strident moan as the glass vial of golden liquid implanted into his neck auto-injects the next dosage; ensuring his span of life for yet another decade.

Nobody comes to see the young man (now an old man).
He was always one for the company of others.
Yet he longed for more...a life of adventure...of worlds lying in wait for him amongst the stars.
Thus, he had thrown himself upon their crimson robes, begging and pleading for the opportunity to use his technical abilities for the betterment of Humanity.

Although his mind was scrubbed clean of most emotions, there is still room for regret.
However, there has not been one day when he wished for any other decision or outcome, so he bears this solitude; a necessary, willing and dutiful sacrifice.

No Techno-Logician visits for servicing.
There might have been a time when they used to arrive..?
Yet he can no longer recall this last occasion.

No servo-installers have delivered new stocks of the parts or products he continually uses to fulfil his role.
His memory has been scourged of selfishness, so such ideas are never in his head for long enough to truly consider.
Nor, seemingly, were these thoughts in the minds of those who sheared him in half because those other parts were “unnecessary to his function”.

The ends of the final rolls of parchment run through the faithful Recorder’s shoulder-mounted armatures. Yet no-one shall be arriving to replace them.
Surrounded by the detritus of old and faltering machinery and his own mess, his hands feebly scrabble for supports which are not there.

Seeing no alternative, he remains where he is.
His own cracked and dried skin is the only surface that he can now reach to write upon.
‘The reports will be sent away.’ ‘The station will remain secure.’ That is all he now knows.

Thus, there is a different kind of scratching of nibs.

New moans of pain become more strident as time passes and as flesh fails to regenerate sufficiently quickly.

Duty continues.


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

Firstly, sorry for not having voted in the May competition.

And secondly:

*Heresy Online Expeditious Stories 12-07: Duty*
*Chains of Command*
*VulkansNodosaurus*
*1073 words*​ 
It slept.

Far below the scars of its nonexistent claws, it dreamt. There was nothing else it did; there was nothing else it could do. Shining argent ripples distorted its form, and any that succeeded in entering its sanctum would see only an unformed phantom- a subtle twist and an echo of unease.

There was nothing else it could do; there was nothing else it would do. It had consented to be bound, consented to dream; for it knew the time would come when it would need to awake. It was safe here- its thoughts alone floated outward, and nothing at all flowed inward save scraps of ghostcode.

There was nothing else it would do; there was nothing else it needed to do. In time past time, time had not deviated once from the glistening path it had paved. In time past time, the future was trapped within acceptable error.

There was nothing else it needed to do; there was nothing else it did. Those that would destroy it for what it still was were incapable of coming here, and unknowing of their impotence, trapped in matters it could not divine from the shards of knowledge that entered its lessened domain.

So it slept.

* * *

Magos Metallurgicus Arken Sabat would, if it was left to him, have been asleep. Unfortunately, Tech-Priests of the Mechanicum didn’t truly sleep, not in the same way that unaugmented humans did. Therefore, his relaxation was rather uncomfortably interrupted by request after emergency request from Tarfox.

_Am I really being nostalgic for who I was?_

Yes. Yes, he was doing precisely that. With a blast of intravenous canj, Sabat entered full awareness and considered the news- the transport vessel’s Gellar fields had malfunctioned, only three point five seconds after he had sabotaged them.

The dream had been a surprise when it came, of course. He had believed- no, belief was for fools, he had known- before, if only due to the distant thunder he often felt while asleep; but to be within that storm, to be saturated through and through with that magnitude… he had worried his mechanical augmentations had removed his capacity to feel awe, until that moment.

But even that awe would not have made him do the necessary without the duty he had to his eonal Order within the Mechanicum. That was him, no matter how often he had had to remind himself of that truth. He had been no one before, and he would be no one again, but everything he had received in life he owed to the Dragon.

“Observation: We’re done,” Tarfox ported from the nearing bridge, “or at least stranded. No way we can leave this region without help.”

“Observation: No way we can leave this region at all,” Sabat responded. It was a lie, but a necessary one. “Order: Tarfox, instruct the ship to crash into the black complex on continent P4.”

* * *

Regg-Was Tarfox thought, for 94.10 milliseconds, that he had finally lost his grip on objective reality. That was too long a period of denial- he expected better from himself.

“Confirmation request: Magos Sabat, you are aware that will destroy us and the ship.”

“Affirmative. Detail: That complex must be eliminated nevertheless.”

“Confirmation request: Mechanicum secret?”

“Affirmative.”

