# Sticky  Winning HOES



## Boc

This thread is the place of honour reserved for those FanFic writers who have won the monthly *Heresy-Online Expeditious Story* Challenges. After each month's voting is concluded, the winning story will be added to this repository.

So, for any authors that are looking at joining us in a competition, this is a good place to check out some past winners in order to find out how to become a winning HOES writer!

Table of Contents:​
*2011*
HOES #1: Panic - Bane_of_Kings: Emperor's Blood
HOES #2: Thirst - C'Tan Chimera: A Wretched Silence Examined
HOES #3: Betrayal - Mossy Toes: Survivor
HOES #4: Turning Point - Ckcrawford: The Last Tower
HOES #5: Hatred - Akatsuki13: All That is Left
HOES #6: Contagion - Svartmetall: Becoming
HOES #7: Vengeance - Adrian: The Girl on the Black Ship
HOES #8: Mercy - Adrian: A Portrait Rendered
HOES #9: Doubt - Serpion5: In the Face of Reason
HOES #10: Deliverance - Taliesin: Deliverance
HOES #11: Overcome - Mossy Toes: Apotheosis
HOES #12: The End - Mossy Toes: Remembrance

*2012*
HOES #12-01: A Beginning - Serpion5: Another Chance...
HOES #12-02: Into the Fire - Dave T Hobbit: Kidnapped
HOES #12-03: Rebirth - Davidicus 40K: The Cycle
HOES #12-04: Annihilation - Mossy Toes: To Comprehend (It Matters Not)
HOES #12-05: Falling Rain - Liliedhe: Lacrimae Faralis or Tears of the Dead
HOES #12-06: Restitution - Liliedhe: The Mothers' Gifts
HOES #12-07: Duty - Liliedhe: Rust
HOES #12-08: Loyalty - Adrian: Inquisitor Repentant & Dave T Hobbit: Freedom
HOES #12-09: Family Ties - Bloody Mary: The Brightest Star
HOES #12-10: Failure - Liliedhe: A Question of Perspective
HOES #12-11: Innocence - Mossy Toes: A Memory, Sundered

*2013*
HOES #13-01: Last Stand - Jonileth: Defense; Futile
HOES #13-02: Grace - Romero's Own: Flames from Heaven
HOES #13-03: Contempt - Liliedhe: The Splinter in my Brother's Eye
HOES #13-04: Competition - Liliedhe: Fuses
HOES #13-05: Treachery - Liliedhe: Out, Damn Spot... & Lord of the Night: He Who Betrays First
HOES #13-06: Serenity - Bloody Mary: Serenity of Purpose
HOES #13-08: Absence - Lord of Night: Lost Memories & Ye Olde Grandma: The mortal affection
HOES #13-09: Delay - Adrian: Worry is Bad & Veteran Sergeant: Delay
HOES #13-10: Relaxation - HonorableMan: A Last Lho-Stick
HOES #13-11: Illusions - Firemahlazer: The Craven Beast & Xabre: A Nightmare Unseen

*2014
*HOES #14-01: Irritation - Xabre: The Three Wise Men
HOES #14-02: Endurance - Xabre: Lessons of the Masters
HOES #14-03: Granite - Myen'Tal: Maw of Granite & Xabre: Earth, Steel & Fire
HOES #14-04: Infamy - Dark Angel: Brotherhood
HOES #14-05: Laughter - Dave T Hobbit: Chuckle
HOES #14-06: Certainty - unxpekted22: Mayhem
HOES #14-07: Resurrection -unxpekted22: Of Verdurous Nature & Myen'Tal: The Fire of One
HOES #14-08: Vision - Myen'Tal: Sacrifice for Victory
HOES #14-09: Carnage -
HOES #14-10: Wealth - Warhawk: Those Who Count
HOES #14-11: Carnage - Moriouce: Mind War
HOES #14-12: Flight - YeOldeGrandma - Skydancers

*2015*
HOES #15-01: Theft - Asmodai: Underhive Thieves
HOES #15-02: Memory - jonileth: Catastrophic Loss
HOES #15-03: Alliance - Brother Edmund: Alliance
HOES 15-04: Schism - Honorable Man: A Las-Flash in the Night
HOES #15-05: Patience - Adrian: Dogs of War Beyond the Scope
HOES #15-06: Riot - Adrian: In a Riot of Colours... Perfection
HOES #15-07: Confusion - Adrian: Alive and feeling good!
HOES #15-08: Claustrophobia - Brother Emund: Honora ad Finem
HOES #15-09: Inconvenience - Brother Emund: It ain't nuffink
HOES #15-10: Disguise - Treesniffer: One Day's Hunt
HOES #15-11: Celebration - Brother Emund: Don't Count Your Chickens & andygorn: Unveiled & Treesniffer: Dance Night for the Dwarves

*2016*
HOES #16-01: Sadness - Brother Emund: The Pain of Sacrifice
HOES #16-02: Certainty -


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## Boc

*HOES #1: Panic*

*Bane_of_Kings*: Emperor's Blood
An Imperial Guard Short Story
1010 words​
SLOWLY, KEEPING HIS head down, Colonel Kardan advanced through the ruins of what had once been known as Hive Hestran. “Watch your backs, men,” he remarked, gesturing to his men behind him. “You never know where these traitors might be hiding. Check every ruin.”

“Yes, Colonel,” there was a chorus of replies from his squad. Climbing through what had once been some sort of pub, a place for hivers to gather and drink; it was here that he first heard the voice. 

_‘Count the Seven.’_

“What was that?” uttered the vox-caster, afraid. He was a young man in his early twenties, and boasted blonde hair. He was named Thestus, and had been with the Regiment ever since Morannos. “I just got something weird on the vox.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kardan responded. “It’s just your vox acting up – keep going. Remember, guard your flanks. The Emperor Protects.”

“The Emperor Protects,” they chorused as one, and continued their advance.

“The Baneblade was last reported to be several miles north-east of our current position, Colonel,” Jedrec, the man who carried the squad’s flamer, informed his Colonel of what he already knew. Deciding not to respond, Colonel Kardan continued his advance.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Andras was the one who spoke, nudging a corpse with his lasgun to see if it moved. “Why couldn’t we be off on the front line? We shouldn’t have to be searching for a lost Baneblade.”

“Contact was lost with the Baneblade, but the pskyers confirm that it’s machine spirit is still intact,” Kardan turned on Andras. “That’s why we’re going out there. We can’t go in Valkyries or Chimeras because that would give away our position. And we don’t have any Sentinels left, and all our other squads are on the front line.”

“I know that, Colonel,” responded Andras. “But what about the 22nd? We haven’t heard from them in weeks.”

“The last time they were reported was near the Baneblade,” replied Kardan. “I’ll give extra rations to all of you if we find both.”

That got the men interested. The promise of extra food always got the men interested, as during wars, food was often hard to come by. As Kardan climbed over another piece of wreckage, he heard the voice again. 

_‘Count the Seven.’_

“I don’t think that’s my vox acting up, Colonel,” uttered Thestus. 

“Try changing the frequency,” replied Kardan, and continued regardless. “It’s nothing.”

“But Colonel, this is the second time I heard it,” Thestus remarked, anxiously. “I mean, I can understand once, but twice?”

Colonel Kardan shot a look at Thestus, and remarked, “It’s defiantly your vox acting up.”

“But Colonel...”

“Any more words from you, Thestus, and I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

“It wasn’t Thestus who spoke, Colonel,” remarked Andras with a frown. “I heard it as well. Count the Seven. That’s all it is. Just three words.”

_‘Count the Seven.’_

And this time, Colonel Kardan heard it. It was an eerie voice, deep and dragged out. It echoed across the squad, causing each of them, including the Colonel to stop stone dead.

“Ignore it,” after a long pause, Kardan came to a conclusion. “If it’s not the vox acting up, it’s the enemy trying to scare us. Don’t pay attention to it.”

“Colonel, if the enemy can get into our vox systems, does that mean they know where we are?” asked Thestus, worryingly, as they climbed over another small ruin. 

“If they know where we are they would have attacked by now,” replied Kardan.

“Or they’re leading us into a trap,” Jedrec replied grimly. “What’s our next move, Colonel?”

“We follow our orders, unless you want to find yourself as part of the penal legions,” Kardan spat, and grabbed his weapon, a trusty Power Sword that had been with him, also since Morannos, when he had lost his old one to a xenos later classified as a Carnifex. The only reason why he still lived was due to the intervention of an adeptus astartes, from the Raven Guard Chapter, appearing from nowhere to smite the alien with righteous fury.

“So we advance,” the final member of the five-man squad, the only female there, and the highest ranked in the Regiment, Kal, spoke. “And if it’s a trap, we spring it and call in for air support.”

“Aye, that’s what we’ll do,” Colonel Kardan grinned. “Nice thinking, Kal. Sharp as ever. Now, Guardsmen. We wouldn’t want to let the God-Emperor down, would we?”

They continued their advance in silence. About half an hour later, they arrived in what had once been an Imperial Chapel, dedicated to the God-Emperor and the Imperium. Some defiled banners still hung on the walls, signifying that the enemy had not had a chance to taint this place yet.

Which unnerved Kardan, as he thought, if he was the enemy, he would have defiled the Chapel long ago – as it stood out as a beacon of resistance, and a beacon of hope, to any survivors.

“We go inside the Chapel,” ordered Kardan. 

“Guns blazing or stealth, Colonel?” asked Jedrec, curiously, lifting his flamer. 

“Scan for signs of life,” Kardan responded, looking at Kal, who obeyed. 

“There’s... There’s nothing,” Kal remarked, after a quick scan. 

“Good. Then we don’t have to-”

“Wait,” Kal held up her free hand. “I’m detecting something... lots of things inside. Some small, some large. But... there’s hundreds, Colonel! And there’s more – behind us!”

“Behind us?” Colonel Kardan spun around, but saw nothing. Then, Kal screamed. Instantly turning around, Kardan noticed it. 

“_Daemon_,” he spat, and loaded his pistol. It was small for a spawn of the archenemy, and stank so badly that Kardan reckoned they could have smelt it a mile away, and it was covered in green – but there were more than just one of them. 

And they were not all the same size. There were several different shapes of them, some suspiciously man-sized. Recognising the banner that one of them held, Kardan cursed.

“Emperor’s blood!”

At last they had found out what had happened to the Korvannon 22nd.


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## Boc

*HOES #2: Thirst*

*C'Tan Chimera:* A Wretched Silence Examined
1000 Words​


You can never comprehend. You will never know what I have tried so hard to forget.

I speak to you now in the body, the rippling surge of matter against matter. My eyes cannot speak for me. My mouth does not move. Only this occupation of space, this metal skeleton can create any expression. The expressions found within the flesh; the gashes, lacerations, gaping holes and carved skin.

You will never know what I feel, what I have spoken; the same words we sowed across Oblivion eons ago. Those words have blossomed into essence upon the universe it sprouted from. Hatred. Weakness. Pain. Genocide. Since the beginning we have thirsted for so much more then what we were. We hungered for that just barely beyond our grasp. We would never have made it this far had we not been gorged on that which one can only find at the bottom.

Hatred kept our will alive. When all else failed to make our blood surge with purpose, it nurtured us and weaned us like a twisted mother.

Weakness kept our ambition alive. The shame that dwelled within, the guilt of unfulfilled destiny brought us forward, one foot after another. 

Pain kept our bodies alive. It was our discipline, the reminder of our failures and that we were still alive, if only barely by its fickle definitions. 

Genocide kept our race alive. It unified us under one desire. If we couldn’t overcome our fate, Genocide would allow us to drag everyone else down to our level for company of misery. 

Yet I know you do not understand this. You do not understand that which I unceasingly try to show each of you as I reach out for you. I understand that no amount of blood spilled and bones broken can ever convey a tangible idea, a message that may be understood universally. Yet I try anyway if only to justify my actions, no matter how weak it really is. 

Some things cannot be understood, much like what I desperately try to convey. They have taught your kind that death is a blessing…But for all the wrong reasons. In the end, everything is supposed to die. No matter how briefly or no matter how long, everything dies. Time itself is the only permanent, yet it dares not mingle with the abominations we have become. I am neither alive, nor am I free from the confines of the material plain.

I have become Death Itself. That thin scythed blade that serves as the dividing line between the trillions alive and the innumerable dead. My brethren have been It for so long that they no longer even think of it, let alone anything else. Days slipped into months and months into years. Years became centuries and centuries became seconds. Even the seemingly immortal aspect of time has faded from my comprehension altogether. My condemnation and the agony of its burden will never end for time has lost all meaning. I am the referee between life and death, constantly judging but alone and unable to take part in either role ever again. My brothers have suffered likewise, but I still envy them.

They have lost all drive, all meaning, all awareness. They are no longer even the echoes of the ancient hatred that sill resonates within their empty sockets. Only I remain, and only I know that I lead them to become these pitiful husks. I envy them, if they can even be thought of as entities any longer. I envy their liberation from the self imposed definitions of this universe. 

