# Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories 7: Vengeance



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

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.

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 each 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:

*Vengeance*

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

The deadline for entries is Midnight US Eastern Standard Time (-5.00 hours for you UK folks)*Saturday, 23 July 2011*. Voting will be held from *24 July - 30 July.*

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: The Price of the Past

Adrian: The Girl on the Black Ship

Andygorn: The Means to an End

Stephen_Newman: The Beginning of the End of the Great Game

Taliesin: The Return

Vulkansnodosaurus: Of Mind or Body


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## gothik (May 29, 2010)

_The Price of the Past_


*Word count: 1049*

_The one thing you can be certain off with the Lord Commander is that he is proud and vain, I do not mean that he is vain as in his looks, he is vain about his skill with a blade. I also recalled watching out father favour him and him alone for sword play.

Forget about everything you treasure and everything you remember, every sensation you have experienced. You must have a clear mind for any ***** and he will get it_.

The Brother of the Flawless Hosts 3rd Company known as The Rapture, pondered his masters words as he had recalled them from his memory.

He had located his quarry on the world of _Arthora_, a demon world deep within the _Eye of Terror._ As he stood and watched the fight between what looked like a Black Legionnaire and him. He realised that even now, the Lord Commander was still, even now the most perfect swordsman ever created.

_The Black Legion_ son had all the moves that he had when he was younger but his opponent was faster and cunning. He watched as the outcome was quite unexpected he had killed him, the brother of Abaddon had killed him.

His master and it seemed everyone else were wrong. He could be beaten. He turned away and walked off ready to leave. What he did not see was _the Black Legion _not celebrating their brothers victory, nor did he see the Lord Commanders retinue cheering.

_Appearances can be deceptive with him never forget that. But they are real and dangerous, nothing with him is ever that simple. It never was._

He had some time to kill before his master returned, so that is exactly what he did. He was revelling in excess to its limit, and that was never ending. He took pleasure from whores and boys in equal measure. Smoked everything that would have killed a normal human and tortured a woman to death.

His eyes rolled back as he recalled her screams for mercy. He had taken her apart piece by little piece eaten parts of her but always keeping her alive. He was no animal of Khorne he was more refined as a warrior. Her dying words were lost on him, he had been too over ruled by the excess of emotions and sights that had swirled behind his eyes at each heightened sensation.

He had soon lost his good humour when he saw his quarry walking down the road as if he had not just died. It was the effect of this planet, With a roar of approval and defiance he charged down the street drawing his sword and reading to attack.

At the last minute an arm whipped round and blocked the attack, the sparks flying off the blade as the metal clanged against each other. The brother of the _Flawless Host_ smiled despite himself, this Lord Commander had known he was there....very good.

_He fights with a skill that will make yours look like a novice, You will never have the upper hand with him, all you have to do is knock him down, punch his nose and walk away._ 

He held onto his masters words, wondering if they were spoken with feeling of having been here before. He held his own admirably, every thrust and repost was blocked and parried. He was dimly aware of a circle of people watching, demons, humans and Astartes.

His quarry danced about laughing. He ripped his helmet from his head and roared with delight into the sky, this was perfection, not as perfect as he was but nevertheless this was how a duel should be,. He beckoned the warrior towards him and battle was joined again.

The Brother stared as the Lord Commander watched apparently helplessly, watching the blade slide deep within him.

“What is your name warrior?” The Lord Commander asked.

“Trousan” He growled “My name is Constan Trousan...I have done it, what no other man could”

He waited until the light went from the Astartes eyes and then walked away. 


Aboard the _Scion of Warfare_, the vessel of _the Rapture_. Trousan sat quietly drinking his wine and yet not partaking of the nightly pleasures. He didn't even show the slightest interest in his favourite sport with slaves. He lived for the torture moment when he slowly pushed a hot poker into a slaves anus and driving it upwards.

He had been looking forward to this day ever since _Istvaan III_, ever since the bastard had killed his genetic brother when that pretty boy had conned captain Demeter into slaughtering the loyalists around him.

Trousan sat back, his brother was no longer part of his legion but that butcher had no right taking his life. He started to laugh, a great laugh that boomed around the hall. The rest of the Astartes raised their heads as Trousan stood to his feet and punched the air in delight.

