# Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories 13-04: Competition



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

*Welcome to the year's fourth*









​
For those of you that are unfamiliar with HOES, here's how it works:

Each month, there will be a thread posted in the Original Works forum for that month's HOES competition. For those of you interested in entering, read the entry requirements, write a story that fits the chosen theme and post it as a reply to the competition thread by the deadline given. Each and every member of Heresy Online is more than welcome to compete, whether your entry is your first post or your thousandth. We welcome everyone to join the family of the Fan Fiction Forum.

Once the deadline has passed, a separate voting thread will be posted, where the readers and writers can post their votes for the top three stories. Points will be awarded (3 points for 1st, 2 for 2nd, and 1 for 3rd) for each vote cast, totalled at the closure of the voting window, and a winner will be announced. The winner will have his/her story added to the Winning HOES thread and be awarded the Lexicanum's Crest award for Fiction excellence!

*Theme
*
The idea with the theme is that it should serve as the inspiration for your stories rather than a constraint. While creative thinking is most certainly encouraged, the theme should still be relevant to your finished story. The chosen theme can be applied within the WH40K, WHF, HH, and even your own completely original works (though keep in mind, this IS a Warhammer forum) but there will be no bias as to which setting is used for your story.

As far as the theme goes, please feel free with future competitions to contact me with your ideas/proposals, especially given that my creative juices may flow a bit differently than yours. All I ask is that you PM me your ideas rather than posting them into the official competition entry/voting threads to keep posts there relevant to the current competition.

*Word Count*

*The official word count for this competition will be 1,000 words. There will be a 10% allowance in this limit, essentially giving you a 900-1,100 word range with which to tell your tale.* *This is non-negotiable.* This is an Expeditious Story competition, not an Epic Story nor an Infinitesimal Story competition. If you are going to go over or under the 900-1,100 word limit, you need to rework your story. It is not fair to the other entrants if one does not abide by the rules. If you cannot, feel free to PM me with what you have and I'll give suggestions or ideas as to how to broaden or shorten your story.

Each entry must have a word count posted with it. Expect a reasonably cordial PM from me (and likely some responses in the competition thread) if you fail to adhere to this rule. The word count can be annotated either at the beginning or ending of your story, and does not need to include your title.

Without further ado...

The theme for this month's competition is:

*Competition*

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, April 23, 2013. Voting will be held from 24 - 30 April.* Remember, getting your story submitted on April 2nd will be just as considered by others as one submitted on April 23rd! Take as much time as you need to work on your piece! *As a change from previous challenges, any entries submitted past the deadline will not be considered in the competition, regardless of whether the voting thread is posted or not.*

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

Participation - 1 reputation points, everyone will receive this
3rd place - 2 reputation points
2nd place - 3 reputation points
1st place - 4 reputation points and Lexicanum's Crest

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*

Firemahlazer - Inter-Connected

Calistrasza - Survival of the Fittest

Sangus Bane - Catacombs

Farseer Ulthris - A Peculiar Debate

jonileth - To Please...

Romero's Own - From the Darkness

NoPoet - Flight of the Fireblade

Bloody Mary - In the Line of Duty

Liliedhe - Fuses

Andygorn - Closest Thoughts​


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## Myen'Tal (Sep 4, 2009)

Had some free time today, so why not go ahead and start this thing off:grin:!

EDIT: Made a small edit, for some reason one of the sentences in my beginning paragraph got cut off. It's fixed now.


_Inter-Connected_

_“I am bedazzled by your true nature, underneath the web of lies and deceit, who are you? What lies past the anguish and despair you show so subtly? I know it’s a tranquil heart. _​
The skies above the baleful wastes of Urejedia were a dab of crimson fused with the elegant, star littered blackness of night. The chill of the night bit at her through the body glove as she sped through the skies on her Reaver Jetbike. She was leagues above the surface, darting past great canyons and deep valleys of deep red soil that stretched on towards the horizon until the earth and sky touched and became one. 

Myr’ai glanced down upon the Exodite planet, locating and noting each and every one of the hundred pockets of civilization scattered across precious Urejedia. Some were great cities, hubs established by the Craftworlds in pursuit of dream that one day the surface would be teeming with Eldar. The idea had attracted her kin from every corner of the galaxy, not to enslave the planet, but to join the bright future that had been constructed for it. 

The engines of her anti-gravitation bike screamed throughout an otherwise silent night, howling to all of Urejedia’s moons like a wolf calling out to his pack. The rapidly moving clouds were so close, she was practically skimming them as she rode further into the distance with her companion. 

Nelu’nas was proudly flying the skies by her side, leaving a trail of blue exhaust in his wake as his Craftworlder bike blazed through the wintery chill of the night to keep up with her. He swiftly passed her in a showy display of skill, looping around her once before shooting up into clouds themselves. He did not come back down. 

A knowing smile crossed her lips, though invisible beneath her helm and she took up the challenge. Myr’ai accelerated her speed to the point that she considered break neck and steered the mighty jetbike upward into the clouds. A strange mist surrounded and blinded her and yet she seemed unfazed, parting the very fabric of skies themselves as she eventually sky-rocketed into the atmosphere above rain, thunder, and lightning. 

For an incredibly brief moment, Nelu’nas appeared as if he was traveling toward anyone of the four discolored moons overlooking Urejedia. He arrived back closer towards the earth, finished making a trail that looked very similar to a rune known mainly as “Free Wind” with his exhaust. Myr’ai piloted her bike to veer sideways, coming in hard to make a rune of her own while Nelu’nas circled back around to meet her. She weaved her bike further up into the sky and back down again, sweeping from left to right, forging her own symbol in the night sky.

“To be free is an elegant sin?” Nelu’nas sounded confused as he came up beside her. The pair of jetbikes slowed until they were sitting in the midst of the air on anti-grav engines. 

“Your kin only know the Path and all of its ways and we, we Dark Eldar are not free as well, so long as the great Tyrant remains to command us. So I thought it fitting.” 

“Having trouble breathing yet?” Nelu’nas laughed beneath his helmet.

“Only a little, let’s head back down.” Myr’ai kicked her vehicle into gear and quickly began descending back down towards the surface. Nelu’nas followed in her wake. 

The pair of Eldar swept down through the air, following an invisible trail leading back towards Eyesidia: one of the major colonies on the Exodite planet. They were soon weaving through tall sky scrapers with great domes at the very top of them. Some held massive palaces while others were simply great complexes or terra-formed bio-domes; they were only the very tip of the massive settlement that laid beneath. 

Eyesidia was alight in a rainbow of magnificent colors and congested with a steady stream of air traffic. Normal Sky Runners skimmed through the air in between great columns of much larger vehicles intersecting at certain intervals above the city in multiple layers. All below the massive space faring vessels of the Craftworld armada ascending or descending to and from the city’s star ports, probably ferrying people from the dockyards above the Urejedia’s atmosphere.

Myr’ai and Nelu’nas passed a group of wild riders who dashed by at incredible speeds, another race above the empty alleys of the Eldar colony. They shared a laugh together as they came down to a landing pad and gently parked their bikes beside a group of empty Sky Runners. 

“Home at last! I don’t think there’s an experience in the entire universe that could bring such joy as riding into clouds, never coming back down until you see fit. Until you wish to see things that have been in front of you all the time.” Nelu’nas ripped his helm off and dismounted, he seemed so untied to everything that made Craftworlders so stiff and unpleasant to be around in his bright red suit of mesh. 