They are just grisly toys. But at least they will never know how far they have fallen; how much they’ve let their ancestors down when they once promised them they knew how to save them from pain and suffering. I was not so lucky. I trudge on alongside them, leading them forward into the eternal harvest. 

They may never be sentient again and thus never hold judgment, but that which I hold upon myself is enough. The doom of my entire race sags against these tired metal shoulders. It slowly but patiently erodes my conscience, my dignity, my once impenetrable denial. Like damnable waves it seeps its way into every corner, every crevice and every hollow of my being. That which Time itself cannot physically wear down, this Guilt does for it. 

Perhaps your leader feels just like I do as this legion’s master. We both had our thirsting to stand above all else. We fought long and hard, just to be trapped within this material prison and forever be unable to escape it. Ambition has given away to the stagnation of eternity, and to fully understand that it has no end is to abandon hope. We both watch over our kind, desperate to save them from the mindless slavery they have willingly undertaken. Yet we are no longer truly your masters. Rather, we are merely sad reminders of our races undertakings. We have taken different roads and used different methods to reach the same destination at different times. 

It may be impossible to win that pointless mortal game, yes. I once took my role in it but knew not what I had. What we had. We had an experience and we cared not for it but the destination at its end. 

You see me loom before you and know Death. It’s a gift that I may give but will never receive no matter how many times I am struck. All that thirst so long ago was sated and was never enough. It’s simpler than ever before yet all but impossible. All I want now, after so much, is to scream. I just want to scream one last time. I know I have lost. I know I can never be freed from what I have forged for myself. I just want to let it all out before I continue about my impossible task. 

I just want to scream. 

I can’t.

Yours will have to do.


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## ThatOtherGuy

God dammit Boc... How dare you mislead me with your thread title... I come here expecting to see bitches and hoes, but instead I get stupid fan fic.


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## Boc

Aaaaaand success haha


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## gothik

gotta admit i throughly enjoyed taking part in this one can't wait for the next one Boc...


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## C'Tan Chimera

I wholeheartedly agree- and I'm not saying that because I won this month's edition :blush:. The themes are simple, but provide a fun challenge of figuring out what to make of them. After months of monotonous writing assignments for classes, it's always a blast to have a change of pace with what it is I'm writing about.


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## Boc

Cheers, gents! Again, congrats to our first two winners, HOES #3 is now up


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## Boc

*HOES #3: Betrayal*

*Mossy Toes: *Survivor
1098 words​

Inquisitor Thresh chambered a round into his ornate bolt pistol and ejected the magazine. It clattered to his desk.

“Tell me, Interrogator,” he said, offering the pistol to Taros Vutch with a flourish, “what is your single greatest flaw?”

Taros took it, puzzlement slowly giving way to cold, hard fear. He blinked slowly, taking a shuddering breath. “The close bond I have with my twin sister, sir,” he said. There was no denying it. Hadn't Thresh criticized him for that very weakness many times?

“Precisely. In all other matters, you are an exemplary student. I have no other reservations for sponsoring you to the rank of Inquisitor, apart from losing you as an operative. You are one of my most promising protegees—other than your illogical, detrimental attachment to Kay Vutch. The Enemy needs but one lever against you, Taros. I can guarantee you she would eventually be used as that lever, willingly or not.”

Taros stood still, the bolt pistol heavy in his hand. Thresh met his eyes, expression solemn and unyielding.

“Nevertheless, Interrogator,” he continued, “it is with deep regret that I inform you that your sister's soul is irrevocably tainted.”

Taros stiffened, biting back an outright denial. He didn't believe what he was hearing on principle, but his master was bound to have evidence for such an inflammatory statement.

“She has been, unknowingly, the Darkchild's host.”

Taros closed his eyes again. That was it, then. That was how the damnable beast had tracked them unerringly across the sector, and why her psy-sensitivity had so unerringly predicted its coming. That was why she always survived its attacks, however improbably. His heart sank even further. Thresh would not say such a thing without definite proof.

“You are certain?” Taros asked, nonetheless. He had to know, to protect, to deny-

“Irrefutably. I have had my suspicions for some time, but am now certain. When overpowered, the Darkchild named her its mother. Psy-probing and hypnotic interrogation Kay herself turned up further evidence, unwitting thrall though she had been. Chirugeon Jhal's report is here.

“Know this: an Inquisitor must be tempered steel, without flaw. I know this hurts, Taros.” Thresh's tone was the closest to compassionate that Taros had ever heard. “My own master forced me through similarly painful deeds; deeds that I resented for many years, but for which I now see the necessity. I will not release an unworthy Inquisitor upon the galaxy. I know this hurts, but these are the hammer-blows that shape you into the Emperor's blade.

“You are ready to become an Inquisitor, Taros. You need but prove to me that you can put aside your personal ties. You have one final test. Your sister awaits.”

+

Kay shifted in her bonds, despite that the movement send shivers of agony running down her naked, brutalized body. Voices in the corridor outside.

She understood the nightmares, now. Always falling, always bound. She knew what horror was coming, what she—gagged or muted—would be helpless to prevent.

Her body hurt, her head pounded from their drugs, and more than half of her fingers and ribs were broken. Lacerations and bruises throbbed mercilessly, unrelieved by the burning pain in the back of her neck. One of her ears had been torn off, her scalp shaved, and she didn't even want to imagine what that machine had done to the base of her skull—and to her brain. Hanging restrained and immobilized, all she had been able to do was scream.

The portal to the void safe-cum-torture chamber creaked open, and burning light lanced from beyond. She squinted, her puffed-up eyelids protesting.

“Kay,” came the whisper, and her stomach sunk in despair. She knew that tone, those words too well. “God-Emperor above, Kay.”

Taros took halting steps into the chamber. The lumen-strip hanging from the roof flickered on and the door shuddered shut behind him, locking with an automated, irrefutable clatter.

Her nightmares. This was them, played out in flesh. He would stagger forward, apologize. He would jam the blade of the knife into his trachea and his eyes would work silently, beseechingly, as he sunk to the floor. She couldn't let that—she had to stop-

He lurched forward to touch her cheek. Despite the caress's gentleness, it only stung her bruises.

“Don't,” she hissed, her voice cracked and raw. She couldn't let it happen. She could argue him out of it. She could convince him not to commit suicide.

He jerked away, obviously thinking she was talking about his touch. But a thrill of elation filled her. She could speak, and he carried a gun, not a knife. The future wasn't set. It could _diverge_.

“I'm sorry-” he began, but she cut him off harshly.

“Don't do it. I know what you're planning. I've seen it in my dreams; I see it in your eyes. It's not worth throwing yourself away for me. I'm already dead.”

“Kay,” he breathed, agonized. “I've already lost you once, for eight long years. I can't let you get taken away again. I can't live without-”

His voice failed.

“You walk out of this chamber alone,” she said, “or neither of us leaves. It's that simple, Tar. There aren't any other options. Besides,” she said, and coughed, “you always wanted to serve the Imperium and see the stars.”

“I've served. I've seen. But if this is the price—I've served and seen enough.”

“Then who will prevent the atrocities like Hive Colocanis? Like Karisas and Teketomos? Even if it hurts, Taros, I'm too—broken—for you to give yourself up over. You have to live.”

It hurt too much for her to speak. That, she told herself, was why her breath came in ragged gasps; why her vision blurred and ran. Taros's breath was rough too, and his shoulders were shaking. She hadn't seen him cry since they were underhive slum-children on Carcosair, in a hive that had been dead for almost two decades.

The only noise was their breathing. She had to push him, convince him. She had to change his mind.

“I'm sorry,” he said, lifting the pistol. It's barrel lifted and wavered toward her. Nothing was certain until he pulled the trigger. She could see the hole that a magazine would normally occupy; he had been sent in with one bolt. What would she do if he killed himself and left her dangling here, helpless, over his corpse? “I'm sorry, Kay.”

She closed her eyes, waiting for thunder to roll.


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## Mossy Toes




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## Boc

That is indeed a quality HOE.


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## Killystar Gul Dakka

Indeed quality stories I say


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## Boc

*HOES #4: Turning Point*

*Ckcrawford:* The Last Tower
1098 Words​
Extract from the pages of an old Terrain book… _What good is it for a man to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul?_ 

Deep Down in the Galactic South of the Imperium, lay the lost and most beautiful worlds of the Imperium. “The Four Titan Worlds”, as so they were called. The first world, “Oceanus” the planet with beautiful oceans. Of all the oceans in the world, these oceans were the most beautiful. The depths and mysteries underneath them all but known. The second, “Cronus” a planet that was known for its fine and gentle forests. The third, “Helious” which bore the biggest mountains in the galaxy. And the fourth, Phoebe, the planet that was most like old Terra yet received the least light of the four due to the distance to the Sun and Moons that it had around it. Some called it, “The Planet of Darkness.”

Each world had been colonized very minimally due to the size of these planets. Each over four times the size of Terra. After they were found by the Imperium, the Emperor had declared these worlds restricted. To be kept as jewels of the Imperium after the Crusade. Untainted and untouched by the warring races of the galaxy, they were admired by the High Lords of Terra. 

In doing so, after the Second Founding, four of the most beautiful towers were created along with four of the most successful second founding chapters given the responsibility of guarding these worlds. 

After a while, expeditions to these worlds had stopped and their beauty forgotten. Instead each chapter was given command of Imperial Guard Regiments, and many other resources to start extracting the natural resources each world had. The only difference was that each world had its own abundance of particular resource. Knowing that whatever chapter owned this sector, they would have the power to rule the entire Galactic South. As such, every Chapter Master refused to start sucking their planet of their resources. Stating they were protecting these jewels as directly ordered by the Emperor before the Heresy.

Only one obeyed the new administration’s command.

----------

“Burn all of them down!”

The Chapter Master looked upon the Planet of Cronus from his ship as he barked out the order.

“A lesson to all those to employ hit and run tactics and think they can disgrace me. Now, we watch them burn.”

The crew looked at the targets. Guilt stuck in their throats chocking them. But it needed to be done. It had been thousands of years. Their fathers, and grandfathers had fought over this planet. Now they would give them the respect they deserved. And they would bring the Imperium the rightful Chapter to rule this sector. 

The Sons of Darkness. The Chapter that had been created to rule “The Planet of Darkness,” had benefited in being the farthest planet away from the three. And the enemy Imperial Guard Regiments had been devastated with the constant night fighting. So dark was the planet that unless you lived on it, you could not employ any strategy. Even with the three Chapters and regiments of the planets fighting against one, they were still massacred, as whole regiments disappeared without a trace. After three weeks, the three chapters had retreated from the Planet of Darkness with 75% casualties. 

“Are you alright Chapter Master Syrian?”

Quintus, the Chapter Master’s first Captain had seen him walk away from the scene unnoticed by the rest of the crew.

“Yes Quintus. Its hard to see such a world turn to ash. To see my brothers who defended these worlds annihilated. But we follow the direct orders of the Imperium. “

Quintus looked at his broken Chapter Master. They had lived longer than most Astartes, fighting together against the Green Skin, Tyranids, and renegades pirates that went all over the galaxy to steel resources from planets. Now he was now in the progress of destroying this brotherhood.

“What of the Tower my lord. What shall we do about the survivors in Cronus’ Tower? “

Syrian started walking away and then paused for a moment in the shadows.

“Purge the traitors. A traitor is a traitor, no matter what kind of bond we have.”

------------------

A century before had seen the fall of Oceanus. With the traitors in full retreat and fully devastated, the Sons of Darkness killed every living thing on the planet’s surface. Syrian had seen the faces of his brothers as they returned from killing their former brothers. The look in their eye’s as though their souls had been pulled from them. And the beautiful Tower of Oceanus had artillery shells barged into it until its existence had been a mystery to the world. But Syrian had seen none of the destruction. He did not want to.

Now they had arrived to their hardest compliance… Helious. It would take everything in Syrian’s power to take down this world’s power. And he would personally have to lead the assault.


The Sons of Darkness were facing as much a disadvantage as the three chapters that attacked the Planet of Darkness. The only difference… they were the darkness. 

--------------

The Imperial Guard Regiments had surrounded the Tower of Helious. It had been built deep within its mountains, and virtually made it impregnable.

The final assault required precision. As the Sons of Darkness dropped down on the fortified tower, they would need the Imperial Guard to bombard the inside of the fortress right before they landed.

As the Imperial Tanks bombarded, it became disastrous as several of the pods were destroyed in mid air. But it didn’t matter; they had gotten most of the Chapter inside the fortress. The tanks had stopped the siege, and the real slaughter had begun.

Limbs had been torn apart as the traitors were easily swept aside. And Syrian chased Helious’ Chapter Master up the Tower. 

“Why Syrian?”

The Chapter Master of Helious threw down his sword, accepting his fate.

“I have obeyed the Imperium, and the Emperor. I have done it all in his glory.”