It didn't take long. The very moment Trousan took pleasure in the act that he had committed his fate was sealed. His body began to act on its own accord, twisting from the inside out causing him agony like he had never known before.

At first he revelled in the sensation, believing it to be the pleasure of the Dark Prince, but as soon as one agony ended another would begin. His body seemed to stretch outwards and upwards moulding itself to an unheard order. 

Terrified he glanced in the mirror just across from him to see his hair, his luxurious white mane fall out in clumps faster then he could fire a bolter. Scars began appearing across his handsome face and his own soul began ebbing away, captured by another, remaking his body in the way he wanted. 

As his soul began to shrivel and manifest on what was now the butchers armour screaming in agony for all eternity, he recalled his Lord Commander Jovotch final words.

_Do not under any circumstances take pleasure in his demise._

As _Lucius the Eternal, The Scion of Chemos_ walked once more to the cheers of the Flawless Hosts 3rd Company, Trousan would have eternity to reflect the folly of his actions.


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*The Girl on the Black Ship*

*The Girl on the Black Ship*



The girl’s eyes were bloodshot to the point of looking blood-filled. 

She tried desperately to remember why she was here, what she had done to deserve this. Her mouth had been sewn shut and a rope of deep crimson was tied around her head. It ascended from the bottom of her jaw where it had been sown in, up her face, over her shaven head and back down again to connect to the other end in a sacred knot of warding.

Her small, delicate frame trembled from the cold; the burlap brown smock that gathered around her not enough to stay the cold. The blackness of her cell was total and complete. 

There in the middle of the cell she sat chained to the floor; hands clasped behind her back, tied with crimson cords in looping knots. 

In the crushing darkness she could hear the sound of her heart beating. 

From outside the door of the cell the sounds of other people could be heard moaning, screaming and speaking in random conversations that were both insane and terrifying. Someone was cursing the Emperor.


She wept tears that ran down her face as she tried to speak, to call out for help as the sutures bathed her twelve year old mouth in pain. From somewhere down the hall she could hear hardened voices speaking in low gothic and for a moment her heart leapt with hope. 

She listened as the voices grew louder. She could hear the stamp of their iron-soled boots as they drew nearer and her young heart hoped against hope that someone would find her and save her from this nightmare. 

She tried to scream, but only moans of agony escaped her tethered mouth.

‘I must open the sutures of your mouth in order to feed you.’ The voice hit the girl like a fist to the face and yet it was as soft as silk. Tears began to rush from her eyes anew as desperate fear overwhelmed her.

‘If you speak or scream or even make a sound the officer behind you will put a bullet through your skull and you will be condemned forever to wander the eye of terror, separated from the most Holy Emperor of mankind. You may nod if you understand me.’ The woman said. 

The girl nodded up and down slowly. She felt a gloved hand grab her jaw in a tight grip then the cold steel of a blade slicing through her sutures and gliding against her cracked, parched bloody lips. 

As the woman fed her she could feel her strength returning and with it the memories of a past not so long ago. 

‘You are a psyker. The black ship is where you will live out the remainder of your life unless you can be trained, unless we can find a use for you.’ The woman fed the girl another spoonful of protein mush.

The girl started to ask a question but felt the cold barrel of the shotgun press against her skull. She began to shake with renewed fear as she felt the malice of the man’s thoughts. Her memories were beginning to flow again with images of blood, screams and death.

The fear of the man behind her was enough to jar the memories into action. 

The smell was like that of copper on fire, the blood of her mother, father and brothers boiled within the kettle before them. The townspeople chanted around it and drank of its contents even as they partook of the flesh of her still screaming mother. 

The girl smiled as she remembered how she had taken her vengeance upon the townspeople. She smiled as she opened her eyes for the first time in this dark room and looked into the face of the woman standing before her. 

The woman’s face turned white with fear. Within the girl’s mind she was at home standing in the midst of the townspeople who had butchered her family. The girl’s hatred of them welled up within her breast and into her bones; she began to scream!

All around her the townspeople began to convulse and fall to the ground. One by one their fragile bodies began to pop, the insides trading places with the outside, bones splintering into mushy paste. Eyes popped in their sockets and brains exploded from shattered skulls. 

She had begun to dance as she sloshed around in the contents of the corpses. She twirled and stepped back and forth in their blood, their guts and intestines oozing between her toes, covering her feet and licking her shins. 