“Hmmm, are you talking about me?” Myr’ai lifted her helm off her head, letting long curly hair the color of blood spill across either of her shoulders. Her pallid skin around her face was marked with several tattoos that spoke of her allegiance to the Cult of Blinded Blades. Some of them spoke of her many kills and successful career in the arenas of Commorragh, it did not seem to bother her strange and cheery companion. 

“And what if I was, hmmm?” The Shining Spear pilot slowly approached her, proving not so intimidated by her cruel eyes and scowl. 

“Let us go out into the city tonight, I’m starving for a drink.” Her look of pure evil slowly melted away into a warm smile, she playfully punched the Aspect Warrior on the shoulder and began walking off toward the large apartment complex awaiting their return. 

He lagged somewhat behind her, staring off into the endless civilization surrounding them. 

“Yes, until you wish to see things that have been in front of you all the time.”

Word Count: 1,014 Words


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## Calistrasza (Mar 11, 2013)

I'll throw my hat in the ring here. Good luck to all! This is 1087 words according to the counter in MS Office. 

----
Survival of the Fittest​
In truth, Brother-Apothecary Narel of the Deathwatch had great respect for their prey. Where the others of the kill-team scoffed and prayed as the foe was mowed down, Narel often examined the creatures they slew- and so often was impressed beyond measure.

He had been impressed when on the frozen wastes of Lycinth the tyranid swarms menacing the refineries and huge harvester-landships had evolved thick furred coats and blubbery outer layering, others simply adapting to the conditions by allowing themselves to freeze solid.

He had been impressed again on the Horizon of Knives, a great and terrible hulk. The creatures aboard had been thin and grotesque, made to squeeze down narrow access ways with all their fangs and claws to the front, powerful leaping legs and thick mantles of armor.

And now he was singularly impressed by what they were hunting today- and he hadn‘t even seen the creature yet. The reports from the Guard had been enough.

[Auspex is clean. Leading combat squad is moving forward.]

The kill-team was varied, as always, the forward team a pair of veteran Sternguard, scouting the dense urban environment. Long ago the planet had been a hive world- until nature had flowed up over the hives and taken over nearly overnight. Grass poked up through the rent asphalt, trees decorated the buildings. If the death toll hadn’t been so catastrophic, it would’ve been starkly beautiful. The marines had small clusters of algae and moss on their armor just from the day’s exposure. 

“Following team is pursuing, maintain spacing,” the captain said- the man was stern and pious, the very model of a Salamander. Narel had watched the man’s combi-melta go right through a Warrior organism on Lycinth. In addition to the captain and Narel, there were two others- Fisken, a Howling Gryphons veteran who carried his own late captain’s power sword into battle, and Wyre, who sported the team’s heavy bolter. 

[Getting something on auspex,] one of the leading marines said. The four trailing soldiers stopped- Wyre resting the heavy bolter on his thigh, looking around for targets. The wind blew gently through the empty street, passing overgrown ground cars and past deserted storefronts with bits of glass still poking through the dirt and weeds.

“Do you have a visual?”

[Negative. Patching it to your auspex.]

Narel looked down at his own auspex device- suddenly relaying the unknown contact, a bright red skull amid the chaotic ruins.

[Movement. Leading element going silent.]

The little red skull twitched, then disappeared. 

“Ready weapons,” the captain growled, “Move up.”

The four marines stomped over the asphalt and debris, entering a large warehouse with Munitorum crates stacked ten high in places. More greenery decorated the crushed ceiling, the spaces letting in streamers of light. A large, two-foot wide grate was set every ten feet on the floor to drain water- now choked with soggy moss and mushrooms.

“The guard said we can’t trust the vox,” Fisken said rather suspiciously. 

“The guard also said that their harvester-ships could outrun a swarm in Lycinth’s winter,” Wyre replied dismissively.

“Quiet,” the captain demanded, raising a hand to stop them in a small loading area. A pallet mover was sticking from beneath the roots of a tree, some vines wrapped around it’s forks, “Do you hear that?” 

Narel cocked his head, boosting his helmet’s audio. As if from a great distance, he could glean a faint dripping noise. There was a sudden clang that made them all start.

“Lead element,” the captain said, “Break vox silence, what do you see?”

[Negative,] the lead element responded with a hiss, [Silent.]

Fisken tightened his grip on the old power blade in his hand, looking around. The crates creaked in the wind, worn metal complaining as it was stressed by the weight of the crates and plant life above. 

“Lead element, you will tell me what you see,” the captain snarled, much more sternly.

[Auspex is clean.]

“Captain, there’s _nothing_ on the auspex,” Fisken said suddenly. Narel looked at his own again, heart slightly catching in his throat- no red skull- and no indicators for the leading team.

The captain clicked his teeth, “Move forward. Reestablish contact with the leading element. For the Emperor, brothers, advance.”

As the Deathwatch moved forward, Narel turned to glance behind them, bolter held at a lazy ready position. Wyre followed his line of sight, the fat barrel of the heavy bolter tracking as the marine stepped backwards. The ammo feed clinked quietly. The apothecary only turned around when Fisken began to scream. A long bleat of bolter fire tore up the decking where the captain had been standing, just as the marine had set his foot on the grate- and then he had been gone, a loud clanging noise echoing down the drains beneath their feet. The trio condensed, looking around- the grates covered the floor. 

“That was it- the target, the xenos,” Fisken stammered, slapping a magazine into his weapon- and then Wyre suddenly lurched backwards, the heavy bolter spitting and blowing huge chunks out of the ceiling and wall as a creature burst from the decking, disemboweling the marine with a single swing of scythe-like claws. It’s carapace was drenched in gore and muck, moss and mushrooms clinging to chitinous armor plates. 

Fisken stepped over Wyre’s body as Narel aimed his weapon- stopping as the Howling Gryphon got in the way. The marine screamed out a battle cry- and then hesitated.

“Do you have a visual?” the captain’s voice asked as the creature‘s vocal cords abruptly shortened and lengthened- visible through the somewhat thin hide of it‘s throat, “You will tell me what you see.”

“What?” Fisken asked the creature. The ancient power sword clattered to the decking as the tyranid swept forward, taking his arm off. The marine howled and put a bolter shot through the thing’s midsection and it let out a bloodcurdling screech as Narel did the same, firing on fully automatic. It killed Fisken a moment later by taking off his other arm as he struggled to aim, then latching huge jaws onto the man’s helmet and crushing it into a pulpy mass of ceramite and gore.

And then Narel understood- he’d been the only one to ever be impressed by the terrible things they had seen, the things they’d killed. It wasn’t malice that drove this being- even as it reached for him with enormous claws and bloodstained fangs, illuminated by the last shots of the Apothecary’s bolter. It was merely competition among predators- survival of the fittest.


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## Dave T Hobbit (Dec 3, 2009)

Did anyone else need to look at the title again to make sure that Competition was the topic and not just a description?

Also, two entries on day one? Impressive dedication to writing.


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## Sangus Bane (Jun 17, 2009)

Dave T Hobbit said:


> Did anyone else need to look at the title again to make sure that Competition was the topic and not just a description?


Nope...