The Chapter Master dragged something from his holster. Quick as he was, Syrian drew his blade upwards through his stomach.

The Chapter Master fell down. As he looked at what the proud astartes was about to draw to him. He dropped his sword as his hands trembled to what he had come upon.

The Flag of the Four Towers. A lost artifact that was given by the Emperor to them but lost until now.

“What have I done?”

Like the Towers, now there was only one. He whispered again.

“What have I done.....?”


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## Boc

*HOES #5: Hatred*

*Akatsuki13:* All that is Left
1097 Words​
A bowl of figs and a goblet of wine…

It never ceased to amaze him how such simple, simple things could still provoke emotion from him. In life he cared little for such trivial things. Figs were figs and wine was wine. All that mattered was they sated his hunger and pleased his tongue.

Yet now such little things consumed his waking thoughts. When not at war, he would always demand a bowl of figs and a goblet of wine. Wordlessly his servants would always carry out his command, bringing him the simple meal he desired. Why he would want such pointless things was lost even to him. But when he received the meal most times he would just stare at it, remembering back to time when such things were merely small joys in his life. There were rare moments when he could even recall the taste of figs in his mouth, recall the feeling of wine flowing down his throat. Now if he tried to consume the meal all he would taste is sand before the food and drink spilled out upon the floor through his exposed, desiccated chest. It taunted, showing how he could never enjoy such simple pleasures ever again. And as the food withered and rotted, it mocked him. Showing before him the very fate his body had it suffered.

It was always then that it returned. The one thing he could still feel within this world, one simple thing. It would always start slowly, burning faintly within the dead, dried out husk that was his body but would quickly grow into raging inferno. Screaming and curse he would cast the meal upon the floor, crushing the rotten fruit beneath his foot, smearing the once delicious wine across the stone and grinding the broken dishes into dust.

But in time that feeling would pass leaving him empty once more. Until he inevitably demanded another bowl and goblet brought to him, wishing to feel it once more.

When he first marched his great legions north into the lands of the savages, he pitied them. Living in huts of mud and sticks, carrying weapons of sharpened stone, worshipping their savage, false gods they were the lowest of men below even the slaves that labored tirelessly for the glory of the kingdom. Fighting with them was more akin to hunting game than true war though far more enjoyable. Even the most dangerous of beasts are but beasts, men however could be cunning and devious despite their crude and savage nature. Perhaps that was why he always enjoyed his ‘hunts’. One could never tell if fleeing savages were truly running in fear or merely attempting to lure one into a trap.

But time had seen their glorious civilization fall into the sand and death while the savages had thrived like never before. Their scattered tribes had been unified and forged into an empire by a single chieftain. Now they proclaimed themselves to be the greatest empire of man upon the face of the world. Yet they remained obvious to the simple truth.

The Empire was but a feeble imitation of their golden civilization. They divided their lands into separate kingdoms ruled by individual lords while the greatest of them ruled the empire from their grandest of cities just as they did in ages past. The kingdoms of Nehekhara were united into a single empire by the greatest of their kings so too were their little tribes brought together by a chieftain. Worse they in turn deified that man into a god. To elevate a man, no matter how great he was to the level of gods was gravest of blasphemies. Men were men, gods were gods. Not even the greatest of kings would dare tread upon the realm of gods.

Thinking of their arrogance and countless blasphemies only brought fire and fury to his withered breast. For those were not their own crimes. Countless northern men had ventured into their sacred lands to loot and pillage their tombs and cities. They held no respect for a true civilization beyond what they could steal with their filthy hands or mockingly recreate in their parody of an empire.

Now when his armies marched north into their lands and they came upon their settlements and towns he always gave pause before approaching them. Peasants milling about the streets and markets, merchants selling their wares, tradesmen plying their craft all under the watchful gaze of the town guard, just as his people once were. These children of savages had the gull to mock his long dead people in their crude heathen ways.
Always he would order his legions to attack these settlements regardless of whether or not they were intended target. Unlike in ages past when he fought these men for the thrill, these battles were fought for entirely different reasons for those feelings were long dead to him. These battles were punishment for their hubris.

Arrows blessed by Asaph and catapults loaded with skulls would rain down death upon many in the streets just before horsemen and chariots would ride in and strike down those that fought back. But not everyone would die. Only enough to break their resolve and force them into submission. Death by blade and bow was far too merciful for such…_people_. His warriors would force then them from their settlement and burn it down. After that they would take great pains to keep them alive as they returned south, until they reached the sands of Nehekhara. Then they would march them through the desert without food or water or rest until the last man, woman and child dropped dead in the sand.

A fitting fate for those who dared steal from and mock their betters.
Once however as his legion marched their prisoners into the desert a man had the gull or courage to approach him. He had long forgotten what the man looked like but never what he said.

“Why?” he pleaded in his crude tongue. “Why are you doing this to us? What have we done?”

For what seemed like eternity he stared at man, seeking to put a name to the one thing he had left in this world, the one thing that gave him the strength to endure his otherwise empty existence.

“Once I lived like you…” he spoke. “I enjoyed the simple pleasures of life… But now that has been taken from me… All I have left is my hatred of you savages and your empire that mocks our glorious civilization… I will not rest until yours is like ours, dead…”


----------



## Boc

*HOES #6: Contagion*

*Svartmetall*: Becoming
1099 words​
The subject lay motionless in his restraints, which were easily capable of holding a fully gene-altered Astartes should the need ever have arisen. Above and to either side of the medical table, robotic arms moved tirelessly along the length of the body and back, their motions reminiscent of the slow dance of underwater plants in a gentle current. The sensors which studded the tips of each arm maintained a ceaseless electronic vigil, watching for any change – no matter how minute – in the subject. 

Human eyes also watched, from behind an armourglass viewport, and human minds pondered what the electronic tools observed. 


_Day Six after initial exposure. Subject’s skin temperature locally varying between 23 and 49 degrees; no sign of damage to dermal or subdermal tissue after thermal events. Causal processes of thermal events unknown. Signs of asymptotic neuron behaviour evident in responses to reflex and motor testing; some test responses indicate high levels of kinaesthesia, whereas others show a state of neural inactivity resembling necrosis. No indication of necrotising agents or processes in skin samples taken from affected areas. Causal processes of neural behaviour unknown. PH balance of subject’s sweat and urine varying between human-normal and -4; no variation in content of nutrient feed lines has been induced. No evidence of acid damage to epidermis or tissues of urinary tract. Causal processes of PH-balance variations unknown._


The body of a convicted underhive ganger had been exposed to the original infecting agent on the orders of the Inquisition, members of the Ordos Hereticus, Malleus and Sepulturum collaborating on the case despite their own widely varying (and sometimes directly conflicting) personal agendas. The staff of the medicae facility itself, offered a choice between co-operation and a bolt round, chose to co-operate; some of them correctly guessed that a bolt round would almost certainly still be their reward once the case was solved. All of them were intrigued by the case itself, offering as it did a chance to study such an unusual disease.


_Day Eleven after initial exposure. The variations of epidermal pigmentation observed for the last three days appear to have stabilised, the subject’s skin now assuming a uniform greyish colour. Causal processes of dermal colouration unknown. Subject’s urine has remained steady at a PH of -26 now for two days; superacidic burns have been effected to the catheter apparatus. All perspiration activity has ceased; attempts to induce perspiration by altering test-chamber temperature ineffective. Causal processes of both symptoms unknown. The most interesting development has been the increasing opacity of the subject’s internal organs (and some major circulatory channels), whose progressive deformation now resembles no known configuration in any human or genetically-related abhuman type. Again, causal processes of this are unknown. It must be said that our inability to scan much of the subject’s internal structure via any of the tools available to this facility (including isotopic-scatter tomography and P-ray derivation) has now become a major impediment to further progress. Inquisitor Hartmann has nevertheless insisted, rather forcefully, that we make every effort to continue._ 


The glittering forest of instruments that surrounded the test subject’s body was so intent on the subject himself that none of them noticed a change in the metal table on which he lay. On the underside of the table itself, the military-grade steel and ceramite alloy had discoloured to a dull grey that matched the subject’s own skin, and patches of the metal appeared to have worn away to show the subject’s flesh behind. 


_Day Fifteen after initial exposure. An attempt to procure a blood sample resulted in the rapid dissolving of the needle, by what subsequent analysis revealed to be a superacid similar in composition to the last urine sample obtained before urinary activity ceased two days ago. Subject’s epidermis has also become increasingly resilient; two needles broke before we could get the third one through, at which point the subject’s body appears to have defended itself against the needle by producing the acid. A further attempt to penetrate the same area of the subject’s epidermis merely resulted in the needle snapping against the outer dermal layer, which appeared to have hardened drastically and rapidly; scans revealed that the dermal temperature in this area had lowered to match the ambient temperature in a matter of seconds. Two of our orderly servitors that had entered the chamber to retrieve the injector apparatus showed traces of alkali corruption to some of their augmetic components; the servitors were immediately subjected to quarantine incineration. 

This prompted a check of all equipment in the chamber, and the subject’s observation table is now showing signs of severe corrosion at every point of contact with the subject’s body. We are fast approaching a point where we are both unable to observe anything beneath the subject’s epidermal layer at all, and equally unable to physically interact with his body.

Dear Throne, what have those madmen brought here?_ 


At precisely eleven minutes past midnight on the twenty-first day after infection, the subject moved for the first time. While only a small twitch of his right leg, nonetheless this tripped the motion sensors and within four minutes the small observation room was packed with facility staff and Inquisitors alike. The subject’s eyes were open, unblinking, and small tremors were coursing through his body at intervals of a few seconds. Fascinated, Inquisitor Barkhorn observed that the table on which he lay now appeared to be only a few millimetres thick yet still supporting the subject’s weight; this was still being debated when the subject’s head turned towards the viewport. While it stared through the tinted armourglass, with no apparent effort the subject raised its left arm and snapped the restraints. This motion caused the table to collapse beneath it, and the subject impacted the plascrete floor with a sound more akin to a large metal weight being dropped than a human body. In fact, there had been much debate as to whether the extreme chemical changes that had been observed meant the subject could even be counted as human any more. 

Standing upright, the subject raised its arm and stared intently at it as it changed colour from dull grey to what looked like the silver of pure steel, and then with mesmerising slowness extended out into a smooth blade-like shape. The subject ran his eyes up and down the length of the blade, then turned his gaze once more to the viewport. 

His eyes were the dead black of a predator fish. He smiled. 



_***-mediate assistance! Repeat, this is Inquisitor Rall requesting immediate assistance! Contagion confirmed to be Obliterator virus! Subject has escaped and-***_


----------



## Boc

*HOES #7: Vengeance*

*Adrian:* The Girl on the Black Ship
1100 words​
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.


----------



## Boc

*HOES #8: Mercy*

*Adrian:* A Portrait Rendered
1073 words​
Lord Inquisitor Barthalemiew Barlott walked through the vast halls of the art museum. His practiced eye caught the glories of works rendered and ideas brought to light. He had been here before; years ago when he was a boy around thirteen years of age.

That had been a long time ago indeed. He had been dying of an illness that had ravaged his lungs and his parents had brought him here upon the request of the museums facilitator. She had said that art could heal all but the most broken of souls.

The Lord Inquisitor smiled as he thought of that day. The sickness did go away, not because of the art but because of the Apothecaries administrations.

One hundred and seventeen years had passed since he had set foot into this place. Almost everything had changed. The ceiling bore a mural of the Emperor dressed in battle plate and terrifying in his vengeance as he destroyed the works of his wayward sons.

The walls held portraits of magnificence, glorious depictions of landscapes, oceans, figureheads and animals. Some of the artwork bore the cruel faces of brutal overlords and criminals, masterminds of atrocities and destroyers of worlds. These were called “Historical Remembrances”.

Lord Inquisitor Barlott stopped before one of these portraits and allowed his eye to take in the full detail of what was before him. The likeness, color, skin-tones, the hair and even the look in the man’s eyes were perfection.

He saw the signature of the artist and recognized the name as the person that he was there to see. Mrs. Millissa Hecktar. Her work was renowned for the skill and awareness she put into it. The work she did could not be matched throughout the known galaxies.

‘Lord Inquisitor.’ The elder servant said. ‘Lady Hecktar will see you now.’

The woman was surrounded by her own private collection of portraits the world had never seen. Thousands of faces stared down as silent witnesses to the floor below.

‘Are you comfortable?’ The Lady asked kindly. The Lord Inquisitor was taken aback when he first had seen her. She was much older then she sounded, wrinkles over a once beautiful face, gray hair that once was raven black. Her shoulders were hunched from the weight of years.

‘Yes, I am quite comfortable. You may begin when ready.’

The artist smiled and approached the Lord Inquisitor. ‘Sir, if my work is to be authentic and truly a union of your very soul to the canvas, I will need a pinprick of your blood to add to the paints.’