Outside people fell on shattered legs and burst into flame, their flesh alighting in synchronized pyres that lit up the night. 

Stepping outside she could see that some of the people still moved, trying to crawl away, fear of the little girl causing them to bray like wounded cattle.

Slowly she walked up to them and screamed into their ears. At the sound of her, their skin melted and their bones were laid bare. She began to laugh at the plight of the townspeople. She leapt through their blood and danced on their bones. She could taste their terror even as they died.

Her vengeance turned to sadness as she remembered her family nailed upon the walls of their home. Slowly, exhausted the girl went back inside.

At the feet of her father the Inquisition had found her. She lay there as if in a trance. At once Inquisitor Gilda Macie understood what had happened and transferred her to the black ship. 

The blackness faded from the girl’s eyes slowly as if a fog dissipated before her. Bound to her chair she could not break free, all she could do is look into the once beautiful face of Inquisitor Gilda Macie.

The officer that had placed the shotgun to her head was now in the corner twisted inside out and covered with blood from where his shattered bones were now exposed. The woman was slumped backwards with not a shred of flesh still upon her torso or face. 

The black ship drifted in the cold blackness of space for three days before a search party braved the confines of the psyker vessel. As the girl opened her eyes they focused upon the twisted soulless eyes of the captain of the Unfailing Eye Chaos Marine chapter.

His voice was like gravel as he turned her face from side to side. ‘What do we have here?’ he asked coldly. He began to laugh until she began to scream.

1,100 words- including title


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## C'Tan Chimera (Aug 16, 2008)

Well, I guess I gotta compensate for the fiasco that was me failing to get my vote in before my vacation by writing an even more extreme story now, huh. Count me in as usual!


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## Stephen_Newman (Jul 14, 2009)

I am back! After finishing that work off I can now write stories again!


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## andygorn (Apr 1, 2011)

Sounds like a good theme, so count me in. Have a germ of an idea, but it'll be a continuation of an existing storyline, dunno if that counts against me though(?).


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Great stories so far, and is it sad that I made up the theme but don't yet have a clue as to what to write about?


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## andygorn (Apr 1, 2011)

*“The Means To An End?”* = 1095 words (I think?).

“Are you _certain_ that there is nothing you want..?” her soft voice whispered into his ear.
“Look down there...they are ripe for the taking; fruits to be plucked in their prime and devoured with as much gusto as a mortal can achieve. Surely you crave for just...such...*delicacies*?”

Beside her, the latest recruit could barely suppress a growl of these very same needs, his sharpened teeth glinting in the pale sunlight as they spied upon their prey.

Though the foe had superior numbers they looked in all directions, fearful of attack but lacking the tactical acumen to see where it would come from. Of course, the answer was ‘everywhere’.

Though unskilled, the enemy had armed themselves from the fallen and were well-equipped with weaponry and armour. In contrast, the attackers wore little more than an occasional shield, warpaint, furs and battle-scars.

Though sturdy, the carts of their forthcoming victims would provide little shelter against the minotaur which had joined them last year.

****
With the flames of the single-sided battle dying down to it’s last embers, a lucky bludgeoning strike smashed into the minotaur’s neck and face, crushing it’s jaw until the impact wound was a red ruin of exposed innerflesh and bone fragments.

Simultaneously, the rusted remains of a halberd hooked into it’s guts, tearing out several spools of innards onto the wagon yoke it straddled.

In reply, the beast screamed out it’s pleasure-pain and lashed out, sending the assailants sprawling into the dirt, huge gashes rent through their torso’s, but also leaving ragged strips of fur hanging from it’s face as the foe’s morning star ripped free.

With no more adversaries to confront and breath now coming in ragged gasps, it watched as the beloved Champion approached and tilted back her head, gulping down the gore that dripped from it’s wounds.

It’s deep brown eyes were full of adoration as her body shuddered with the sweet taste of his dripping vitality.

With a piercing shriek, the bull-headed monstrosity threw back it’s head and spasmed as a spear-point slid out from it’s chest, catching the champion’s porcelain-like cheek; crimson from this additional source flowed briefly, staining the swells in her elaborately-laced tunic.