I'll be writing something for this one for sure, perhaps something more worthy than last month...


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## Liliedhe (Apr 29, 2012)

Dave T Hobbit said:


> Did anyone else need to look at the title again to make sure that Competition was the topic and not just a description?
> 
> Also, two entries on day one? Impressive dedication to writing.


Yeah, I had to check thrice, too. :grin:


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Dave T Hobbit said:


> Did anyone else need to look at the title again to make sure that Competition was the topic and not just a description?


I am truly a fiend


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## Sangus Bane (Jun 17, 2009)

*Catacombs:* (1062 words)

It wasn’t the first time he was to accompany his master to a duel, but it was by far the first time he was to accompany his master to a duel with the grandeur of this one, a gladiatorial feast seen only once in a human lifetime. 

Marnix Tirratus was a servant in the Liberine Saints chapter of Space Marines, a chapter known for their elegant ways with a sword.

‘’Marnix, pay attention.’’ His master spoke to him.
‘’I apologize, my liege.’’ Marnix replied, bowing his head as he tried to suppress a shiver that made its way down his back.

Marnix accompanied his master, carrying his master’s left sword, a great honor which had befallen upon Marnix.

The right sword was carried by Tessa, his companion and fellow servant. 
Tessa didn’t speak, she wasn’t able to.

Once she had spoken up to an officer in the Imperial Guard, the officer had raised his pistol at her as a means of intimidation, trying to get the young woman to behave. The weapon accidentally fired though, and Tessa’s voice box had been damaged beyond repair.

She had no trouble communicating however, and her hands were often used to relay her thoughts, though never again towards an officer…

‘’Adrian, it is good to see you my friend.’’ Marnix’ master bellowed at the sight of his long time companion with a smile on his face.

‘’Likewise, brother.’’ Captain Adrian Vyper of the Space Angels III Company replied, returning the smile.

Marnix and Tessa bowed their heads once more, awaiting their master’s command to hand him his weapons.

‘’So it is true?’’ Captain Vyper asked, removing his crimson cloak and handing it to one of his servants.

‘’Aye, we are to clash swords.’’ His master replied.
‘’Expect no quarter from me, brother.’’ Captain Vyper joked. ‘’For I am certain not to be given any by you.’’

‘’I expected nothing less of you, Adrian.’’ 

‘’Marnix, Tessa.’’ His master addressed the servants. ‘’My swords.’’ 

Marnix and Tessa each offered him a sheathed sword, the hilt of each blade extended towards the warrior clad in white ceramite.

His master grabbed each hilt and unsheathed the swords, revealing their silver, curved blades and the golden thorn bush patterns engraved upon the blades.

He spun the blades in hands, feeling their weight before gripping them securely and activating the force fields, encasing the swords in a bluish light.

Marnix was amazed at his master’s skill with a sword, but when he displayed his true skill it was met with nothing but awe.

The swords started spinning in his master’s hands once more, nearly stripping the paint of his armour and cutting through the cloth that hang from his abdomen.

Yet he was in full control as the swords passed behind him and he spun on his heel, the swords passing between the arm that wielded them and the torso the arms were secured to.

‘’An impressive display.’’ Captain Vyper remarked. ‘’But I will only be truly impressed if you manage to best me, brother.’’

‘’Shall we then?’’ His master replied as the swords came to rest beside him, his grip firm on their crimson, leather hilts. 

‘’Best of luck, my lord.’’ Marnix said as he stepped back, a sword’s sheath still held in both his hands.

His master entered the fighting grounds through a large, marble arch and raised his arms as a crowd cheered for him and chanted his name.

Marnix could not see the ensuing battle, but the sounds of meeting swords and armour in combination with the sounds of the crowd gave him an impression of the battle.

His master was struggling, he could tell by the unmistakable sound of a sword meeting a shield, and his master carried no shield.
But perhaps it was for the better, it meant he was on the offensive, able to strike at his opponent.

Right now there was no real way of knowing.

For over twenty minutes there was the sound of fighting and the crowds response to the display of martial skill before them, yet the fight went on each time the crowd seemed certain blood had been drawn.

Suddenly there was a grunt of pain and the crowd was silent in awe. There was no cheering, no chanting, no applause.

He heard heavy ceramite boots come his way and he dared to raise his head as the two space marines came back into the catacombs. 

Blood stained both their faces and their armours both had marks of sword cuts and dents in them.

‘’A shame.’’ His master said, his voice not allowing for any doubt in the duel’s result.

‘’Aye, though, sadly, there could have been only one victor today, friend.’’ Captain Vyper replied as he handed his shield to a pair of servants, their joint strength barely enough to raise the shield.

‘’Perhaps in another hundred years.’’ His master said as Marnix and Tessa each raised a sheath so their master could sheath his swords.

When he turned to face them Marnix saw proof of the duel’s result, a large cut in his left flank, blood trailing down the side of his white ceramite armour.

‘’More than enough time to train.’’ Captain Vyper said. ‘’Will you stay, watch the other matches?’’

‘’Alas not, brother.’’ His master replied. ‘’My captain was quite clear in stating that I was to return home as soon as possible, a campaign awaits us.’’

‘’I understand.’’ Captain Vyper said as the two warriors embraced. ‘’Best of luck then, and perhaps I will see you here again, in a hundred years.’’

‘’Perhaps.’’ His master replied. ‘’Though I hope we will fight side by side before that day, brother.’’

‘’As do I.’’ Captain Vyper said as he re-secured his cloak to his shoulders.
‘’Until then.’’ His master replied, turning away to exit the catacombs, this time through an arch that led them to the landing pads where several craft awaited the warriors that partook in this championship, ready to bring them back to their ships.

Marnix was saddened by the fact his master didn’t win the duel, but there would be others, both on the field of war and in arena’s such as the one he was standing in, and one day, long after Marnix had died, his master would conquer this very same arena, of that he was certain.
Today’s tournament however, was over.


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## Farseer Ulthris (Sep 6, 2008)

A Peculiar Debate​
Smoke blotted out the blood red sky above Syrenio IV, a planet declared ripe for the slaughter. For Akem'Heka it was the perfect place to to test his newest discoveries, to Sunder flesh, to reduce mighty tanks to nothingness, to turn a proud loyalist worm into a muling wretch. Indeed the weaklings were too busy pelting the Sorcerer's unholy ceramite, too late delay the inevitable. The Thousand Son's golden eyes picked out one who stood out , a Commissar, no doubt to enforce the Corpse-Emperor's will. Akem'Heka's hand balled into a fist, flames of coruscating Warp energy lapped around it and lightning crackled from his force staff. As he reached out his ensorcelled hand, the Commissar began to convulse. Blood streamed from his features, immense weeping pustules manifested in the human's flesh...the same appeared on the men he was assigned to. They then fell to the rubble-strewn ground, their now rotten flesh ruptured, like victim's of the life-eater virus.

Akem'Heka snarled, that was his kill to make. A voice, coming from a throat caked in phlegm,echoed within his mind, _feeling the decay of time Tzeentchian?_As it finished it's sentence, the voice's owner emerged from veil of decaying gasses emerging from the slain guardsmen...or rather the mulch they had become. Power armour, once a resplendent light green, was now a rotted bronze, pustules and pale bloated flesh manifested within the ruined parts of the armour. The Nurgle Sorcerer's helmet was encased within the flayed faces of those who dare insult his patron.