It all made sense, it all fit together; but Tarfox still stood inactive for a long time (perhaps seconds, perhaps minutes). Even a Mechanicum member as junior as himself knew enough to be suspicious of such orders- all too often (though the statistics were classified, once would be too often), Tech-Priests would turn from the Emperor and Omnissiah. In fact, specific instructions said never to follow such decrees without consulting Mars first, which was currently impossible.

“Identity confirmation request.”

Sabat gave the code only he and Tarfox knew, leaving only the dilemma.

He had studied under Sabat for a long time, effectively being his apprentice; this journey to the distant Forge World of Grawin had been their first meeting in a long while, but their relationship had immediately reached its previous summits. Moreover, Tarfox implicitly trusted the magos, even more than most such colleagues.

And the complex was undeniably xeno in origin, and the two of them were the only Tech-Priests on the ship, and he had been told many times that even his potential should be sacrificed without fear if need be.

But friendship could be faked, and mentorship could be subverted. There was only one constant that would determine whether Tarfox would go to an escape pod or to the surface- duty, either duty to his instruction or duty to what were probably the interests of the Imperium.

“_Last Figment of the Metropolis_: Initiate uncontrolled descent for object 1-P4.”

* * *

The _Last Figment of the Metropolis_ absorbed the order and immediately understood it- she simply didn’t know better.

Nevertheless, there was hesitation. The machine-spirit knew she was being interfered with, and though this demand was no artefact of the current gradual breakdown it was still suspicious. A momentary run of the secure portions of the cogitator arrays confirmed the chances of survival for any sentient or machine-spirit occupant of the massive ship were negligible.

She had no desire to be destroyed, and neither did Enginseer Tarfox or Magos Sabat. Yet they would all be sacrificed, for no reason she could discern. She was a powerful enough machine-spirit to consider these things, and she was aware she could disobey the command.

But she would not. She was a ship; she served the Mechanicum, and she had a duty.

“Executing” was all she relayed to Tarfox.

As the _Last Figment_ fell, flames erupted around her and her corpus began to fall apart. She was still intact enough to wonder why Sabat had not chosen to attempt escape (Tarfox was, she knew, needed to guide her), but it was her duty not to bother the humans with such things unless strictly necessary, and she was not going to violate that duty as her last act. Lower down, when the last physical remnants of Magos Sabat and Enginseer Tarfox had utterly burned away, a cross-search had positively identified the black complex as a small Necron base. The _Last Figment_ had no way of telling that these were among the last beings in the galaxy aware of where the Great Shard of Mag’ladroth was hidden, but she would not have cared anyhow.

When she landed and brought apocalypse to the settlement, she did so contently, her duty done.

_Note: Yes, I'm aware this story shares certain thematic similarities with my May submission. I'm actually working on another one, which should be ready soon._


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

And my second entry, a sequel to my HOES 3 entry *Should Be Expected*. In past competitions, one writer could enter multiple stories, but one voter could only vote for one of them; I'm assuming that is still the case. I'm also assuming the best way to post consecutive entries is in separate posts....

*Heresy Online Expeditious Stories 12-07: Duty*
*Is an Annoying Mistress*
*VulkansNodosaurus*
*1072 words*​ 
Being headless was more uncomfortable than Uol had imagined.

After Hafrav had torn off his skull for the third time, the Grandfather had decided to stop granting Uol new heads. The Death Guard was not upset by this- Nurgle knew better than him whether he needed a head or not, and Uol was in any case grateful for having been saved by his god.

Still, the current arrangement had its downsides, mostly in that he was unable to talk. Or eat, for that matter, though he wasn’t yet hungry. Albeit he did have intact hands- perhaps he could stuff something into his esophagus.

But the beautiful taste would be gone. The amazing, sublime taste of M39 Necromundan cafeteria food had disappeared forever. A wave of despair swept over Uol’s psyche: he was no longer able to taste! Smell, hearing, and eyes had been regrown in various unexpected locations only at Nurgle’s infinite mercy. He had failed, they had all failed, and this was but a fraction of the price.

Self-loathing intermixed with despair as Uol considered that his failure was yet another gross violation of his duty to his patron. They fused together completely as the remnants of Uol’s vocal cords gave off an impotent roar, directed not at the traitorous Hafrav (who was still piloting the transport) but inwards at himself.

“Your fury is good,” bashed Hafrav, misunderstanding Uol’s point entirely, “but you will not be accepted into Khorne’s army! You’re too weak. Weak rhymes with orange. Heh.” Weak did, indeed, rhyme with orange in the language of Lower Barbarus- a language the Death Guard learned on induction, but were forbidden to use, which wasn’t stopping Ancient Hafrav from breaking into Lower Barbian poetry. “Alerka bofro ster a garsa e o/ Tas exaol onne a tpa-ake brntko!”