The weapon-head withdrew silently and the hulking brute gave a final, childlike whimper as it crashed to the ground: the weight of it’s huge corpse finally breaking the wagon into so many worn and beaten timbers.

“That one was too injured to continue and would have slowed us down, a liability we can ill-afford.” the recruit stated, even though most assembled did not require -or deserve- any explanation.

His voice now a soft whisper: “...yet I do not think anyone here would prevent me from the deliciously _oh-so-fleeting_ flavour of assuaged revenge..?” 
Looking around, few met his feral grin:

Thorimund, a crazed follower of Hashut, tried to cast his raving eyes to the ground as best he could, yet they still displayed mania and his skull-headed wand shook with barely-contained eldritch energy.

Heleanor and Coriath –acolyte twins of the realm of Hoeth, now in thrall to greater Gods- were already looting the dead and dying from both sides, eager for yet more trinkets and ritual-items.

The brown-furred leader of the band’s beastmen, Garath, was his equal in strength and cunning, so could have posed a threat.
Instead, the horned once-man merely nodded and licked his thick grey lips in approval of the sentiment, before returning to his remaining four kin.

Esperanza, Rickard and Hekator, refugees from some fight or other, always fought as a trio, their seven sabres bringing down Ogres and Griffons alike and no mortal had been a match for them.
Although they looked away simultaneously, he knew that they already longed for the next defilement of the lands of Man that they had forsaken an age ago.

Lastly, he looked upon his delectable leader –as always, the obedient handmaiden by her side- yet she still held naught but disdain and a cool unflappable calm which he could not fathom.

“Spoken like a true Champion!” she screamed and the warband raised it’s weapons high in praise to the masters they believed in, but could never truly comprehend.

As she passed him, her eyes widened and her honeyed words sank into his being, salving his blood-drenched conscience and drowning what he had once been so long ago: “You did well with Malorex there: just one strike felled even _his_ constitution. Yet I think the greatest treat is yet to come, is it not..?”

Her gentle laugh held neither softness nor humour, enflaming his deepest desire as she continued: “Come now, why the quizzical look when we both know you will save your utmost rage for me...and me *alone*..?

“You have been with us for such a long time; has your mind now withered to such a degree that there is nothing left of it?
"Or perhaps it looks to The Brass Throne for succour?
"If I lay my head down, will you take it as surely as you did The Transmuter’s magician’s last week?
"Or the Elven Princess' the previous month?
"No, you will wait and bide your time...all the while, I will be lounging in plain sight, drinking in your tormented gaze, knowing that such a thing shall never occur.”

“You are _wrong_, My Champion.” came his instant snarled reply, railing against her truths yet -even in this blasted place- he still clung to hope.
“Only two things remain for me now: one is the person you have taken to your side; the other is the belief that our Gods will grant me one last request, even as I anoint the ground with the lifeblood of your enemies.”

Another burst of laughter, this time as harsh and biting as the cruelly chill Northern winds:
“But have you considered _what_ may happen if I should fall in battle to another’s blade? Then They would *cheat* you from your prize!
"Skilled as you are, such as you are, even you may not be able to protect me until your moment comes.

“However, *if* you are dedicated enough -and as _motivated_ as much as you profess- then there _is_ a way and it is _such a little_ ritual.
"One simple step to take, requiring no special effort at all.
"One we can do here and now should you wish?
"*Then* you could protect me until our Gods direct your strikes as you so desperately yearn...what say you?”

Dropping to his knee later, his oaths to Slaanesh issued forth, motivated not by fealty but by the revenge his soul had craved these past five years.


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## arumichic (May 14, 2011)

Hopefully mine's going to turn out pretty funny, but I'm writing this sleepy as I type here, so don't know how successful that will be. Hahaha!
Drannith just had a surgery earlier this morning and I'm freaking tired...and not being smart and writing for HOES right now instead of crashing.


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## Stephen_Newman (Jul 14, 2009)

Here is mine. I have taken a different tack and started merging a world I had been planning for a while with the 40K universe. The story weighs in at 1,039 words excluding the title.

The Beggining of the End of the Great Game

It is the year 45057. After many years of bitter conflict and the Imperium, my last great plan to destroy Chaos, is fading at an ever increasing rate. There were years prior where even I believed that my greatest nemesis could be defeated. First the Emperor and his legions in the 31st millennium followed by the infamous actions of the chapters and their many heroes in the 41st millennium. However these had failed and I needed a new plan to overthrow the worship of chaos. I needed to input the need for the next future generations of future heroes for the masses of the humans to follow.