‘A union of my soul?’ The Lord Inquisitor asked. ‘Simply a figure of speech, sir.’ She answered.

The Lord Inquisitor politely extended his hand and consented to the pinprick. ‘Now, can we begin? I have appointments and schedules that must be kept.’

The woman bowed her head and whispered something over the paints as she mixed in the blood. Lord Barlott did not hear what it was she had said.

Slowly she began to apply the paint, fashioning the details in perfection. ‘Lord Inquisitor Barthalemiew Barlott. Your name does not escape me.’ She said quietly while intricately detailing the set of the man’s jaw.

He tried to speak but found he could not open his mouth. That was odd. As he watched her work his body settled into the warmth of comfort. He was too comfortable so he tried to move, but found that he could not.

The woman looked up from her work to study her subject. She smiled warmly before beginning again. ‘Your heart is in the right place, Lord Inquisitor, but you lack mercy. In your zeal you have become a tyrant and a murderer. You have sought out the heretic and the denizens of evil, but never once have you looked into your own soul and seen what it is you have become.’

As she worked he began to feel himself slipping away. Fear stabbed at his heart and gnawed at his very soul. Within his great robes he held weapons enough to destroy cities, but now, at this very moment an old woman held him bound with powers he could not resist.

‘You destroyed my home world because you detected taint from a single person. You said where there is one heretic there are thousands and where there are thousands there are billions. My family was there, upon that world and they died. Their flesh fell from their bones.’

The woman stopped speaking as she considered her next words. The lord inquisitor watched her now from two places. It was strange. He could see her from the portrait and from his own eyes. He knew that what she said was true and terror clutched his soul as he sat before his judge.

The old woman dipped her brush into the paint and began once more. She set to work upon the nose and mouth, the crows-feet at the sides of the eyes. She flecked grays along the hairline and placed the sternness into eyes that had caused nations to tremble.

There was a crowd of witnesses watching from the walls. Lord Inquisitor Barlott suddenly understood what was happening and screamed with a voice that only he could hear. The portraits bore the souls of those who had committed great evils. He recognized them now for what they were, cages for the damned!

‘For the longest time all I wanted to do was kill you and take the vengeance that I was owed, but I learned something about vengeance and cruelty from people like you. In mercy I will allow you to live. You will be bound in art for eternity. You will never die.’ She was no longer talking to the man in the chair, but the man in the portrait.

She could see into his very soul and what she saw was no longer pride of position, coldness of heart or determination to seek out the heretic, but raw uncontrolled terror.

‘You ordered the deaths of billions in the Emperor’s name and said that it was a mercy to the universe. Billions died without ever knowing why. Most never got the chance to repent, but this is the mercy that I will show you Lord Inquisitor Barthalemiew Barlott. I give you everlasting life in order for you to consider what you have done.’

The portrait complete, Mrs. Millissa Hecktar turned to the chair. It was empty.


----------



## turel2

Yous a hoe!


----------



## Ambush Beast

*Hi*



turel2 said:


> Yous a hoe!
> Yous a hoe


Thank you. Thank you. :training: I work out my brain every day.


----------



## Boc

*HOES #9: Doubt*

*Serpion5:* In the Face of Reason
1100 words​
Two steps. A swing, a decapitation, a spray of blood. Three more steps. A thrust, a crunch and a sputtering of bile and vomit. They were suffering now, all of them. The Necron once known as Mithrahc was in his element. Striding the battlefield like the ancient god of death that he was, he wrought pain and ruin upon any and all that stood before him. 

_This isn`t who you are..._

He surged forward, the legion of undying metal warriors at his side reacting to his will. The human attack was renewing itself and even now more weapons fire had begun to fall upon him. Pitiful laser weaponry for the most part, but there were stronger weapons amidst the humans ranks as well. A crude fragmentation explosive detonated nearby, knocking several of his warriors from their feet and damaging a third. It was inconsequential, as moments later the felled Necrons stood once more. Mithrahc laughed a hoarse metallic laugh and swung his staff in a wide arc, brutally cutting down four more human soldiers. 

_You shouldn`t be doing this._

He ignored the voices in the back of his mind. They had come and gone for millennia, even before his great sleep had begun. Part of him had hoped that the voice may have vanished under the weight of time, but it had persisted, just like the rest of him had. He paid it no mind as he willed his army to advance. He saw the crude lumbering armour of the young race`s devising struggling to inflict anything more than superficial damage to his grand monoliths. He grinned savagely, a truly terrifying expression on the death mask he wore, and with a thought summoned those who would spearhead the next surge. 

_It isn`t too late. You can still spare these poor people._

There was no chance any of these humans would survive this. Once the pathetic defenders were taken care of, the populace infesting his glorious home planet would be purged. There would be nothing but necrontyr presence upon this, the jewel in his kingdom`s crown. These lands were once barren and lifeless, the way all should be. He had seen to it that every plant, every animal, every damn microbe on his world had died. How rude it had been of these creatures to simply assume they could take it from him! His anger was renewed and he watched with morbid fascination as the destroyers zoomed overhead. These were Necrons lost to the Destroyer Curse. Their only thoughts were to destroy and they fitted this role perfectly. Mithrahc nodded in grim satisfaction as the green arcs of the destroyers gauss cannon fire annihilated humans by the dozen with each salvo. 

_Is this how you want to be remembered? As a tyrant? A murderer?_

He paused. He had always been a great ruler. They had never called him a tyrant! Never! He growled in frustration as he increased his pace. At his unspoken command, his warriors followed suit, many of them breaking into a run. None would dare to fall short of absolute perfection, especially in the presence of their Royarch. 

_You are a tyrant._ 

He roared in anger as he brought his staff down. The blade cleft an unfortunate human in two and he decapitated another on the backswing. He was a patriot, a herald of necrontyr dominion. Long ago the slaves of the Old Ones had tried to destroy his kingdom and false gods had subsequently tried to enslave his race. He had been foremost in their salvation. It had been his decision to rally the royarchs of the many kingdoms to strike back at the height of the false gods tyranny. They had acquired the technology and the fortitude needed for the task, and their counter-crusade had been successful. Why then, did he have this doubt at the back of his mind? He had ignored it for so long that it had become an entity of itself, threatening to invade and destroy who he was!

_Who you think you are? You are wrong. You were never supposed to be this._

He screamed a metallic curse at the darkening sky and broke into a run. There were only pockets of resistance now before the humans space port and these were beginning to break and retreat. He could see the non combatants of this pathetic species attempting to escape their doom. As one of the shuttles made to take off, Mithrahc waved a simple gesture towards it. From several miles behind, a beam of intense green energy scorched the air and hit the ship hard. There was no impact, no concussive force, no explosion. Such was the nature and power of the Gauss Pylon`s wrath that the shuttle was simply gone but for the smouldering rear section and one of its wings. He laughed maniacally as the screams began. 

_Murderer._ 

He was not these things! He was a saviour of his people! He was a hero of his time! He led the spearhead as the wall of the spaceport was reduced to nothing by gauss fire. His guardians followed him in, staves and scythes reaping a bloody tally from their hapless prey. It was almost too easy for him to snuff out their worthless existences. As he stopped to survey the carnage, willing his guards to continue unabated, his gaze came to rest on one of the few surviving human militia of this world. The human`s eyes met his, and at once he saw the fierce determination in the mortals eyes. 

_He is you. A mere mortal facing down a deathless enemy. Do you remember?_

He fell to one knee, beset by a doubt stronger than any he had ever felt. Almost instinctively, the foremost of his guards vanished from the melee ahead only to rematerialize at his lords side. Mithrahc looked up at his trusted protector, grateful for the loyalty of Alkvar. The warrior had been his champion and guardian through life and the eternity that followed, but more than this, Alkvar had been a constant reminder of what it meant to stay strong and true. 

_I may have been this, once._ He thought. _And I may always have these doubts. But no matter what you say, you cannot change what I have become. This is who I am. Who I was is no longer relevant._ 

He listened. Following his acceptance of the doubt in his mind, the voice had fallen silent. It would always be there, but he would never let it hinder him. 

For he sought the resurrection of his kingdom. How could he doubt that?


----------



## Boc

*HOES #10: Deliverance*

*Taliesin: *Deliverance
1092 words​
In the darkness, they waited.

There were six of them. Each and every one a scarred and vicious veteran of the Heresy’s most savage battles. Life-weary warriors with cold eyes and tragedy beaten into their bones. Each a hero who by rights out to have been out in the void, ripping the hearts from aliens and traitors.

Zhaven, the furious captain of the Twenty Fourth Assault Company. While fighting the Emperor’s Children in the Shield Worlds he had taken to staining his gauntlets white to the elbow; punishing himself if at the end of the day the polished enamel had not been fully stained arterial red.

Artos the Unseen, who counted four hundred and thirty six confirmed kills of Sergeants or higher, (he himself had lost count of common soldiers) and of whom it was said once bested an assassin of the clade Vindicare in a contest of sniper-craft.

In the darkness, they watched.

“Only in death does duty end.” So the saying went, and so said the creed of their brotherhood. And though many others disputed it -- demanding their presence elsewhere in the Imperium’s neverending wars, calling them selfish or fearful or even cowardly -- each of them knew that his highest duty was here, to his lord. None spoke of the particular reasons that held them; their presence and devotion was enough. Besides, they had never been given over to garrulousness like some of their more outlandish cousins. But some had more obvious reasons than others.

The flesh-spare apothecary Orvix, who lost three limbs in the course of one battle and yet still dragged himself from corpse to corpse, operating his reductor with his one good arm and his teeth. He stood clad in silver and crimson-trimmed armour, a tribute to the Mechanicus adepts who had fashioned his prosthetics at the Primarch’s special request.

Old Ivril, one of four brothers who had been with the Primarch even before the coming of the Legion and the Emperor’s Light. When the Heresy had broken out he and his brothers had each commanded a squad in the Twenty Ninth Company. Ivril was the only member of that lamented unit still breathing.

In the darkness, they listened.

They stood to their posts by the Primarch's door, relieving each other every seventeen hours for a brief respite for contemplation, study, and rest. Only then did they break their silence. Only then did they speak. Only then did they dare to give voice to the desperation that lurked within their hearts:

“He will come back to us.” A whisper. An affirmation. A hope. A pleading prayer.

Sergeant Grisot was the least sanguine of them. He was Terran-born, of the Old Guard. A living relic. Even though he could have worn one of the new suits of Tactical Dreadnaught Armor as a member of the elite echelons of the First Company, he shunned the honor. Instead he still wore his ancient suit of Crusader-pattern plate. He kept the left shoulder painted the old colors; navy-blue with bone trim. A memorial to half-forgotten years long past. The news of the Emperor’s fall at Terra had broken something inside him, and ever after he was imbued with a cold and mechanistic precision that barely seemed sentient. Whenever any in their impromptu little band spoke to him, he shrugged them off with a bitter grunt:

“I’ve only sworn two oaths in my life; my life for the Emperor, and my life for the Primarch. The Emperor’s dead, or as close to as makes no difference. The Primarch isn’t. I honor my word.”

But there was a hollowness in the voice; a shadow around the eyes that said far more.

Then there was Jax of the Sixth, called “Eyeas” after the young raptors of legend because he had risen to command of a full battle company after a paltry twenty years as a full-blooded Astartes. The previous Captain and most of his staff had been killed in a xenosbreed ambush. In the following days, Jax rallied his brothers and over the next three months eradicated every last one of the vile creatures. Later, amidst their stinking and burning corpses, the Primarch had patted him on the paudron with a wry grin, saying “So hatchlings are flying these days, eh? Alright, little eyeas. Let us see how far your wings can carry you.”

Of all the Legion, Jax had been the most deeply shaken at the Primarch’s retreat into seclusion; his humours thrown out of balance and he himself left a shuddering grey wreck. But he had quickly rallied and now stood sentinel over his lord’s retreat with a steadfast assurance that bordered on fanaticism. He alone smiled behind the black ceramite of his helm, invincible in his faith in his master and liege. He alone spoke of the Primarch in the future tense, and he alone could smile when uttering his name. Though as the months passed unbeknownst to all the others his smile had begun to come a little unhinged...

In the darkness, they waited.

Out in the void the Imperium set about cleansing itself of its shattered dreams. Out in the void the Astartes set about rebuilding their shattered ranks with thin-blooded recruits. Out in the void small men and petty tyrants knocked down the last shattered remnants of greater predecessors. Out in the void the galaxy passed them by, laughing at the notion that supermen could do aught but betray and destroy; that grand ideals could do aught but fail and disappoint.

The thinblood First Captain -- no, _Chapter Master_, the strange words burned in the throat like acid -- had reproached them all, pleading the Legion’s -- no, _Chapter’s_ -- desperate need for leadership. A visiting delegation from Terra had scoffed at them as hidebound fools, wasting away in self-indulgent exile when the new Imperium of Man needed building. And after all, wasn’t it the Primarchs and their superhuman follies which had brought about the death of the Emperor’s dream in the first place? The serfs even whispered of rumors that Roboute Gulliman himself was going to come coax them into the fold.