Setting aside his outrage, Akem'Heka smiled, "ahhh, Hemorrhago Bileas I see you are not festering within that charnel house you call a ship".

The faces on the Nurglite's helmet moved in accordance with their bearer's words, "and I see your master's capricious whims have yet to render your soul asunder." The faces then twisted into a grotesque parody of a smile "Come to admire my pestulent masterpieces, oh the sweet mortification of their flesh conveys the corruption of the Imperium, do you not agree?"

The Thousand Son, frustrated as he was by this walking mass of maggots, could not help but agree; "true, but it lacks that writhing sensation of change but most importantly it lacks..." Akem'Heka's eye lenses burst into incandescent flame and his staff followed suit, "it packs my personal touch...you took a kill which was rightfully mine".

Hemorrhago laughed, "really Son of Magnus? I did not see our name written upon them...now they go the embrace of my master, to be clutched to his decaying bosom." The Death Guard then brandished an axe caked in the most wretched filth known to Daemon and mortal kind.

Shouting then echoed throughout the streets, more guardsmen to he fed to the grinder. The Sorcerer of Tzeentch snarled "we will settle this later pus sack, right now wr have more pressing issues to deal with" As the first guardsman appeared from around the corner, Akem'Heka snapped his armoured fingers, the human quickly burst into ethereal flames that scorched body and soul alike.

"Bah!! Child's play Tzeentchian" declared Hemorrhago. The Death Guard tore off his helmet, revealing a rotted visage that would drive a mortal insane and spewed forth a sickly green liquid. No sooner as it had hit a guardsman, the unfortunate human's flesh had began to melt. 

Akem'Heka's eyes then turned to another human, the Sergeant no doubt. The Thousand Son's sight pierced into the Empyrean itself and gazed at the mortal's soul. Reaching out his hand and plucked the faint light from it's corporeal vessel. With his sight returning to materium, the Sorcerer of Tzeentch admired the results of his endeavour. The human simply collapsed, his men paused in horror at their leader's sudden death. A surge of green flashed in the corner of his eye, the Nurglite hurled himself into the preoccupied humans. 

Setting about them with plague-infused axe, Hemorrhago slaughtered the mortl's only to leave one standing. The Death Guard's hand clamped around the human's face, a simple flex of the fingers was all it took to wrench the screaming guardsman's face off. The Nurglite's cataract-ridden eyes caught a vibrant glow and he turned around, "is not too late for your fancy pyrotechnics Tzeentchian?" All he received was laughter.

"I do not think so" replied Akem'Heka. In response a small warp rift opened beneath Hemorrhago's feet, the Plague Sorcerer clung to the edges of reality. The Thousand Son leaned to gloat over his victim, "know this maggot-kin, all change; from purity to putrifaction, from life to death, it all serves the lord of Change's whim."

Hemorrhago roared in outrage, he had underestimated his foe, "I'll see you in Hell Son of Magnus!!"

"After you blighted one" chuckled Akem'Heka as the rift swallowed it's repulsive meal. The victorious Sorcerer than came across the Death Guard's recent trophy and dropped on the faceless previous owner, "here, call it a consolation prize...not that you will be needing it anymore."


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## Deus Mortis (Jun 20, 2009)

Good stories so far guys and girls  I'll post something up later in the month


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## jonileth (Feb 1, 2012)

1041 words, not counting title

*To please…*​
Carnage… chaos… All of the things that make a battlefield what it is. An enemy, a mission, a purpose is what drove the Canoptek machinery from the dark catacombs of their Tomb World. It did not matter who the enemy was, it was of no concern what they might want or where they might have harkened from. They were not of the Tomb World, they were not part of the Dynasty, and they were not welcome. Such was the inexorable truth that dominated the battlefield. However, unlike other similar worlds with similar guardians, Tepmosi was vastly different.

The many and varied guardians of the tombs had, in a very basic sense, a mind of their own. Each of them, while interconnected, did not always share the same ideas about how to go about a given task. One in particular, a Wraith, held the notion that its Phaeron would be more pleased if it were to dispatch his enemies with greater volume than others of its kind. It held the belief close to whatever mockery of a heart it possessed that his Phaeron expected more from it than he did from the other Wraiths that swarmed around the grand complex.

For the machine’s part, it was not entirely wrong in its logic. The Ancient One did take notice of it, he had gone so far as to etch a dynastic glyph upon the thing’s ‘head’ to distinguish it from others. Its master had done so for the practical purpose of being able to find the thing among the swarms of other Wraiths, but that didn’t change the fact that it considered itself special. And with such an infantile sense of pride and drive to perform, the Wraith entered the fray with great abandon.

As with any great battle upon the long dead surface of Tepmosi, the Ancient One stood impassively above the field of combat aboard his Command Barge, silently surveying the carnage wrought by his people. Very rarely did he issue forth orders, and on such occasions they were brief and exact. The Wraith would steal a glance once in a while, between the waves of interlopers, at its beloved Phaeron as if to see him looking in his direction.

Approval: Status?

The line of code was registered within the Wraith’s thoughts as it cleaved through the torso of an Eldar soldier with the retractable blade that usually resided in its front leg. The scream of anguish that the Eldar let out went unregistered by the Wraith as it sweeped across with the other front leg and severed the head completely off the body.

Phaeron Observation: Status?

The Wraith glanced up at its master and caught a glimpse of a look from the Ancient One. He had indeed been watching! Renewed drive gripped the machine as it leaped forward unto yet another group of Eldar Guardians intent on making some headway on the field. Several Warriors had been locked in a firefight with the invaders but hadn’t made much progress in eliminating them. The Wraith took stock of the situation and decided it could do much better.

The Wraith leaped over the group of Warriors and weathered a hail of fire, most of the shuriken projectiles from their weapons glancing off the living metal that comprised the Wraith’s outer armor. The Wraith’s advance was swift, efficient, and unimpeded by the debris that had been littered about the battlefield. It skittered over rubble, bodies and even ruined vehicles as if they were flat terrain, being slowed by nothing.

When the Wraith was upon the Eldar it unleashed a barrage of slashing strikes with the razor sharp talons it possessed. Each strike with the weapons found purchase in flesh; each retreat brought with it a great amount of the lifeblood it sought to drain from its enemies. It lashed out with its tail as well, impaling one of the Eldar upon it like it were little more than a fish on the end of a spear. Fountains of Eldar blood issued forth as the Wraith cut each and every man in the squad down with ruthless indifference. When all the screams subsided, and each of the Eldar had seen the last drops of their blood drained away, the Wraith turned back to the collection of Warriors that had been having such a difficult time putting them down.

The Wraith gazed at the Warriors as they slowly advanced, their motions slightly hesitant, their footfalls slowed by uncertainty or perhaps simply because of disuse. Either way, they did not move with the same fluid grace the Wraith possessed. When they drew near enough, the thing motioned to its handiwork and angled its head twenty degrees to the left as if in inquiry. The effect did not go unnoticed or become lost as it might have in another dynasty. Each of the Warriors was more than just a shadow of the Necrontyr they had once been. Each remembered their old lives and knew what they had become. It was the curse of the Sakir-Har, and the Wraith knew it.