However the idea then struck me. Rather than rely on humans alone I needed to concoct a plan that would result in an entire galaxy of heroes that would lead a revolution against my hated brothers. But this seemed impossible. After all I had spent millennia plotting using one race so how in this unholy dimension known as the Warp was I going to get more of them not only under my dominion but get them operating all upon the same side? 


Then however it struck me. For a long time I had been conducting the restoration of a prism of great power I could use to further my ultimate goal of defeating those who I need to survive. I care not for my destruction but I plan on making a better galaxy for those who have a right to live in peace.


Using this prism I could channel is power to empower a race like I did so long ago to the Slaan. They were perhaps the closest I had come to banishing the denizens of the warp. However they fell because I put too much power into them and I had sent forth a race that was designed to destroy them as a by-product of the process. I needed to avoid this mistake again.


Even passing my hand over the control surface and the machine controlling the pillar strung up into life. What passed before my was a myriad of colours as the prism slowly revolved and spun into life just as it had so long ago like all that time was just another day in its lifetime.


A new thought struck me and my plan was complete. How could I have been so foolish? I could use the powers of the crystal to empower individuals from every race I planned to use and make a champion out of each race using each colour represented in the crystal to give each one power over nature. There were many different colours that empowered the prism that only a fraction of each would be able to make individuals capable of warp travel and able to permanently banish daemons.


As I thought more about this revelation the more I remembered what each colour represented. There were many. Fire, ice, water, light, dark, psychics, ground, air, grass, creatures, metal, ghost and the regal force. Each of these would be used on one individual from many species but what ones to use? Many sprung to mind. Eldar, Human, Vespid, Kroot, Tau, Slaan, Nichassar, Demiurg and a few others would be the few to benefit. I will need to recruit some from the dark side as well to firm the team. Dark Eldar are easy to manipulate, even in their shadow realm and there are some in the Traitor legions who could be used. The next part would be to link them. The theme would be easy. Like I myself I will choose those who had a burning hatred of chaos, those who wanted vengeance against the powers of the warp. 


The final part would be what else they could be imbued with. I needed to give them more for each power than simply warp travel and fighting lesser minions. I needed to give them intense power and a guided purpose. The purpose I could program into the prism and ensure that only one colour was given to each member so none overlapped. With this purpose I could impose a desire to travel to my greatest shrine where they could find their destiny. I will give the one who receives the regal power the duty to inform the others of their destiny. 


Aha! That has given me an idea as to how to further empower these individuals. With each power come dominion over one particular power. One could control ice whereas another gains control over forces of light. The plan seems perfect and there was certainty in the destruction they would unleash upon my hated brothers.


Enough thought. I walked over to the prism and activated my commands into its sequencing program. The machine hummed and pulsated as it commenced the sequence that would activate my plan. However out the corner of my eye I saw a Fury perched on a ledge to my latest hideout. I had been spotted and it would be moments before the great powers themselves would arrive. The machine continued even as the doors to my hideout began to buckle under intense onslaught. I prepared a simple telemetary spell on myself and the machine, unknown to my brother Tzeentch, so as to escape. Although this would stop the sequence and perhaps halt my latest plan. I waited, giving the machine every second I could to complete its latest task. The door burst through and a great being in bronze armour, wielding a giant axe burst into the chamber, flanked by a score of Greater Daemons.


“I have found him brothers! To me and we shall finish the upstart who wishes to destroy us!” roared Khorne himself.


However with no time left I finished the spell and left him roaring in frustration as I left to find a new outpost in the immaterium. Looking at th prism its primary commands had finished. However only the force of the regal one had been given the desire to roam to my greatest shrine. The others would have to make their own way there.


My name is Malal and I swear I shall have my vengeance on my brother gods and destroy them and their foul servants. I swear my last great gambit shall succeed.


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## gothik (May 29, 2010)

ooooo malal


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## Stephen_Newman (Jul 14, 2009)

I know the presence behind it rapes fluff by describing everything as his pawns but I thought it could be a cool idea.


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## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

Nice stories, folks. I'll try and get mine up soonish.