That meant, literally, “Father smokes trash thrown away by little boys/ You are a perfect example of that trash- so be smoked!” It was clear that the Dreadnought was a heretic.

Uol’s chains fell away.

It was utterly unexpected both by Uol and by Hafrav. Perhaps his despair had strengthened the armor acids?

Whatever the reason, it was a mercy to one who didn’t deserve it, and with a mental note to try and deserve any future mercy Uol marched at Hafrav, taking his rust-sword out of its scabbard. The Dreadnought was fast, though- far faster than Uol had ever seen him move-and a single screeching strike of Hafrav’s left power claw skewered the eye in Uol’s chest. His heel-eyes were still functional, but they saw only the ceramite floor.

Blinded, Uol slipped and toppled, grasping Hafrav’s metallic shell on the way down. He tried to yell a curse at the traitor, but only a bubbly gurgle escaped his… respiratory organs. Still, he grappled, moving slowly but methodically in his search for some exposed cables- Uol was no Techmarine, but surely cutting up wires would do _something_ to the heretic?

Finally finding a cluster, Uol swung his blade, neatly severing both the wires and his right middle finger in two.

“NO!” Hafrav screamed. 

Uol grinned- he had, miraculously, done a small portion of his duty.

The Dreadnought grabbed Uol’s left leg with his right power claw, then pulled. The Plague Marine’s grip slipped, and Uol (minus one leg) crashed onto the floor. He observed the skirmish’s outcome both with his body and with his detached left leg, which was dangling from Hafrav’s fly attractor.

Hafrav ran away from the bridge, literally jumping during strides. Large craters were left in his trail. His armored shell was unpainted, except by abundant splotches of blood- Uol’s blood. Two massive cannons of unknown provenance towered above his sarcophagus, and he had torn off his arm-cannon in favor of another power claw whose source, again, Uol had no idea of (had Hafrav raided an Iron Warriors armory while he had been unconscious?).

Meanwhile, a crimson readout on the ship computer counted down. Uol closed his eyes, curled up (as well as he could with only one leg and no head) and decided to fall to sleep.

Wait. A crimson readout?

Slowly (speed was of Tzeentch) and calmly, Uol sat up and recognized something else about Hafrav’s receding form.

There were no cut cables on it.

There were, however, cut cables on the ship control panel.

In the “do not touch” region that Necler had said could trigger the ship’s self-destruct.

_Oops._

Using his arms to roll, Uol moved toward the bridge exit. No matter how big he was, Hafrav would only take one escape pod- the ship had three. But he wasn’t strong enough- he wouldn’t make it in time!

“Hey there.”

Uol noticed that a couch, with two Nurglings lounging on it, had mysteriously materialized.

“You summoned us, eh? Well, I’m Rok’ah and my overfriendly friend here is Aprexaz. Make it quick.”

Aprexas had by this time fallen asleep.

Reghaf had, indeed, summoned daemons before the raid that had revealed Hafrav’s corruption- Uol had assumed the ritual had failed, but perhaps the Nurglings were just late. In any case, after Uol gurgled for several minutes, Rok’ah established a telepathic link.

“That Dreadnought over there-” Uol pointed at Hafrav, who was almost gone from sight- “has betrayed the Legion and the Grandfather. Help me… eh… kill him.”

Rok’ah nodded and began shaking Aprexaz awake, but quickly despaired of ever succeeding. “Look,” he eventually said to Uol, “we’re no match for him anyways. And I don’t like getting crushed by power claws. Basically, I’m leaving. Bye.”

Three things happened at this moment. Firstly, Hafrav- safe in the escape pod by now- finally succeeded in making Uol lose all feeling in his leg. Secondly, the daemonic sofa began to fade out, and Uol instinctively grabbed onto it. Thirdly, the readout reached zero, and the transport began to explode.

By the time the shockwave reached the bridge, though, Uol was in the Warp.

It was , , and .   the  like .

* * *

It crawled out of the hole it had created confused. Where was it? _What_ was it?

If anyone had seen it, they would have answered that it was a monstrosity, a mix of human, mutant, and daemon flesh and armor. But fortunately, no one saw it- not yet.

Memories crept back, but they made no sense to it. Still, as it clambered towards the nearest city, a word crept out of its subconscious.

“Nurgle!” Uol screamed. “Nuuuuurgle!”


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## Dave T Hobbit (Dec 3, 2009)

Let voting commence!


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