The Warrior in the front of the group narrowed his eyes at the Wraith in displeasure. The thing had shown them up, and rather effectively, while their Phaeron watched on. A machine had turned the battlefield into a contest, and it was far better a combatant merely by design. The fact that the thing could do such a thing at all was utterly unnerving to the Warriors but useful even so. The Warriors could do little but raise their gauss flayers and continue on into the fray with the futile hope of reclaiming their pride from a mere machine.

The Ancient One had seen the entire display from on high and couldn’t help but be pleased, even if it had not inspired any actual pleasure. His pet was a lethal combatant and a driven and loyal subject. There was little doubt left in the Phaeron’s mind that he had made the right choice to allow the abomination that had developed during the Great Sleep to remain intact. The pseudo-intellect his Canoptek machines possessed was proving to be a remarkable tool, and an amusing distraction when one of his minions decided to play games with its Necron masters…


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

*From the Darkness* - 1,014 including title.

Like a spring tide against boulders, the first charge shattered on the Ker-uskan shield wall, with the lethal young warriors proving as inexorable as those they fought. Efficiently they applied their spears and shields to the task they had been prepared for all their lives; toiling specialists holding at bay a flood of screaming madness. 

The first assault was blitzed in only a few seconds. The thin line not only held but even advanced past its first victims, with spears clattering against shields in audacious challenge. The demons perished screaming and blaring. Those who did not die immediately received their death blows as the shield wall proceeded. A fresh stench of blood and piss spread across the battle field, mingling with the older, stale stink from the forum.

Then another rush of nightmarish shadows and a second wave struck... and a third. 

Fendrel watched on from his elevated position, stone cold with terrified awe. The Ker-uskan force kept cutting the oncoming lines of demons to ribbons. Meat into the grinder. The boy clenched his fists and jaws, when he saw how the dead monsters began to pile up in front of the impervious shield wall. Never did the thin line waver. Yet now it was slowing; choking under the immensity of the task. Many a spear had splintered under the severe surges and been replaced by purposeful axes and tireless swords. But the flood of demons gushing from the darkness between the huts did not let up. Yet another wave washed over their own dead and splintered against the Ker-uskan rock. And another.

And then a huge beast sounded its horn and a ragged group of surviving demons limped back to disappear in the night. The tired ‘Young Stags’ of Ker-Uska were unable to give pursuit, exhausted as they were after the sublime massacre they had just delivered. The demons did not even turn around to throw profanities and challenges at their vanquishers but just slunk away towards the darkness. Before they were able to enter the night, however, it spew out more of its children. Bigger monsters than Fendrel had ever seen lumbered onto the moonlit village green. If the surviving smaller demons had hoped to escape the scene they were severely disabused of such a notion. Hope is a bitch also in the realm of Chaos but Fendrel doubted that it bit deeper than those gigantic monsters scythe-like claws. The dispatched demons simply disappeared under the feet of the advancing herd.

Cold fingers of fear closed around the boy's heart and squeezed it painfully, when he tried to count those monsters, who trampled over their dead in eerie silence. Only the muffled thumps and shuffles of their feet and splashes of water and blood puddles could be heard. Moonlight occasionally illuminated their closed ranks through the curtain of rain and sleet. But where there should have been the reflection of metal, everything remained black. The Black Demons! Fendrel bit his hand till it bled, his mind refusing to believe that the nightmare of a myth could be true. He called out a warning. And then watched. Shivering.

It was only then that he noticed several warriors lie about motionless among the dead beasts. The shield wall had closed its gaps too fast for him to realise that death had taken its toll also among the ‘Young Stags’. Fendrel's mind was numb and confused, as he tried to estimate the extent of their losses. When finally he lifted his eyes after what seemed an eternity of fearful gazing he was shocked to see the black herd stand only a few yards in front of his brethren.

The Black Demons were about half as tall again as the tallest Ker-uskans and stood head and shoulders even above their captain, Garrik. Close up in the light of the dying fires one could see the black ring mail that protected their upper bodies, almost twice as wide as Garrik's, their grotesquely muscled arms and tree trunks of thighs. Most of them clutched serrated scythe-like swords or heavy mean looking axes. Some hefted mighty hammers of war.

Their leader uttered something, guttural and sharp. Those around it gnashed their teeth, roared and stepped forward.

Suddenly, a lone figure emerged from the shield wall and opposed them. Even from his distance Fendrel knew it must be Kris.

"Garrik, to me! The Demon! Kill their leader!"

And with these words, Kris lifted his greatsword, facing the amassed demons all by himself. Pride swelled Fendrel's heart and pain cut it to shreds, seeing that Kris would only be the next to die. But then four shadows rushed past him. The Captain, Garrik, the veteran Armin, the mighty-axe wielding Arnulf and the ferocious Wulfgard threw themselves at the beasts, who roared and bellowed in surprise, stumbling back into the ranks of the amassed Chaos spawn.

And then the four Young Stags began to dance, turning their refined moves into instant death and their battle brothers' backbones into steel. Following their leaders in a wedge formation, the remaining warriors charged too and helped them cut a swathe into the bulk of frozen monsters. But all too soon they found themselves surrounded and beset by the beasts. Black swords and axes came shivering and screaming through the air, loping off spear tips, hacking chunks out of the Ker-uskan shields and biting with crunching noises into shoulders, arms and heads. Many died both demons and humans. But while ever more monsters appeared in the places of their fallen, the number of Young Stags dwindled rapidly. In the end, all their courage, all their thirst for revenge, all their martial brilliance could not stand up to the crude power and inestimable numbers of the demons.

As the last Young Stags vanished, only two of them remained untouched; Captain Garrik, who was invincible in his wrath, as he cut a path through the Black Horde towards his motionless target. And then there was the target himself - Kris - who had not joined his brothers after sending them into their last, lost battle


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## gothik (May 29, 2010)

might not be able to do this one....talk about fiendish Boc...my brain gone dead


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## NoPoet (Apr 18, 2011)

My friend is very familiar with hoes. They're partly why his uncle is £70,000 in debt.

Some excellent fiction here, but what is the theme actually supposed to BE? Or is the blank space meant to indicate a void, or is it that the real universe exists within that blankness and the rest of the post is just a lie?

Seriously, I need to know what I'm writing about.

EDIT: Sod it, I'm doing one about a competition. A competition story about a competition?


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## NoPoet (Apr 18, 2011)

*Flight of the Fireblade

A 20K story by NoPoet (under 1100 words inc title)*

In a universe so big no megaship could ever cross it, there was at least one galaxy where everyone needed to find the smallest place to hide.

Yuri Aksakov was squeezed into the cockpit of a fighter in a tunnel inside an asteroid. The tunnel had been bored by some unimaginable space-worm in aeons past. Luckily, it hadn't left any spawn.

"I know you're there," the alien said across the vox. It was male, though with eldar, there wasn't much to choose between the genders. "I can smell your soul, little rabbit."

Yuri didn't answer. He missed the cultural reference because he wasn't from Earth.

The auspex showed nothing outside his hidey-hole but a chain of floating rocks. No sign of the eldar, or Yuri's wingmen, if any had survived. No sign of the XMS Destiny.

"You can't hide, human. I will claim you."

Sod off, was Yuri's mental reply.

He wasn't a man given to claustrophobia, that would be a ridiculous trait in any spacer, let alone a fighter pilot... but Yuri was burly enough, the Fireblade prototype cramped enough, to make him feel like someone at Solar Command was playing a joke that had backfired. Badly.