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## Taliesin (Apr 26, 2011)

*My Humble Contribution*

The Return

He was going to die. He was going to have his heart ripped out and his skull crushed. He was going to have his brains splattered out and his blood spilt. His internal organs would be pulped and his bones shattered. He was going to die in the most agonizing of ways - and die screaming - in this worthless fugging wasteland on this pathetic fugging world, and he was helpless to do anything about it. And if there was one thing that Dimitros Eutherios hated, it was being helpless. Helpless was the unthinking, doctrina-wafer existence of a servitor, or the wretched scrabblings of underhive abhumans, waiting to be target practice for bored Arbites. No sir, Dimitrios Eutherios was having none of that.

Unfortunately “helpless” pretty much summed up the entirety of Dimitros' existence at the moment. Being “enlisted” into the Imperial Guard tended to impose that condition on a person. Okay, so maybe he had deserved it; maybe he had skimmed some tax revenue off the top and used it to buy himself a nicer hab-cell. And maybe he shouldn't have seduced the Planetary Governor's daughter. That was probably a stupid idea. But that didn't stop him hating the fact that here he was – a quite happily-anonymous bureaucrat in the Planetary Tithes section of the Departmentum Administratum who ordinarily wouldn't have known a las-gun from a laser pointer – helplessly clutching at the heavy-stubber held tightly to his chest, lying in the wreckage of his squad's gutted Chimaera armored transport, and waiting for ceramite-armoured death to take him. 

The “pathetic fugging world” in question was glossed “88 Tanstar” in the codices and _mappae stellae_ of the Imperial Cartography Service, and as far as Dimitros knew not even the back-woods yokels who scratched out a living on the arid, nearly-deserted surface had bothered to come up with a more interesting or pronounceable name. Not that he could blame them. As far as Dimitros was concerned, any planet whose atmosphere contained enough sulfide and methane such that every breath – even the ones filtered through respirators – smelled like a rotten fart, should be left for the xenos or blown up. Preferably left for the xenos and _then_ blown up. But some moron had decided to put the main supply dump for the Segmentum Imperial Navy battlefleet here, with millions of tons of supplies, parts, and munitions that, according to briefings that Dimitrios hadn't paid much attention to, must never be destroyed, lest the battlefleet lose the ability to function and the Segmentum's suddenly-isolated planets be cut off and stolen from the God-Emperor's sight. So someone had to guard all that lucre, and – fates be damned – that someone was Guardsman Dimitros Eutherios and the rest of the Scintilla 338th Infantry. Oh yeah, and they should probably be protecting the yokels and fart-breezes too, while they were at it. 

The bright flash and crack of an explosion erupted to his right, showering him with clods of dirt and wreckage. He grimaced and swore violently, spitting the acrid, copper tang of blood off his lips. Crouched behind the gutted tank, he poked the barrel of his weapon over the top of his cover and fired blindly into the air. No cry or whizzing ricochet indicated that he had hit anything, so Dimitros cursed some more. Not that it really mattered, though; he'd seen Commissar Khorvan shoot one of the enemy in the face with his bolt-pistol, and it had just flung its dented helmet away with a burbling snarl and then proceeded to rip the commissar in half.

Dimitros shuddered at the memory, and a little voice in his head resumed totting up all the different ways in which he was going to be killed on this miserable, fart-smelling rock. It had just gotten to “squashed and pulped under the treads of a Land Raider tank...” when with an almighty crash and whine, a massive dark figure soared overhead on wings of flame and landed next to Dimitros, who promptly soiled himself and began whimpering stuttered prayers to the God-Emperor.


“B..blessed be h...Him on Terra, whose l...light guides and protec..._*aurgh*_!”


So died Dimitros Eutherios, impaled on the whirring blades of an ichor-stained chainaxe. His killer gunned the motor, freeing the blade from the guardsman's corpse, and sheathed the weapon; mag-locking it to the thigh-plate of his armor. The armor was a demented parody of what it should have been, what it once was: midnight black and trimmed with gold, the plate shimmered and writhed as if seen through a permanent heat-haze. A multicolored film of warp-mist clung wetly to the armor in places, like slicks of oil on rockcrete pavement. Skulls and other grisly trophies hung from the giant pauldrons on clanking, blood-stained chains. Dread runes were carved and burnt into the ceramite, and blood-flecked spittle drooled from the mouth-grille of its helmet. A smoking and sputtering jump-pack clung to the back of the giant's armor, nozzles flaring out to either side like wings. The overall effect was of some hulking, demented, demonic bird of prey. 