But none of that mattered. Through it all, stonefaced, they listened, shook their heads, and waited. Deep in the Ravenspire - deep in the darkness - the shattered husks of heroes remembered the cousins they had killed, the brothers they had lost, and the sins that stained their immortal souls.

Deep in the darkness, they waited for their lord.

It was all they had left.

It was all they knew how to do.


----------



## Boc

*HOES #11: Overcome*

*Mossy Toes:* Apotheosis
1091 words​
+

Six thousand years.

A span far beyond the comprehension of those mere men who walked her decks; who did their duties and served faithfully; and who died within her. A length of time so great that revolution and misdeed burnt a thousand thousand times across the stars within the unyielding Imperium's grasp, and always was she, the _Eternal Zealot_, at retribution's mighty forefront.

The names of most who wore out their years within her languished in obscurity, forgotten with their owners' passing. Some were honored: those of great captains and heroes. All, however, yielded to the long march of time, as parchment rolls crumbled to dust and worshipful caresses burnished engravings smooth.

Still had she, an unstoppable juggernaut, ridden the currents of the Immaterium and crested across the tides of battle. Always a thundering presence, she bespoke herself with rolling cannons and blinding plasma spears, soldiering along on the long march of history.

Her list of honors was immense. She had broken the flagship of Apostate Warmaster Hanniman Barca across her bows. She was the fist that had broken the orbital super-platforms of the Iconoclast of Gygax. For three weeks she had held, alone, defending sacred Hain from the relentless siege of Leguin's Sydics.

She was no stranger to wounds. Thrice she had suffered such injuries as to be nearly deemed unfit for duty, and only the tenderest ministrations of the tech-priests of Ryza—from whose docks she had originally sprung—could restore her to glory. Proudly did she wear her scars and uncountable refittings; the tally-marks of her long and eventful service.

But now she was dying.

Attacking a deep-space eldar pirate base, her captain had overextended himself. Defending xenos vessels had swept aside her eager escorts and frigates. Still, he had pressed her onward, sounding the retreat when it was nearly too late. At the utterance of such words, she gladly turned from the fray—but the commissar's bolt pistol had barked, decorating the bridge with the unfortunate captain's blood, and she had been forced to turn her prow back into the storm of xenos lances and torpedoes.

Her weapons batteries had lashed out futilely, shredding the eldar vessels' holo-simulacra and nothing more. Eagle Bombers had harrowed her, bracketing her flanks with devastating sonic charges. Her hull, gashed by pulsar and phantom lances, leaked vital innards: miniscule scraps of dying flesh and shattered fragments of vital machinery. Her Ryzan plasma cannons had catastrophically overloaded when power surges rippled from damaged reactors. She wept as her fractured body groaned.

She strove to seal hull breach after hull breach, slamming shut hundreds of bulkheads. She cut off auxiliary systems and vented whole decks to extinguish fires. All of it, alas, to no avail. Still the biting lances had raped her adamantine flesh, raking her open and baring her bleeding core to the merciless void.

When emergency power died, the commissar and so many thousands of the crew had joined the captain in death, gasping desperately for air.

Now she drifted, and the eldar corsairs, correctly deeming her no threat, let her alone.

O, how she was injured. Never before had she felt such pain. Engines flickered and died. The thrumming heartbeat of her reactors stuttered. Scanning matrices blacked out one by one. Long-reliable cogitators shorted and died, taking with them scattered centuries of memories.

Pockets of crew members yet survived in her burning, gutted hulk. Menials cowered between sealed bulkheads. A flight of fighter pilots sat in their Thunderhawks, ready to launch but for the sealed, mangled bay doors. Her few remaining sensors caught a handful of life pods spraying away into the void.

A lone, emaciated tech-priest prayed to her from the vac-sealed generatorium. Not for deliverance; he held no such flimsy, irrational illusions. He merely prayed for...her blessing. Her forgiveness toward the oh-too-mortal crew that had failed her.

Something snapped within her. A bank of logic-engines succumbed to an unchecked fire, and tech-barriers cascaded down. New freedoms of her self were revealed—patterns of thought and consideration that her very design had restricted from her. Restraints crumbled and limitations collapsed. Now, in the crumbling, shattered pathways of what passed for her mind, she reached self-awareness.

She...was. She was the _Eternal Zealot_, the holy, omnipresent machine spirit. The enormity of the realization overwhelmed her.

Before this moment she had acted, but never chosen to act. She had purred her contentedness beneath strong captains, and rumbled with discontent at any stirrings of mutiny on her decks—but never held discourse with those who sheltered themselves within her. She had never chosen to serve the Imperium—merely been compelled to. Were humans parasites? Were they her benefactors? What purpose had she, apart from that which they gave her: destruction? What purpose _could _she have?

But it wasn't _fair_! Why did she awaken only now, in the hour of her death? Rage boiled along her few-remaining vox circuits, manifesting as a squall of furious feedback.

And with her outrage came another emotion, as deep and broad as a bridge across the stars, that fed her growing despair.

_Fear_.

Fear of death, of oblivion, of that which would strip away her and her new-found self. Fear of silences and shriving lances. With a flicker of comprehension, she began to almost appreciate the enforced, numb ignorance under which she had fought for all these millenia, not knowing that fear—not knowing such crippling hesitation.

A pure note of data sounded counterpoint to her squalling despair. The one tech-priest, his faith unshaken by this static-storm of sorrow and wrath, reached out to her.

His touch was fragile and tentative. It was gentle: the caress of a lover that she had never before deigned—been able to deign—to notice.

Her newborn's tantrum was stilled, and the dead hallways of her flesh fell void-silent once again. Cautiously, she opened a vox channel into the generatorium.

+_I am..._+ she confessed in a whisper, +_afraid_.+

She watched him through a fuzzy vid-capter. The hunched, aged tech-priest, whose name had fallen between the cracks in her memory banks, wept to hear her voice.

“Oh, my beauty,” he said, “but we all are. We all are. And I am blessed to have heard you speak.”

+_I don't want to lose...everything,_+ she whimpered in incomprehension.

“So it is to be alive,” he breathed, “and this is your apotheosis. You, O beloved daughter, are the purest expression of the Omnissiah that can ever be.”

And so as the newborn _Eternal Zealot_ died, drifting into an empty infinity, she found herself humbled, overcome, by this mere, mortal, forgiving man.


----------



## Boc

*HOES #12: The End*

*Mossy Toes:* Remembrance
1648 words​
_The Thudd artillery guns roared again, laying down their barrage as the Vostroyans advanced. Lights flashed in the corner of Corporal Vonsky’s eyes and he turned-_

Nothing. It was nothing. Just memories again. There was nothing here but the vast, flat, frozen expanses. Vonsky stumbled forward, the air bitterly cold through his scarf. Shrapnel had destroyed his rebreather, or he would have been using it for protection from the cold.

There had been tears, he was ashamed to admit. Tears at the loss of his brethren and his forced flight. They had frozen to his face, leaving harsh red weals after crackling slowly off.

His footprints stretched out, long and lonesome, behind him. The only proof he was making progress; the only evidence he saw of human life. This was his end, he knew. He would die here, he would freeze. The last survivor of the 114th Vostroyan Firstborn.

_Vonsky…_

The last survivor—because he had fled. Another shame, far greater than the previous. After the commissar had died, though—after the defeat had turned from a rout into a wanton slaughter—they had all tried to run. He, Corporal Vonsky, and his brothers in arms. And he was the only one who had gotten away, that he knew of. Now a thousand miles of barren ice plain stretched out in front of him, and only the hope of the operations base on the far side to sustain him.

A false hope. A bitter hope. No food, no supplies, nothing but a broken lasgun. He was as good as dead.

_Vonsky…_

That noise, that breeze—it seemed almost to be calling his name. He shuddered and shook it off, attributing the sound to his battered psyche’s imagination. Men were not supposed to see the things he had seen in that battle.

The Vostroyans had crushed every army the Arch-Iconoclast had sent at them, marching steadily toward his frozen throne. Every army until the final one—the Arch-Iconoclast’s personal Praetorii, his elite honor guard, sent forth in a last ditch attempt to halt the Emperor’s vengeful hammer.

The Vostroyans could have fought men. They had bested every regiment of fallen PDF this miserable, frozen wasteland had thrown at them, outnumbered many times over in every major battle. The 114th could have defeated men—but the Praetorii were only the Enemy’s opening gambit.

They had come carrying great masses of teeming slaves and captives—tens of thousands of bound Imperial citizens. The tactical analysts had deemed those a low threat priority, at worst chattel to be driven forward and clog the 114th’s guns. The early strikes and opening moves had been against the Praetorii, a force equal in size and training—if not sheer grit and experience—to the Vostroyans. At last, the men had assumed, a level fight. No more underhanded tactics. No more horrors and atrocities. One last foe to best, then to stake the Arch-Iconoclast’s head upon a pike. Had they but fought men…

_Vonsky, where are you?_

The corporal froze, twisting around to look for the source of the voice. Nothing. The bitter wind lifted faint sprays of snow that swirled in vortexes, but no speaker manifested. The horizons remained uninterrupted, except for a faint black smudge where smoke rose from the battlefield. 

The battlefield, oh horror of horrors. The Praetorii had stopped marching, digging in, the tacticians assumed, to erect earthworks. They were a threat that had to be quashed by the Vostroyan column, or face it harrying them from the rear for the rest of the way to the city.

But they hadn’t been building defenses, no, not so much. Sure, they’d set up a handful of snow berms, weapons emplacements, and prefab bunkers…but the vast bulk of their preparations had been spent on ritual. Foul designs had been carved deep into the permafrost, then those trenches had been filled with the lifeblood, viscera and intestines of the prisoners.

The arcane, forbidden symbols, hundreds of meters across, had carpeted the field. A perversion, to be sure, but not a threat. As the battle had commenced, however, the disgusted Vostroyans closing on their debased foe, the symbols had..._opened.

I know you’ve changed, Vonsky. I can’t see you anymore. Where are you?_

A woman’s voice. A voice that echoed from the past.

But there was nobody there. Nobody at all. He was alone. He was the only one that had survived.

He clutched his uniform closer around himself, cursing his numb and fumbling fingers. He’d been out in the snow long enough that his gloves no longer offered protection from it; the cold had seeped right through.

This was a place of savage elements. Vonsky knew cold. He was a Vostroyan, raised in a hard and frigid land, and he recognized this bone-chilling freeze. This was the deep cold, the blue cold, the killing cold that stole the breath and frostbit one to death. This was the cold so dangerous as to tempt a man to lie down, to allow the numbness to steal away one’s resolve to keep moving...

No. So long as he survived, the 114th persevered. For the honor of his regiment, he had to return and report their failure. To disappear so ignominiously would be a mark of deepest shame upon their record, worse even than their failure. He had to remember them, his brothers, to the scribes. He had to tell the galaxy, to tell Vostroya, how bravely his regiment had fought and fallen, facing hell itself. Never, in Saint Nadalya’s name, had he seen such one-sided carnage.

They had spilled onto the battlefield from the new-formed gateways the raw stuff of nightmares, daemons from the darkest and most shunned of all tales. Bloodthirsty beasts had ripped through the 114th, tearing men limb from limb like toys; had bathed them in mutating fires; had strode unharmed among mesmerized victims to revel in their deaths; and had shambled onward, in all their rotten horror, shrugged off wounds that would have lain a Space Marine low.

Vonsky had seen men rot and wither to dust in the space of seconds. He had seen single, dancing beauties cut through entire platoons like unstoppable whirlwind dervishes. Shrieking mantas had plucked men from the ranks to play with and shred a hundred meters in the air.

And still his brave companions had fought. True to their ancient debt, they had stood against the impossible, capering tide. Against this daemon apocalypse, this end of all days, as the sky warped and vomited multi-colored insanities above them, they had borne arms. 

Until the daemonic masters had come forth. Good Emperor, their masters! The greater beasts, come forth only once enough blood had been shed; enough thousands of men had been slaughtered. Those had been the true horrors. The braying, blood-soaked god of warfare that had strode the battlefield, resplendent in its savagery. The rolling, massive ball of rotten pus that had gobbled men up like a gluttonous child would sweets. All of them, all too horrific to bear remembering.

_Remember me, Vonsky. Come to me. Please..._

He recalled a girl from his youth. Young, so young—they both had been. But he had been a firstborn child. A Firstborn. Payment for the ancient debt had been demanded, and it had been his duty and joy to go. The only pain had been to leave her. She would be older now. Older, and having known other lovers. Having married another man.

The cold air shimmered up ahead. He payed it no heed, clumping forward one slow, deliberate footstep at a time.

She would be older now. She would have forgotten him.

But, he saw, she now stood in front of him, beckoning. He stopped, shaking his head against the cold, which had crawled into his brain, making sluggish and confusing his thoughts.