The Viper hadn't shown up on auspex until it started obliterating Fireblades. It must be wearing a scramble-cloak like eldar starships. Then it killed the target drones the Fireblade pilots had been chasing, outdated Saxon and Saracen fighters. Yuri had survived through luck and skill. First, his trimantium-armoured craft had the new integrity field technology built in. Second, he'd wrestled the Fireblade into its hiding place in a single loop-the-loop, or the Yuri Surprise as other pilots called the manoeuvre when he'd used it against them in flight school.

Killing a squadron of Terran pilots hadn't entirely been a show of skill from the eldar. His Viper was well out of a Fireblade's league. Demoralising, since the Fireblade was the Navy's newest generation of fighter, but Yuri already knew his ship was far tougher than his rival's Viper. One good hit would do the bastard, then Yuri could go home, assuming someone found him within his remaining three hours of oxygen.

Yuri was not a man who surrendered to fear... but the muscles of his arms trembled from his wrestle with the fighter's controls. He was soaked with sweat. His breathing had only just returned to normal. His heart was a primal drum, banging loud enough to hear across the void.

"Aksakov to alpha flight," Yuri said. "Aksakov to Destiny. Anyone. Please respond."

The vox channels were silent.

"I can hear you, even louder than the music of the spheres," the eldar said.

"The music of my arse," Yuri said. "I'm going to kill you, you white-haired freak." He hadn't seen the alien pilot, nor met an eldar, but he'd learned from documentaries they all had the same hairdo.

Giving his position away no longer seemed to matter. If they'd been able to take out a Conisbrough-class heavy cruiser, he might as well give up, but he'd love to put a plasma bolt into the alien's face before saying goodnight. He gunned the engine, feeling the fighter's realdrive thrumming through the hull. The plasma blastgun, a prototype, was fully charged. He still had four missiles left. Not much, even against a single eldar.

Yuri guided his fighter out of the tunnel. The starfield was peppered with asteroids. Someone had nuked a planet millions of years ago. He was in a world's graveyard, soon to join its ghosts. It only took a moment to assess his escape route. Yuri slammed the fighter into full thrust. The Fireblade was an Alert Defence Variant, a specialised interceptor. It was fast and light.

A distortion blast shattered the entire asteroid behind him.

"Quick little human in his toy boat," taunted the eldar.

"Show yourself and I'll fire a toy missile up your arse," said Yuri.

"What a waste, to become a pilot when you should have been a poet."

Yuri recoiled as a blade shot in front of him on a diagonal trajectory. It caught the system's sun, but the glare filter of Yuri's screen allowed him to make out red blade-edges and the squared snake symbol of the Saim-Hann.

"Oh God, not those bastards," Yuri muttered with great distaste. He swung the Fireblade ADV into a tight, banking turn it wasn't built for. There was no sign of the alien on his auspex, so it must have pulled a turn at ridiculous G, bearing in mind the asteroid field's pull. Their ships couldn't be that frail.

"I see your toy boat takes half a sector to turn around," said the eldar. "Should we swap ships, to make the contest more even?"

"We need to update our codices," said Yuri. He armed a Blitzen missile. "'The eldar prolong the kill by offering crap insults.'"

He launched the Blitzen towards distant stars, then banked left and pulsed plasma shots through the asteroid field. This fooled the eldar, who immediately made a move, thinking his location was compromised.

Fireblade and Viper jousted between fragments of a dead world, plasma impacting against rock, distortion beams splitting stone more efficiently than a Terran mining laser. Explosions threw fist-chunks of stone which hit the Fireblade like bullets. They could not penetrate the ADV's armour.

Yuri hoped his Fireblade's intelligence was recording all this, in case their black box was ever recovered.

He knew the eldar was toying with him as he threw the Fireblade around an asteroid. His auspex caught the Viper at last. It was right behind him - and closing. The usual Yuri Surprise couldn't save him now.

"Fireblade," he said. "Disable all safeties on the plasma gun."

The ADV's intelligence displayed confirmation, understanding. Yuri held his finger on the plasma blastgun's trigger. He could feel heat transmitted into the cabin as his blastgun overcharged.

"I will remember this hunt for millennia," the eldar said. "You were almost worthy, poor dead thing."

The Fireblade squawked a warning. Weapons lock. The eldar had him dead.

Yuri applied starboard thrusters. His Fireblade whipped around. There was a moment as the two fighters faced each other. The eldar pilot was going to climb. Yuri released the trigger.

A storm of nuclear energy caught the Viper and destroyed it.

Yuri wasn't able to celebrate.

The Fireblade's weapon reactor overloaded as it fired. Yuri Aksakov was immolated within two beats of a primal drum. He would never know of his victory, or whether the Terran Navy ever found his black box.


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## Bloody Mary (Nov 6, 2009)

*In the Line of Duty​*
_915 words without title_

Inquisitor Caoxoch sipped her recaf daintily and half-listening to her two fellows: Kharon and Nathaniel discuss their latest brushes with death. Naturally, there had been many, since their line of work was one of the most dangerous—if not the most dangerous—jobs in the Imperium. 

One could be shot at, stabbed, tortured, drowned, and burnt, to name but a few mundane dangers. She wasn’t even counting psykers or the more exotic xeno breeds, but then there was no point in enumerating the ways an Inquisitor could be maimed or killed. Life would always find a way to surprise one.

Kharon’s smiled, the grin twisting his scarred face into a gruesome mask. “Did I say it was over?” he asked. “No, my boy-“ he continued, ignoring the annoyance that flickered across Nathaniel’s face at being called “boy”, “just as the hybrids lay dead at our feet, Marimaia-my late psyker-started screaming and vomiting blood. Right on Theon’s favourite shoes, too. I’ll leave the racket that caused to your imagination, though that was nothing compared to what happened later.”

He paused dramatically, and Caoxoch took a chocolate biscuit from a silver platter. She took a small bite and savoured the sweetness. “A Broodlord?” she guessed, before taking another sip of her recaf.

Kharon glared at her venomously, something of a feat given that his eyebrows were missing and a part of his forehead was metal. “Indeed. A Broodlord. The idiot of a regenade adept somehow managed to strap the thing to a psy-amplifier, and cranked it up. Then he cranked it up some more, which in turn left me without a psyker and remains of her skull sticking to my forehead.”

Nathaniel snorted. “That’s nothing. I stopped a Hrud migration.”

Both Caoxoch and Kharon gave him long measuring looks. Then, the woman said, “You don’t look any older, dear.”

“I didn’t get near them,” Nathaniel replied, and then, preempting the comment about cheating, he added, “but they were trying to get close to me all the time!”

“You drowned them, didn’t you?” Caoxoch asked, and earned herself another venomous glare. Nathaniel was getting better at them, she had to admit. “It’s the safest method young ones like you usually can think about.”

That earned her another glare, but then she supposed it was rather unsporting of her. Young men tended to be horribly sensitive about their achievements, and Nathaniel was likely still feeling uncertain in the company of more experienced colleagues. He had been an Interrogator not long ago, after all. 

“I can’t help but notice you did not regale us with any tales of your latest exploits,” Kharon said, smirking. It probably had not been a flattering expression when he had a whole face, but now it looked downright terrifying—to others, naturally. Caoxoch was not that easily scared.