In another time and in another place this warrior would have been one of the God-Emperor's angels of death, a living demigod of the Adeptus Astartes. But where Astartes were angels, warrior-saints, heroes and guardians, this warrior was a devil, a demon, a slavering avatar of pain and the worst nightmares of men. It stood, identical in form and function to the Astartes – indeed, it had once proudly counted itself among their ranks – but jealousy, rage, and pride had left it corrupted and debased, turned against its former masters and living only for slaughter, death, and destruction wreaked in the name of terrible gods. 

For ten thousand years it and its brothers had battered against the gates of the Imperium, kept at bay only through the sacrifice of billions of lives in service to the Golden Throne. For ten thousand years it had vented its anger at the empire that had slain its gene-father and so many of its brothers at the very gates of the Imperial Palace on Holy Terra. For ten thousand years it had known only pain and suffering and rage. But now, finally, it was time. Now, finally, it would wreak its terrible vengeance across the stars and tear down the diseased edifice that had betrayed it. Desperation, pain, and pride ripped through the pungent air of 88 Tanstar, as the traitor Astartes tipped back its head and roared: 


_“THE BLACK LEGION IS RETURNED! DEATH TO THE FALSE EMPEROR!”_




**




Word Count: 1099
[edited for formatting: 7/13, 14:17 local time -- edited for typos: 7/13, 14:20 local time]


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

And a-bump, let's go all, 5 more days to write!


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## scscofield (May 23, 2011)

Hmmm what if my knowledge of fluff lacks...


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Some people are nit-picky when it comes to fluff, others are not. So throw the dice and hope that any glaring inaccuracies are ignored due to the story being awesome or simply missed since others may not be that great with the fluff either :biggrin:


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## Stephen_Newman (Jul 14, 2009)

It might be necessary to note that I will be unable to vote because I am on holiday for the voting days. I will send a PM to BOC of my choices purely based on what has been written so far.


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## arumichic (May 14, 2011)

I have writer's block!!!!! I started writing and midway through, I kind of changed it...and now I can't write and there's so much other stuff to do! Hopefully I'll make the deadline.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Stephen_Newman said:


> It might be necessary to note that I will be unable to vote because I am on holiday for the voting days. I will send a PM to BOC of my choices purely based on what has been written so far.


PM received and you're good, I'll post up Stephen_Newman's votes once I open up the appropriate thread.


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

I've been distracted recently, so this is later than usual for me.

*Heresy Online Expeditious Stories 7
VulkansNodosaurus
1048 words
Of Mind or Body*​
There were those who would criticize Vyx for his decision, but none of them were aboard the ship. The Space Marine sergeant looked down at the broken assassin before him and brought the blade down.

"I can tell you-"

"You can tell me nothing. Your weakness renders you worthless."

The power sword rammed through the convoluted, black-clad body. The assassin convulsed twice, then was still.

* * *

"This event is incredibly odd."

"Kablar," Vyx noted, "I know that."

"A rogue assassin hired to take down a Space Marine does not utterly fail like this. It would be extraordinary stupidity by whoever hired her if that was the case."

Vyx shrugged. "She was weak, so she died."

"I do not know for certain, but it is clear this is some sort of trap. The assassin's body disappeared, no?"

"It matters little."

"Or not at all. But something is strange. Let hatred be your blade. Dark plots are spreading, on Ipsil and here. Be vigilant, Sergeant, and never falter."

The Iron Father stood up and departed the room, leaving Vyx alone with his thoughts. These were quickly interrupted with the arrival of Squad Lukr.

"Brother-Sergeant?"

"Yes, Brother Apilun?"

"The drop-pods are readied."

"You have read the orders, I assume."

"Of course."

"And I assume you have no opposition to the Brother-Captain's plan?"

Apilun said nothing; Hasit spoke instead. "Of course, though it is odd that Iron Father Kablar made the decision and not the Captain."

"Politics does not concern us, and if the Iron Father believed there was a threat to the ship, then it is better we should remain. If, of course, Kablar is simply jealous of me taking that Warboss' head on Jilop"- here a few Squad members let out a chuckle- "well, that's his own fault."