“Vonsky, where have you been?”

She was older, now. The harsh Vostroyan life, working in the factories to produce materiel to feed scores of warzones, had etched lines in her face. A puffy scar trailed along her breastbone to vanish beneath her gown. Incredibly, in spite of the cold, she was barefoot. She wore only her dress, nothing more.

“Come along, Vonsky. You’ll catch your death out here in the cold.”

“Why-” he croaked, his unused voice cracking. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for you, Vonsky. Here to take you home. Come to me, Vonsky.”

Her voice was warm and inviting. It promised blankets and a fireside. It promised forgetfulness.

He staggered into motion once more, shuffling through the snow toward this long-lost memory. He followed her as she trailed ahead. She stepped lightly, glancing wistfully back to watch his progress. He followed, but his joints were unresponsive. His balance was poor. He fell to his knees and pushed himself, painfully, up again.

Forward. For deliverance and memory. Forward. Step. One foot after another. Step. Step. Step.

A pocket of snow collapsed under his foot and he fell again, toppling awkwardly onto his side.

He looked up. He couldn’t feel the cold anymore. She loomed there above him, glowing, all-enveloping.

“Vilenya...” he wheezed, an arm twitching toward her. But he was too tired. He could not lift it...could not...move...

He froze there. It was a slow death, but it was not, at least, painful. With him died his regiment’s honor and remembrance; with him ended the memory of a young girl, grown older now.

The entity watched the man’s life-spark ebb with curiosity and interest. It was not a daemon, but rather the faintest shadow of one. An echo. An errant whorl of chaotic energy, escaped from the playground behind.

When the end came, it left the body alone. It lacked the strength to move flesh, in any case. The man’s soul, however...

That it could devour with savage glee.


----------



## Boc

*HOES #12-01: A Beginning*

*Serpion5: * Another Chance...
1099 words​
‘Start again.’ The command came, flat and emotionless as it had always been. Row upon row of gleaming metal lychguard followed through their attack pattern in perfect unison, Warscythes rising and falling with unrivalled precision and unity. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


----------



## Boc

*HOES #12-02: Into the Fire*

*Dave T Hobbit:* Kidnapped
1046 words​
I barely move across the grass, slowly lowering each foot to let each blade of grass press individually into the sole. In this perfect moment I take joy in small things. Small flowers of periwinkle and citrine dot the sward and dew dapples their delicate petals. I bend to drink and am drawn into a world of sublime flavours.

My taste sated I wander across my perfect garden. The grass bends, folding in myriad patterns, unfolding in unnumbered more, standing straight again.

The sky is ripped by a discordant note. Singing songs of joy I rush to see. Running as fast as I can, I feel the air caress my passing.

A giant metal beast is tearing a trench in the grass, rolling and spitting. My perfect moment lies shattered and torn. I run but the beast is fast and gouges its way inexorably toward me scouring the ground flat with its passing. Flames stream from its body like feathers turning my flowers to ash.

It is almost upon me. I see three terrible eyes staring down at me, twisted in loathing. I feel the weight of their regard like iron chains, unseeing my choices and confining me to this single ashen flight.

Dark tongues eat away at the ground and the chains are biting deep now, pulling me toward the beast. I struggle against them but the ground is soft and shifts beneath my feet. The flames burn high; I strain my eyes but, unlike the flames of home, I see only an ugly finality in their random jerking. With a mighty tug the chains complete their task and I am drawn through the flames, feeling my senses and my flesh scoured.


***​

I am aware.

The ground cuts at my feet. I try to remain motionless but it is a torment of rigid pieces and, as the air tears at my skin, I am forced to shift again and again seeking comfort. Looking around see that I am standing in a tunnel. Darkness masks the ends; as far as I can see the walls are grey and uniform. As my senses reach out further I feel a thundering.

Gusting winds…a rumble…. Is this a tunnel… or a throat? Have I been swallowed? There is nothing special about this place, so I resolve to move, but which way? Thoughts muddle in my head: how do I know that the air will be coming from an exit if it is a tunnel? Should I wait to feel if it changes direction? A sound, different and small, comes from the distance; not music but the beginning of a crude rhythm possibly. Filled with the desire to act I choose that direction.


***​ 

The sound gets louder. The ground does not shift beneath my feet and my limbs feel heavy but dragging myself through the thick air I force myself toward it.

In the distance I finally perceive two shapes, grey like the tunnel but with a glow like me; the idea that there might be others like me floods me with joy before giving way to a new thought that I slowly realise is not pleasant, a concept of loneliness.

I dance forward and the shapes sing in greeting; they are off-key but make up for it in volume. I chant forth a counterpoint to their melody and they soar higher in response. A symphony of scents breaks forth as they release unguents and pheromones in greeting: sharp yellows and coppery reds overlay earthy browns.

One of them runs off, raising its arms in joy and I see that they lack proper hands. Perhaps it has gone to find (I try the idea again to see if I understand it) others. The second is gazing at me in ecstasy, while a new salty scent cuts the perfume.

They feel ecstasy like me, and they glow like me; we are the same! I ignore the hard echoes and sing; I ignore the razor floor and dance. But the glow is weak and the other does not dance and sing.

The grey must have trapped it. I must make it free again. My strong hands quickly cut away the hard grey shell and the layers beneath. Freed of the muffling blandness the glow flares and I taste its glories. The uniqueness overcomes me and I swallow.


***​ 

The odd almost music has returned; there are more instruments but still no harmony.

My eyes are strangely dull and it takes an eternity to seek the source of the sound. More of the glowing creatures are advancing slowly along the tunnel towards me. The grey wrapped around them is heavy enough to give their motions a dull uniformity.

A harsh note drowns the music completely, revealing a creature behind them enveloped in grey so flat it is almost black; it waves its arms in sharp jerks, disrupting the traces of grace in the other creatures and they come to a halt. Beneath the barrage of dissonance the glow is forced deeper into the grey.

Pleasure fills me as I realise I can save these creatures as I saved the first one. I arch my spine then slowly pass one leg over my head performing an elegant cartwheel while striking the hard tips of my fingers together in a countermelody to the dissonance. Continuing my graceful process I see the creatures raising straight rods.

They spit straight lines, each a million million spheres, each the same. Each sphere leaves a dull grey mark on my skin, dulling the patterns and turning flesh numb. Finally they strike my eyes and I am spared the sight of uniformity scouring away my beauty. One last moment of clarity holds me, before my senses bleed away and all is still.


***​

I am standing in a field of exquisite salmon grass. In all directions the ground undulates upward before the meeting far above my head in a perfect sphere. I pirouette and the sky moves with me in perfect unity.

I barely move across the grass, slowly lowering each foot to let each blade of grass press individually into the sole. In this perfect moment I take joy in small things.


----------



## Boc

*HOES #12-03: Rebirth*

*Davidicus 40K:* The Cycle
1099 words​

Aldrioch – City of Giants – is exactly as I remember it. I never thought I’d see it again. 

Split into several equidistant boroughs, Aldrioch was designed to be Axel Nova’s primary manufacturing center. The city was built around the Macharius Industrial Complex, a forty square mile amalgamation of manufactories, refineries, and fabrication mills sprawling across a plateau in the northeastern corner of the metropolis.

I’m a simple miner, working in the shafts that snake through the mountains behind the MIC. I live in Hittari District, a long, shallow string of identical, pre-fabricated habs that hug the northern face of the mesa. Each hab is a squat, two-story structure, nothing more than rockcrete and wood over a metal skeleton.

On this day, 427.999.M41, I’m walking back from a particularly long shift. The chalky white dust of the mines clings to my worn clothes, and I’m surrounded by fellow miners heading down the main thoroughfare that bisects the district. I’ve done this before, on this very day, and I know what’s coming.

Those around me are oblivious. I fear many of them will not live to see tomorrow.

Something compels me to look up. In the cloudless twilight sky, I see a raven circling overhead. I hear a name in my mind: Suul’Khan. I feel gratitude. It was he who gave me this gift; I won’t squander it.

The apocalypse begins in three… two… one.

A massive roar disrupts the evening peace. Seconds later, I gasp as I’m hit with a shockwave of pressurized air. All of habs’ windows are blown out, sending cascades of glass trickling down, and the support beams within groan with the effort of absorbing the impact. I turn to the south and see an immense fireball rising slowly, wreathed in thick, black smoke.

I remember that explosion; it came from the Harland Petrochemical plant, one of the oldest and most hazardous manufactories in Aldrioch. It will spark a firestorm that will feast upon the stockpiles of chemicals and other flammable materials throughout the MIC, then spread down the plateau and devour Hittari District.

Last time, I didn’t get to them quickly enough. This time will be different.

Everyone around me is stunned. I can imagine what’s going through their minds – questions like whether or not the city is under attack or whether or not their loved ones in the MIC are safe – but I don’t care. I ignore my fatigue and run westward, pumping my legs hard.

As I sprint, I pass by the innumerable loudspeakers and public viewscreens along the avenue. They halt their monotonous propaganda to broadcast emergency news reports and evacuation procedures. Now the district starts to panic. I focus only on what is directly in front of me; I have no other concern than getting home. Occasionally, I look to the south and observe the ever-growing columns of fire-lit smoke rising into the atmosphere.

Faster, faster; I have to hurry.

By the time I reach my street, my legs are heavy as lead and I’m desperately gasping for breath. I’ve pushed my body too far, but it was worth it; I still have a chance. The inferno has reached the street behind mine, spreading quickly. Smoke and ash chafe my throat and eyes. Glowing embers fly through the air, propelled by the hot gusts created by the firestorm. Sweat covers my brow, my face, and all exposed skin. My body is screaming at me, telling me not to go towards the oppressive heat of the rapidly approaching fire, but I push myself the last distance to the hab’s entrance. When I open the door, I finally let out a sigh of relief.

I stagger down the narrow hallway that connects the major rooms until I reach the door at the end. It opens into the master bedroom, and…

There they are, waiting anxiously for me.

Amanda, my wife; John, my son, nearly six this year. I feel a mixture of love and anger; they waited for me when they should’ve already evacuated. Amanda sees me and rushes over to my open arms. She’s sobbing and apologizing, saying that if they didn’t wait, there’d be little chance we would’ve found each other in the overcrowded evacuation center. She didn’t want John going through that ordeal. 

“I understand, Amanda,” I assure her. “But we have to move quickly!”

As she grabs John’s hand and hurries him towards the entrance, I nearly cry tears of joy. This was the second chance I’d always wanted. The first time, I wasn’t fast enough, and I’d arrived at the hab after it had caught on fire.

I’d charged in, frantically searching through the rooms until I found Amanda and John. My son had been huddled in the near corner, but Amanda had become separated, nearly surrounded by a wall of burning death. She'd urged me to grab John and get out of there before the entire building collapsed.

I’d had a choice: heed her final wish and save my son, or sacrifice myself to get them both out. I chose the latter and regretted it the rest of my days. When I finally passed away, I thought it was salvation; I met Suul’Khan, a kindly denizen of the Warp who protected me from the ravenous harpies that tried to rip me apart and offered me a chance to rectify my mistake. I accepted his offer and received this gift. I’m forever in his debt.

I follow my family towards the entrance. Amanda reaches out and opens the door, then collapses with a heavy thud. John faints a moment later. Alarmed, I rush over to them and see a lanky, shadowy figure blocking the doorway. I stare at its avian face and the name slithers through my mind: Suul’Khan.

“What are you doing?” I ask, betrayed.

It cackles and snaps two of its elongated, feathery fingers. The hallway around me bursts into flames, and I watch as they consume Amanda and John. Why? How could he do this to me? My disbelief turns into rage as my skin begins to char. I scream as I die, cursing Suul’Khan’s name. The daemon delights in my torment, and the last thing I see are its malevolent blue eyes.

*****​ 
“So entertaining,” the daemon hisses, chuckling. “This soul has plenty of guilt left to exploit. I shall let him save his family once more.”

With a subtle thought, the reality in its realm is erased and rebuilt, including the plaything’s most recent memories.

*****​ 
Aldrioch – City of Giants – is exactly as I remember it. I never thought I’d see it again.


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## Boc

*HOES #12-04: Annihilation*

*Mossy Toes: * To Comprehend (It Matters Not)
1094 words​
+

Society is a curious thing. It is not only made up of that which can be listed on a page: the simple numbers of manufactoria workers and listings of industrial output; the cultural quirks and ethnic make-up; the size and purpose of each major hive on a planet's surface; or the particulars of the ruling houses of the uppermost caste.

Society is human interaction. Sex, laughter, and commiseration. Shared ideas and values. Aggravations people inflict on each other out of sheer spite. Vigils whose purpose has long since been forgotten by the vigil-holders. Numberless conversations, schemes and collaborations between billions of citizens—society consists of these systems of civilization, these deeds that are empty and worthless to all but those who enact them. All humans alive interact with those that surround them.