“I thought that since you cannot whip out your… instruments and measure them, you were resorting to proxies,” Caoxoch replied, adjusting her glasses. 

Both other Inquisitors sighed heavily. “I blame holos,” Nathaniel mumbled. 

“Oh, so it’s not a contest just for boys?” Caoxoch asked her voice oozing false girlish enthusiasm. “Now, what impressive things have I done recently?”

She tapped her chin with a red-lacquered nail faux-thoughtfully. Kharon rolled his eyes, and Nathaniel produced one of his, quite masterful, weary sighs. 

“Do forgo the theatrics,” Kharon said. “You’re enjoying yourself as much as we do, so do not pretend to be above us.”

“I was enjoying myself now too,” Caoxoch replied, but did get to the point. “Eldar Harlequins.”

Kharon groaned. “The worst meddlers of a race that sticks their noses where they shouldn’t.”

Nathaniel gave her a suspicious look, but remained silent. Caoxoch guessed that he was wondering if perhaps the insidious aliens had not subverted her and if she would start trying to convince them that whatever the xenos had planned would benefit the Imperium. While it was not exactly the most flattering sentiment, Caoxoch had to admit that it spoke of vigilance necessary in their line of work.

“And naturally, when I ran into them, they were meddling,” Caoxoch said. “It wasn’t easy to discover—there was a cult, which reacted rather… forcefully to an Inquisitor, and there was a Governor, convinced I was an agent of the Tau Empire. The whole planet was trying to kill me.”

“Sloppy,” Kharon said.

Caoxoch shrugged. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “But you have to understand that when I came the spiky-eared bastards had their fingers in every pie. They were pulling strings, and everyone of importance was dancing to their tune.”

“So, there I was, out-gunned, out-numbered, and I suppose that lured the Eldar out of hiding. One of them had to come and gloat. Or possibly flaunt the fact that he weighed less than my thigh. And then…” she paused dramatically, “the Harlequins appeared—you’d think they look ridiculous, like a parody of a carnival, but they were terrifying.”

“The Eldar leader started shrieking something, the traitors started shooting blindly, the Harlequins were dancing all over the place…”

Caoxoch spread her hands wide with a modest smile, making another pause. “And then Adept Theta-Rho finished rigging our trap, and we snuck out. The explosion had been quite picturesque.”

Kharon sighed. “That’s not bad. True. But it can’t compete against the time I nearly got squashed by a Titan-“

“Which happened before I was born and doesn’t count,” Nathaniel replied quickly. Then, he added, “And this is not a contest.”

The two older Inquisitors coughed and exchanged glances.


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## Liliedhe (Apr 29, 2012)

*Fuses*

Brother Thranis of the Blood Ravens stirred his tasteless, odourless gruel without enthusiasm and then raised the spoon to his mouth. Clear liquid the consistency of petroleum jelly dropped from its sides. With a grimace, he swallowed, lowered the spoon again to take another mouthful and reconsidered. 

As a Space Marine he could eat pretty much anything organic. It wasn’t really the food that offended him, but the atmosphere in the Watch Fortress Refectory. Where the mess hall aboard the 3rd Company Battle Barge Litany of Fury was full of laughter, good-natured teasing and the susurrus of animated conversation, this place was quiet and depressing.

With so many different traditions in one place, the camaraderie that pervaded a Chapter was missing. Some didn’t talk at all, just prayed silently over their food and ignored their surroundings. Those who did talk usually limited their interactions to a select few brothers, often their 'cousins'. Some were shunned completely, especially Librarians and those marked by geneseed anomalies. Unfortunately Thranis shared their fate, even though he was neither a psyker nor marked by mutation. Going by the jeers of 'Witch' that followed him around, he was considered a Librarian by proxy, since his Chapter valued them so. 

And even if conversations happened in the refectory, they were different. Good-natured teasing became stinging insult. Friendly rivalry gave way to serious power plays which could erupt everywhere at any time. Duels or brawls were forbidden and punished, but a determined soul could always find a way to assert their superiority. 

At this point, a raised voice cut through his musings. He looked up and saw – without any real surprise – the Space Wolf Skrallan drop into an unoccupied seat and place his elbow on the table in a universal gesture of challenge.

“Well, old man” – under different circumstances, the Wolf’s laughter would have been infectious, while here it was merely obnoxious – “let’s see what you are made of.”

The subject of Skrallan’s ire, Navarre, the veteran Sword Brother of the Black Templars, raised his shaven head from his meal and threw a glance that should have seen the troublemaker eviscerated on the spot. “Get lost.” 

Thranis got up, unclear on his own intention. Did he want to leave before all of this devolved into ugliness that might see him caught up in it, too? Was he going to step in and try to defuse the situation, before it escalated? Or was he simply trying to find a front row seat for the fireworks? 

“He” – the Space Wolf pointed at a Battle Brother of the Salamanders Chapter – “said he had heard him” – now he indicated an Ultramarine – “say that you said you could take me. Well, show me what you've got.”

A mere glance at the Templar should have told anyone how amazingly unlikely this claim was. He went rigid, massive slabs of muscle straining against the fabric of his black fatigues. Clearly, he had never heard of these allegations and resented them.

‘I’m going to regret this.’

The Blood Raven crossed the hall in a few long strides, and dropped into the seat beside the Templar, startling him from his obviously mounting fury. 

Then, everything happened at once. The Space Wolf perked up, grinning “Oh, a challenger”, while Navarre growled “I fight my own battles, witch”, and Thranis swallowed a sigh. 

“This isn’t a battle, and I’m not a witch.” He put his arm on the table. “I just need to work up a little appetite, to be able to deal with this food.” 

Grinning, Skrallan slid over and grabbed the offered hand with calloused fingers. “Whatever you say. Brother Navarre, give the signal.” 

By now, several more brothers had come over, watching. Armwrestling wasn’t exactly spectacular, but it beat the dour silence that afflicted the Refectory otherwise. 

The Templar glowered at both of them as he got up, but he didn’t refuse. “Second hand on the table. Fight clean. In the name of the Emperor, GO!” As the referee, he had to watch closely and he did. 

Thranis felt the weight of his gaze more than the Space Wolf’s efforts to force his hand downwards. He pushed against the other Space Marine, planting his feet solidly on the floor so he wouldn’t be unbalanced, never taking his attention off his opponent's yellow animal eyes. It had been years since he had last done this, back when he’d been a Scout. 

Now, as trainee in the Deathwatch, the situation wasn’t that different, he realised, as he shored up his will against his opponent’s enthusiasm. He had no idea if he could win – Skrallan’s Chapter was renowned for their physical strength. And yet, the Blood Raven held his own, as his body began to react to the situation. The challenge had been impulsive, but now the bout was underway, he was unwilling to lose which surprised him. Seemed like there was still enough of Scout Thranis left…

He gritted his teeth and had to concentrate not to show them in a gesture of dominance or to add his growl to the Wolf’s, who bared his fangs and began to show strain, too. Skrallan's reddish mane was dark wet already, and he blinked furiously to clear his eyes. Sweat soaked Thranis's fatigues, collected on his bald crown and ran down his face and arm. Slowly his second heart began to pick up pace in answer to the physical exertion. Only loosely was he still aware of Navarre prowling around them, and the other brothers watching. 