And, of course, there was a threat. Rogue Assassins did not come after Astartes without a reason.

"Everyone but Hasit and Apilun, to training. Hasit and Apilun, follow me. It's been some time since I've inspected this ship."

The Tacticals followed orders, and soon three Astartes were walking along the gleaming halls of the _Metallic Head_. It was quite as expected; Systems showed all of the weaponry was in perfect working order, and no anomalies could be seen.

The exception was the drop-pods, which stubbornly refused to be seen by the ship they were descending from.

It was Hasit who asked the obvious: "What's with the Machine-spirit?"

Like all obvious questions, it lacked an obvious answer.

A couple of emergency procedures later, the screen continued to be blank. Moreover, the planet of Ipsil had disappeared from view, even if it was still very visible optically.

"It's as the Iron Father said" Vyx concluded.

"What did he claim?"

"Evil will lurk in the corners."

The three Astartes came to realization a few moments after.

"Someone on the ship."

"A serf?"

"The assassin!" Vyx exploded with delight at having solved that issue. "She was never an assassin at all, just an unfortunate serf."

"What assassin?"

"That doesn't matter."

Vyx whirred his left, bionic hand upwards.

"Separate. Search out the hallways for whoever started this. Alert the rest of the Squad as well. I'll find the Iron Father- he should know how to cleanse the machine-spirit."

Besides pointing in the search's direction, the hand changed the Sergeant's armor to battle state.

The Astartes rushed off, and Vyx purposefully strode towards the Iron Father's workspace. The hallways passed slowly, crawling with their endless cleanliness.

As Vyx watched in horror, Hasit's symbol on his display faded to red. As the Sergeant sped his step, the ship rocked. Eight symbols went to red in a blink, eight members of his Squad in the explosion's center.

Now running, Vyx faced the closed double doors of Kablar's sanctum. A couple of quick pushes did nothing, but before Vyx could smash through the door entirely, the Iron Father put a hand on his shoulder.

"Kablar!"

"Vyx. I shouldn't be telling you this, but it feels much better!"

The Sergeant stood in incredulity for a moment. "What?"

"This is done. The _Metallic Head_ will explode soon, and I don't need to inform you as to why."

"Can we stop it?"

"Can't you see, Vyx? This is punishment. Punishment for your weakness on Jilop."

"You did this."

"Indeed."

Vyx' sword clashed with the Iron Father's mace.

"You were dishonorable on Jilop! You had failed, and only in the end, when you almost died, did you land the final strike. I would have finished him off easily!"

"And yet I won- and you failed your oath! It was you who were weak!"

The second collision.

"You won despite weakness. A true Son of Medusa knows: the weak soon fall! This is more than accelerating the inevitable, though! This is vengeance! Vengeance for a weakling!"

"Your betrayal will be remembered, Kablar. I will remember it."

The third, and last, meeting of blades.

Kablar continued with a flurry of attacks. Vyx was pushed back, and at last a blow landed, throwing the Sergeant into a column.

"See? Pathetic."

Kablar advanced, mace held high for the final blow. A step at a time, the Iron Father cut the distance to the shattered architecture.

Then, as Kablar swept his mace in the direction of Vyx' face, the elder Son of Medusa found found his arm cut off.

"Too slow."

The green-armored arm fell, leaving Kablar stunned. He died stunned, too, the head coming off quickly.

Blood splattered the floor, but Vyx was already on the move.

"Remember," he said to the corpse, "surprise is not weakness."

* * *

Apilun looked at his sergeant, still not truly believing what Vyx had said.

"All of them?"

"I have failed today, yes, and failed massively. But let us reminisce later. Hasit still breathes. Kablar made an escape pod for himself, so he's there; perhaps he knows more about why this happened. Come on, let's run. The ship is about to explode."

"But," Apilun inquired at high speed, "why did he do this?"

"Who knows? It is better not to delve too deeply into the motivation of traitors. It was for Jilop; Kablar called it revenge. I call it jealousy."

And then, as the escape pod at last separated from the _Metallic Head_, Vyx shook his head.

"But it was, without a doubt, a weakness."


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Okay, thus ends the 7th HOES, voting thread will be up soon!


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