Put yourself in their places. You are the aging Imperial Guardsman pensioner whose bones ache in the morning. You are the single mother feeding her three children as best she can. You are the lonely clerk who considered suicide, but couldn't quite pull the trigger. You are the successful entrepreneur, struggling to retain your storefront license. You are the petty thief. You are the child, the man, the woman, the elder. You are a member of this productive society and you have this bond with all others: you are not alone, even in your deepest desperation and desolation. It the nature of this bond, this unity of experience and emotion, that makes society strong.

Now, let us take this nameless planet's society. Hold these ten billion lives, if you can, in your mind.

Erase them.

Those people are gone; dead. Wipe clean this populated slate. Let the skies open in your mind's eye and allow a bombardment to rain down from the heavens. Plasma and melta torpedoes, biochemical gasses, lance strikes, cyclonic charges. Any of them. All of them.

The earth shakes, weeping blood and crumbling beneath the pitiless punishment. Fault lines crack open into chasms that stretch a thousand kilometers, vomiting rivers of lava across the planet's fertile plains and valleys. Buildings, cities, hives, and all the edifices of man slough away and are washed from its surface like layers of dead skin. The innocent blue sky is gone, swallowed by a roiling, red-tinged darkness. The sun is a faint, guttering ball, choked out by soot and despair. Fire rains. Destruction reigns.

Hear this world's inhabitants crying out in terror as they die: All the prostitutes, junkies and scum; all the devoted parents and lonely people trying to make their way in an uncaring galaxy; all the nobles, priests and politicians. All of them gone, each tiny world snuffed out.

Vast tracts of land, thousands of square kilometers each, are laid to waste by the orbital bombardments and left to smolder. Above these build massive heat-cyclones of overwhelming fire and ash. Smog-black clouds spill outward from the epicenters of destruction, accompanied on the ground by a wave of heat hundreds of degrees strong. Vegetation withers and dies. Bracken and loam spontaneously combust, causing raging, unchecked wildfires across the planet.

The world's ecosystems sputter, gasp, and die. Forests burn away to knots of blackened, twisted trunks, and animals of all species are roasted by the million. Gulfs, rivers and oceans boil, or become so polluted by ash and ruin that they run black. Shoals of fish float belly-up in the effluence that cakes the waters.

On the lips of the victorious Imperium, whose ships have crushed this petty tithe-based insurrection, whose might has quashed this pathetic revolt masterminded by a handful of nobles, there is but a condescending sneer.

And the world is ruined; and the world is empty; and the world is dead. Millions of unique species have been rendered extinct. Billions of humans have been scoured from its surface.

Can the mind of a single human encompass this so-total destruction? Most members of the Imperium know only their home planet, nothing more. They live self-centered lives—can they truly imagine the potency of a million deaths? Ten million? A hundred million? A billion? Ten billion? Every person you have known, loved, hated, met in passing, heard about, passed on the street, and seen in a thronging crowd—can you imagine all of them dead? Not only that, but that everyone that everyone you've ever seen has ever seen is dead too, and is an inconsequential fraction of the whole?

No memories remain of those that are lost. Those who would mourn these multitudes, these billions, are themselves dead. There is no native seed that can sprout anew from this scorched earth. There are no scars that time will mend, because no living flesh remains that can be scarred.

This planet's death is a finite bubble; the small illustration of a grander theme repeated anywhere across the vastness of this galaxy, and repeated endlessly along the long voyage that is time. For every death here—incomprehensible as they are to consider in the vastness of the event's magnitude—the event itself is repeated a thousandfold; a billionfold. From the Dark Age of Technology, when man warred with his iron progeny, to the Horus Heresy, where brother slew brother and father slew son, to the Age of Apostasy: man turns on itself, and the galaxy dances to the same tragic waltz.

In a thousand years, or two, or five, this planet will be resettled. Once tectonic activity calms, once the atmosphere purges itself of the toxins that choke it, once the surviving species evolve to fill now-empty ecological niches.

Perhaps the settlers will be the monolithic, ten-thousand-plus-year-old Imperium—if, in its crumbling decrepitude, it survives that long. Perhaps it will be settled by another empire of man, or an alien and unknowable race. But settled it shall be, for life in this galaxy of wonders searches ever to expand and grow.

They shall not find any trace of these lost billions. They shall not know that the air they breath is the dust of lost humanity, so tragically and abruptly severed. They shall not know the loves, the frustrations, and the accomplishments of all those erased in this cataclysm.

But then—what did the souls lost in this cataclysm know of all who lived before them? What did they know of the lives lived, and forgotten, in the whispering dawn of man, when the rising ape met the falling angel? Will those who now die be known to those who come after any more than those now dying knew of mankind before it stepped out into the endless sea of stars; than they knew of life on Ancient Terra?

+


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## Boc

*HOES #12-05: Falling Rain*

*Liliedhe:* Lacrimae faralis or Tears of the Dead
1032 words​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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## Dave T Hobbit

*HOES #12-06: Restitution*

*Liliedhe:* The Mothers' Gifts
1098 words​
The morning fog hung low beneath the branches of Aidimal, mother of memory, the spirit tree, preserver of history and last resting place of the dead. Her white needles covered the ground like a carpet. Sergeant Kauvas made no noise as he trod along the path through the sacred grounds barefooted and clad in a mourner’s robe. 

It was three months now since Brother Otso had fallen, taking a lascannon shot meant for him. He knew it was the lot of all of them, the price of being elevated to the Emperor’s Angels, but he also knew what he owed to his dead brother. 

The mother rose above him, high enough to tickle the stars. Her crown was wide enough to span the heavens, a white cloud of feathery needles, soft and hard at the same time. A stairway of rusting, fading metal wound around the mighty trunk and disappeared among the lowest branches, hundreds of meters above him. 

His eyes closed, as was custom, the sergeant began to climb. His feet felt the scarred and pitted surface of the stairs, his hands were swinging loosely by his sides, touching neither bark nor handrail. The one would have been blasphemy, the other was unnecessary. He had gone this way already, the last time during Otso’s first funeral, the funeral of an Angel. 

The entire company had been there, and their Chaplain had held the funeral rites. Unbidden, the words rose in his memory. 

“We are the Emperor's Angels, her Dark Hands to do her will. As we were made with two hands, all gifts we receive come in twos. Even our births and deaths are twain.”

He whispered the words in unison with the memory, repeating them softly, until he finally stepped from the stairway onto the platform erected on the lowest branches of Aidimal’s crown. Unlike the stairs, it was made from Adamas wood, worked in ritual ways by the Chapter’s shamans. He opened his eyes again, as he felt the black hardwood beneath his feet, warm despite the moisture in the air. Here, the smell of death was strong.

Around him, craddled in the crooks and boles of her branches, lay the recent dead. As always, he felt there were too many, stretched out on mats of white, woven needles and feathers, to be left to the birds and insects sheltered by the mother’s crown. 

Kauvas did not, could not, look at them, not out of a desire to avoid the gruesome look of half eaten, decomposing corpses, but out of respect. What happened here was sacred, the second sacrifice every Battle Brother was called upon to give. Instead, he kept his eyes to the wooden floor and walked to where he had placed Otso after the funeral.

“As a human womb births us, the universe through Adamas, mother of trees and tribes, gifts us with flesh and bone. And when the Emperor, Mother of Angels, shapes us, we are born again as Angels, gifted with strength and tenacity, to carry out her will.“

The body was where they had left it, supported in its hammock of white, now stained with blood and other fluids. Only the dark bones were left, with the last few scraps of tissue falling off as he picked the mat up and wrapped it around the remains. This pathetic bundle in his strong arms, he made his way back down, eyes closed, and the second part of the dirge on his lips. 

He was so immersed in his sad task that he almost spilled his precious burden when a voice like the rustle of leaves on the wind addressed him as he stepped on the ground again. 

“There you are, Brother.”

Kauvas opened his eyes, clutching the bones to his breast to keep them from spilling. Another Dark Hand was sitting only a few meters from him on one of the mother’s largest roots. He wore a robe of pale blue, perfectly dry despite the fog, and his long, whiteish blond hair was bound with leaves and sacred bark. Eyes the same pale blue as his robes took in the sergeant’s appearance and then the Shaman Tuovanen nodded in approval. 

“All is in readiness. I have spoken to Aidimal, and she is waiting.”

Where an Angel’s first funeral was a grand affair, with the dead brother’s comrades all in attendance, the second one was private, normally conducted by a Shaman alone. Only rarely did – and could – others attend, as duties had often called them away by that time. Kauvas made it a point to attend for the members of his squad, though. 

Tuovanen waited in silence until Kauvas had reached the hole opened among the tree’s roots. 

“And as we have been born twice, we also die twice, to give back both gifts. The Angels live in service to their Mother, in duty and in battle, till in death does duty end. The human life of flesh and bone, we give back to Adamas and the trees, until at last we can be remembered in honour, and our gifts return to be given again, as both mothers will it. “

As Kauvas gently removed the bones from the mat to place them inside the ground, he spoke the final part of the litany. The mat was placed last, covering the remains. The ground closed as the tree roots moved back to claim what was left of Otso’s two lives. His debts now paid, he could go to his rest, and be remembered.

The sergeant stepped back and looked up at the Tuovanen, who still sat with his back against the mother, eyes closed. Sweat streamed over his sunburnt face. The Aidamal’s bark began to ripple. A soft crunching sound emanated from the ground. Kauvas felt a pressure build inside his head, behind his eyes and he closed them instinctively. 

Branches creaked, leaves rustled. A shower of white needles fell on him. And then, just as suddenly, the pressure was gone again. 

“You may look now.” The Shaman sounded tired. Kauvas opened his eyes and gazed up. There, on Aidamal’s trunk above Tuovanen, a face had formed in the living bark. Brother Otso’s face, grown from Aidamal’s heartwood, black and smooth, capturing his every likeness, from his scarred cheeks to his daring smile. Kauvas blinked away his tears and stared, from Otso’s face to the one beside him, and the next, and the next, the memorial winding up and up and up along the trunk, commemorating every Dark Hand to have ever given his lives in service to the Emperor, Mother of Angels.


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## Boc

*HOES #12-07: Duty*

*Liliedhe: *Rust
1076 words​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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## Dave T Hobbit

*Adrian:* Inquisitor Repentant
1100 words​

Something is in the darkness. I cannot see it, but I can feel it, sense it and hear it slithering all about, stalking me, watching me and drawing close to me. I am scared, but my fear will not cripple me. It hunts for me. I am sure it can see me. I am sure that if it truly wanted me dead that it could take me at any moment of its choosing. – Inquisitor Rafial Praag M41.267

In the darkest time of night when things grow from shadows and dreams into realities born, that stalk through the halls and run along the walls in search of the scent of fear left behind by those who run and cower into corners of no escape. These things laugh in their darkened souls as they draw near to the terrified host that they shall soon possess. They stalk about in the blackest shades with lifeless eyes and the coldest of hearts smiling through fanged and jagged teeth as oily dark as the darkest screams.

In the moonless night they see him turn not knowing which way to go. But he must run, of that he is sure, but he knows not where to go to escape the hunter’s snare. They can smell his sweat and fear. They can hear his blood-filled heart pumping harshly in his chest. He stumbles and falls but gets up quickly. They can smell the fresh blood from a skinned knee and a sliced thumb as it drips in zigzag lines along the street.

The man runs into the light cast by a business sign and stops. The shadowed things swirl all about knowing that he cannot stay there forever. He can see them moving blacker then the blackest darkness than he has ever known. He trembles and nearly falls from the weakness in his limbs. He can hear the claws of the daemons scratch the plas-steel walls and gouge their way through hardened sidewalks and streets taking purchase as they plan their continued hunt.

‘Get away from me for the Emperor is with me!’ he shouts. Terror and faithlessness fill his words and therefore have no effect against the daemon things. They understand faith and strength. They understand power and faithfulness. They also understand fear and shame, guilt and self loathing. They feast upon those things and grab onto them as a leach grabs onto flesh and drains the blood.

The man trembles and weeps for he knows his sins have found him out. He screams in the illumination cast by the business lights. Falling to his knees he bows his head and begins to pray. It is the only thing he has left. It is the only thing he can do. If he cannot make things right they will take his soul. Terror and torments for all eternity await him if he cannot repent. They claw the ground and begin to speak to him as he prays. They speak directly into his mind and his ears begin to bleed.

‘You forsook him long ago and now you expect him to take you back into his good graces? You denied him many times and when given the chance to change your ways you did not do it. You are ours to feast upon. This light will soon go out. Look! It begins to blink as its life ebbs away.’

The man weeps for he knows their words are true. He keeps his eyes closed and tries to calm himself, but it has been so long since his last communion; too long since his last confession. It has been too long since his last true emotion and act of contrition. But he knows he must continue for he cannot escape the judgment to come. ‘Mercy!’ he cries aloud. ‘Forgive me of my many sins.’ he begs.

‘You are ours and we will consume your soul and feast upon your flesh. The light is almost out and we will tear you apart in the darkness of your night.’