The tabletop was getting slippery. Distantly the Blood Raven heard encouragements, and he noticed most of them seemed to be for the Space Wolf. “Take the witch!” 

Adrenalin peaking in his system, Thranis finally abandoned his self-control and forced his burning biceps into supreme effort. “I’m not a witch”, he snarled.

That didn’t mean he was stupid. Teeth bared, he changed the angle of the force he brought to bear on his opponent a minute amount and gave one last heave: As Skrallan attempted to counter, his elbow slipped a fraction and the Blood Raven exploited the opportunity. Their hands crashed down and it was Thranis who was on top. 

To the credit of the present brothers, they were cheering him, as the Templar announced in his death knell voice: “Winner, Thranis.” 

The Space Wolf rubbed his hand. “Not bad for a witch.”

And with a speed that nobody would have believed the bulky Black Templar capable of, Navarre caught Thranis’s fist before he could lay Skrallan out. 

Words: 1094


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## Liliedhe (Apr 29, 2012)

When does voting start this month?

Saturday, April 23, 2013 - Saturday is the 20th. The 23rd would be Tuesday.


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## andygorn (Apr 1, 2011)

I was just going to ask the same...is there still time to put a story in? Or was yesterday the deadline?


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## Dave T Hobbit (Dec 3, 2009)

andygorn said:


> I was just going to ask the same...is there still time to put a story in? Or was yesterday the deadline?


Previously Boc has allowed entries up until he closes the thread, so I suggest posting one. Admittedly I am biased as I want to see what people have done with the topic.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Lol yeah my bad... go by the *date*, not the day, so the 23rd is the cutoff.


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## andygorn (Apr 1, 2011)

Hi all,
It's been a bad few months for me lately (not going to bore you with the details) and hope this gets in under the deadline.
As ever, these are just thoughts which came to me upon a subject...my words try to make sense of the images and visions I get, but I don't own those stories or 'write' them in that sense.
Comments & criticisms, etc are always really appreciated - I always want to improve and produce better stories for people to read.

******
U]*"Closest Thoughts"*[/U] (994 words, not including title)

The battle over, I drop to my knees among the fallen, soiling my previously unblemished armour with the vitality of ferals and heretics.

My sword still clutched double-handed, I take great pains to ensure that it stays away from the ground so that no gore sullies it's pristine blade.
However, the same cannot be said for it's pommel, which still drips with brain matter from the last skull I crushed.

I spend several seconds trying to catch my breath, yet the reason for my fall lies not in physical exertion: I had barely broken a sweat paying homage to Him by cutting down such unbelievers.

Instead, my obeisance to my master is part of a ritual which I have undertaken every day -as well as at the end of each battle- for the last 157 years.

Recalling the statues of others of my kind in our order's halls, these catechisms and whispered devotions have remained constant for over a millennium.

The prayers must be intoned and His name invoked at the soonest moment.
It is...necessary...even if others believe it disloyal or disrespectful.

Although they only know the merest rumours about what I carry, even fearless comrades still avoid me and give me wide berths when I traverse the corridors of power.

A sweet smell assails my senses...just as it always does...just as it always shall until I breathe my last and the next steward takes over.
A numbing of the temples, then a scratching in the middle of my shoulder-blades which I cannot reach (let alone assuage).

All this speaks of my tormentor. Yet I take comfort that my own litanies offer equal strength, knowing that my words can burn it's soul, even if it were to attempt to invade my own.

Repeating words I have spoken a thousand times, I utter beneath my breath:
"You have no hold here. This is as it will always be for you now, until your ending-time."

Never using the same words, it always uses the exact silky-smoothy tone; a particular set of sibillant notes which still shock me each time I hear it's debased tongue: 

_"But we have had sooo many conversations, human..."_ it inveigles.

_"Who else knows you like I do..? Which other entity could inflict the emotions we both know triggers the tastiest memories, despite your much-vaunted willpower?"_

"Emotions long discarded...creature. I am no mere human. I passed over what I was in favour of what I am now...a vessel against the darkness. Your darkness."

_"Ah yes, the darkness that you know sooo well. Yet against which you shall futilely scrabble until your bones are dust and your 'good name' lies trampled and forgotten beneath the feet of countless other fools and liars._

_"Given all we have shared, I shall let you into a little secret: Cellerius was the wrong choice for my gaoler. his mind buckled and reeled beneath the temptations all around. Though he did not fall, he was the closest to it. Second only to yourself, of course." _

Fury blazes in my heart at the surname of the first of us charged with my duty.
Azure flames crackle at the edges of my mind, the hissing and sizzling of burning daemon-flesh instantly overpowers my armour's auto-breathers and my own protective implants.

I can almost see the fatty gobbets of it's warp-stuff dissolving before me; I know that the blood-sodden earth beneath my knees will be similarly scorched and blackened.

“Venerated and cursed amongst all others in my order...named anathema to your kind...I speak it thus: Champion Alleran Cellerius!"

A huge spasm rattles my entire form, shaking me even within my form-fitting armour, as the prisoner's agonised outburst takes hold of me, too.

Every time I hurt it, the visions are different, yet no less shocking.
This time, I am assaulted by a vision of corroded iron fingers gouging furrows into plascrete pavements...the wet wrenching sounds of limbs ripped from yet another hapless victim...the frenzied munching of fresh heads by some slobbering glutton.

Enervation seeps into my limbs, trying to completely rob me of strength and allow the sword to touch the earth.

It would be soo easy. Such a small, simple to allow the thing...I am forbidden from speaking it's true name...to have what it wants.

As my will ebbs away, I feel it supported at the last moment by the centuries of faith and brotherhood of those who have also stood sentinel over this artefact.

Thus emboldened, another tooth-rattling shriek of protest from the entity tells me that I have won this round.

But such victory is tempered by the sure knowledge that it shall not be vanquished in my lifetime.

_"Yess, that's right! I shall never be yours!"_ it laughs as I recognise my ultimate failure.

_"You are I are bound together for always until your sight fails and your brain recalls it's last images. Memories filled with the inevitable visions that -as your limbs wither and putrefy- I shall be there to watch and gloat, forgetting you and eagerly welcoming the next naive replacement host-to-be!"_

I stand back to my feet, sheathing the blade in it's force-locked scabbard across my back.
Ignoring my comrades and even the cries of our wounded, I invoke the final words of binding which will ensure that The Blade of Antwyr never again reaches the grasp of lesser mortals:

"Each day is a battle which I survive. Every evening is a nightmare I contain. Your end might not be today, but our war continues and you shall ever be bound."

Hours later, as we depart, even the vast roar of the Stormraven's engines cannot drown out the daemon-blade's humour-filled whisper:
"Battle? Nightmare? My ending? War? You are not even worthy to be called 'competition', frail little man."

I try to remain resolute, but my armour clatters trying to mimic my unconscious movements as I shiver at the awful truth of the words.


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## Myen'Tal (Sep 4, 2009)

Are we experiencing some delays?


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## jonileth (Feb 1, 2012)

I believe Boc is otherwise engaged whist on deployment. I'm sure another admin will eventually step in and put up the voting thread like last time. But until then, stand by to stand by.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

In case folks are subscribed to this thread rather than the voting thread, *I need you to submit your monthly votes here, otherwise any votes for your stories will not count!*


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