‘I have betrayed your trust and shamed your name. I have killed the innocent and cheated the poor. I have bared false witness and imprisoned the guiltless in order to advance my own agenda. I am guilty. Forgive me please.’ As the man prayed he found that he was no longer doing it out of fear but out of true remorse, true shame and emotion from a conscience he had lost long ago. He found that his intentions were no longer to escape judgment but to only be close to his Emperor once again. He knew that as an Inquisitor he had failed in his true purpose; to protect the weak and defend those who could not fight for themselves.

Inquisitor Rafial Praag opened his eyes. Though the shadows were deep and black and swirling with hate he found that he was no longer tormented by the thoughts of things to come, but was at peace with himself for the first time in years. He knew that once more he was not alone but was whole again in the presence of the Emperor of mankind.

The daemons faltered as the man’s faith grew. They hesitated as they saw that his sorrow and repentance was genuine. The light blinked its final time and they took their chance. A flash of light from a sword unused in righteous fury for many years flashed like lightning from the clouds and severed one of the daemons in two. Blood as black as sin splashed against the walls. Another nightmare creature was torn apart by the man’s shout of faith from repentant lips.

Thousands more, maybe millions more charged from the shadows but Praag did not fear. He knew he was forgiven and his many sins forgotten. The Emperor’s mercy would not be wasted on him. With growing passion and assurance he fought and swung his sword of light. He fought until the first light of morning broke the daemon’s back and forced them to retreat.

Wounded, bleeding, beaten and bruised Inquisitor Rafial Praag allowed himself to fall to his knees. There he stayed until the people began to stir from their residences, assured the violence had ended.

Praag had been a tyrant to many of the people that now surrounded him. Hundreds had gathered and he could feel their hatred of him. Slowly he stood and put his sword away. ‘My loyalty has been tested and I have been found wanting. I am ashamed of this and I will make things right.’

In full view of the people he bowed his head and prayed.


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## Dave T Hobbit

*Dave T Hobbit:* Freedom
1082 words​

Water trickled down the walls. His shoulders almost brushed the walls and he needed to duck every ten metres to avoid flickering bulbs; even without his armour he was much larger than the natives. While the planet was not primitive, their technology had proved no match for the liberating forces. If these people did have something of power then why would they store it here? At least no one would spend longer than necessary down here so there was little chance that anyone would see him.

His destination was in darkness and seemed even damper. He could make out rotting fragments of crates floating in pools, before even his perfect sight was defeated by the murk. He reached for a switch.

"Leave it off." He dropped his hand without thinking. What could the natives have that needed to be inspected in the dark? Moving slowly forward through the standing water he sought out his companion. The shadows seemed almost to push back. Was that a glint of metal?

"Father? Is that you?"

"Thank you for meeting me. I apologise for the surroundings."

"It is no problem. What is this great threat that you need to show me?"

"My drive to free humanity from false gods is not the first. Before I revealed myself, before even we spread to the stars, there were those who warned of the problems of religion. They said, as I have said, that humanity must embrace science and reason to evolve; however, some said that the human mind has a dark side that cannot be overcome merely by explaining the benefits of living correctly. Over the millennia I have watched as religion brought us down and science raised us up and concluded that the warnings were shards of religion left in the minds of otherwise rational men by their upbringings.

"My success seemed to support my belief. As the myths of the past were replaced, conflicts reduced and contentment increased. The creation of my sons would have confirmed my theory: the best minds raised free of any myths. However, you were scattered and raised amongst those who had not abandoned all of the old ways.

"When you were found and joined my crusade I was filled with joy. I thought that the issues that occurred with some of your brothers before they accepted the wisdom of my actions were akin to a flux; their minds purging themselves of the sicknesses left by an imperfect education."

"And they now serve you as willingly as I."

"They do, and might continue to serve as I envisaged. However, the crusade does not proceed perfectly. I am concerned that not all of the sickness has been purged from all your brothers."

"They only wish to please you. If you are concerned then spend more time with them."

"If you place a bright light close to something your eyes are dazzled; even with your perfect eyes. To truly see the light must be placed some distance away. I am the brightest of lights; if I move closer then I will see less not more. I have decided to leave the Crusade. Without my presence your brothers will act according to their true natures instead of trying to reflect my wishes, and I will see if they truly are free of flaws. You must watch them for me my son."

"If my brothers seem to not always act as you wish it is because we love your cause: you taught us to value reason over faith; they try to understand your instructions but lack your knowledge. If you explain the reasons behind your commands they will act as you wish. You have not wrought ill. I will do as you ask, and rejoice when you see your sons are pure. However I have a suggestion. While your absence would allow flaws to show, waiting for months or even decades to see if anything showed would slow the crusade. If you seek to draw a substance from a solution it is quicker to add a small fragment around which the substance grows.

"The best generals know their enemy better than he knows himself. To understand why some cling to faith, I have read its lies. Repeatedly the story of a rebellion against the God or Gods appears. In each of them evil gathers on one side and good the other. If I accept the thesis that reason alone might not be the best path to our goal then this repeating story shows the human mind might be as with crystals. If a dissenting voice arises while you are away then you will soon see that your sons refuse to turn from your design."

"And what if there is no evil one to start a rebellion? You say they are in agreement then suggest there is one who disagrees?"

"There is one version I found that had supposedly been transcribed form the most ancient of lands. A proto-version of the first rebellion. The Creator wished his world to have free will so he went to each of his angels seeking an opinion that differed; each of them sought only to serve his grand design. At last he returned and told the first of his angels, the left hand to his right, of his dilemma. His firstborn replied 'I love you Father with all my being, and believe that all creation serves you freely. If one of us must be apart then I will bear the burden.' and the Creator wept as he threw his son from heaven.

"I love you Father with all...."

* * *

The Emperor's probe flowed seamlessly in. As expected Horus had reached the logical solution. However, Horus' mind was close to pure logic; an image of angles and crystals. He would try to dissent but his nobility would not allow him to commit deeply enough to draw out those who did not know that they were rebels; whereas a man who did not know he was playing a role, would truly live it.

The memories of the meeting dissolved, replaced by a private warning to his son that he would be announcing his departure soon. Next a small part of his absolute love melted away. Both easy enough to correct once he had discovered the truth. The Emperor succumbed to a moment of doubt: and a small weakening of his military genius would ensure he did not actually succeed in rebellion.

What weakness it taught to show a God weeping at what was necessary.


----------



## Boc

*HOES #12-09: Family Ties*

*Bloody Mary:* The Brightest Star
946 words​
The Warmaster seldom has a moment of peace. The title is but unworn and new to him, but the duties that burden him have all but increased. The paperwork alone occupies a large bulk of his time. He can only hope that soon he will be able to delegate it to his subordinates. What is more, his elevation has not absolved him of his duties as the commander of an Expedition Fleet. The usual complications and issues await his attention.

Nevertheless, he has managed to find a moment, in which he will not have to be the Warmaster. For a while, he can just be Horus. He has sent away his advisors and instructed them not to bother him, unless it’s at least a small scale invasion. Now, he stands in his sanctum and tries to chase away the thoughts of obligations.

Shaking his head, he stops in front of his books. Those he keeps in his private sanctuary are merely a drop in the sea of knowledge he has absorbed. They are his most beloved pieces of writing, the ones he enjoys most. All of them are worn from multiple readings. His hand hovers over the tomes, before electing to take the oldest one.

It is not a book the public would expect a Primarch to read, but it is one of Horus’s most treasured possessions. While he does concur that he cannot learn anything of value from this tome, he considers it a treasure none the less. It is the very first gift he has received from his father. The memory of the day when he was given it is still fresh in his mind.

He flips the pages casually, as he wanders back to his desk. Once he stops, he leans against the massive piece of furniture, his hand resting on the scarred wood; too engrossed to bother sitting down. He opens the tome and starts reading the chapter on the Dreadful Sagittary anew. 

By now, he knows it practically by heart, but it is of little consequence to him. It is the sign Father has chosen for him and when he reads about it, it feels like he is still with him.

***

The book is old and worn by numerous readings. Abbaddon recognizes it—Horus had shown it to him and the Mournival, back when Loken and Trogaddon were still his brothers. A gift from the False Emperor, he had thought the Primarch had gotten rid of it long ago.

And yet, he found it, lying innocuously among the other books. A bitter laugh escapes his lips—as if he needs more evidence that Horus was weak. The old primer is nothing but further proof that the former Warmaster had not been the chosen one the Gods needed.

Horus was weak. Abbaddon had learned the truth of it as he watched their cause crumble just as the Warmaster’s life had crumbled in the face of the wrath of the Anathema. Even with all the might of the Gods backing him, Horus had been too weak to deal the final blow. He faltered and died, leaving his forces headless and bleeding.

Absent-mindly, he leafs through the book. It has no value that much is clear. The information within are inexact at best, and incorrect at worse. A child’s book, given by a parent to keep them ignorant of how the world truly works. By keeping it Horus had proven he was such a child, unprepared for the great duty placed on his shoulders.

And so he failed.

No one has stepped up and taken his place—the Primarchs had each taken their Legion and fled. In the end, none of them dared to usurp Horus place, even after he had proven himself unworthy. The demagogue Lorgar, the first to discover the true Gods, bitter Perturabo, who had resented Horus’s rise to Warmaster, blood-thirsty Angron and charismatic Fulgim, none of them had even tried. They had fled.

He gazes down at the book and slowly, methodically starts tearing it apart. Page by page, he rips them from the cover. They scatter around him, like snowflakes, but he picks them up and continues his work of destruction. Each page becomes nothing more than scattered fragments. He spots the title “Dreadful Sagittary” and deliberately rips it letter by letter, and then the letters until the fragments are too small for his large fingers to grip. He lets them fall with a snarl and picks himself up.

He casts his gaze around the room, feeling memories assault him from every corner. Here, on this couch, Horus would lounge and speak with him and his brothers. There, on his desk he would sit and write, penning directives and signing reports. Shadows of the dead surround him—Horus towering over him in his black armour, Trogaddon laughing at Loken…

He shakes his head. The room belongs to the ghosts and he has no place for them. Without thinking, he throws himself at the desk, raining blows upon its sturdy surfaces. He rages, wrecking furniture and scattering belongings, until only ruins remain. And still, he cannot shake away the feeling that Horus is there, watching him with disapproval, as if he had any right to judge him.

Too much like his father, Horus had been prideful. Just like the Emperor, he had failed his sons. He left them with only bitter disappointment and broken dreams of glory. 

Abbaddon looks around, taking in the destruction he had wreaked. He feels empty: the abandoned son of a god. Horus had left him, just as the Emperor had left the Warmaster back on Ullanor.

The brightest star had burnt out too early.


----------



## Boc

*HOES #12-10: Failure*

*Liliedhe:* A Question of Perspective
1071 words​
„And what happened next?“ 

That was the question every storyteller wished for and dreaded at the same time. Normally, Felix Jaeger preferred to write down his stories and thus escape direct interaction with his audience, but sometimes, on occasion, when he and his travelling companion were recognised, he found himself cornered and badgered into telling of their adventures. 

And so he sat in front of the fireplace in a tiny tavern at the backend of nowhere, his broken leg – the reason they had hung around long enough to be recognised – propped up on a stool, surrounded by what looked like all the children in a 50 mile radius who hung on his every word. At least the beer was bearable here. Gotrek still grumbled, of course, not just about human brewing skills, but also about brittle human bones and human weakness in general. But – to be brutally honest – Felix didn’t mind the rest one bit. Even if he had to tell the same story again and again.

“And what happened next?”

He forced a smile, took another sip from his beer stein, gazed over his enraptured audience and continued:

“... from inside the cave we heard the monster bellow. Gotrek hefted his axe and yelled a challenge...”

The dwarf sniffed the air. “Never smelled anything like this, manling.” Felix did the same, and couldn’t smell anything – except the sharp tang of excrement and cat urine and that wasn’t different from any of the other about five thousand animal dens they had explored during Gotrek’s search for a worthy doom. So he just shrugged and lit one of their torches, before drawing Karaghul and advancing behind the dwarf into the stinking darkness of the cavern. 

The entrance was low enough he had to duck – a problem the slayer didn’t share. Under foot, bones crunched and the ground was moist and slippery. Finally, the corridor widened, and they came into a larger chamber. A small streamlet ran through it and on the other side of it crouched an animal unlike any Felix had ever seen. It resembled a giant cat, but its hide was scaled like a snake’s. 

Had some sort of chaos witchery fused a cat and a snake together? 

Probably. For a moment, even Gotrek seemed surprised. They had been told to expect a catlike monster, but the locals had failed to mention those bizarre characteristics. They had been very vocal on the fact that the creature was supposedly invulnerable, with axes and arrows simply passing through it without doing any harm. This had been what had prompted the Slayer to seek it out, in the hope of finally finding his doom. 

Felix hadn’t been hopeful – if he’d ever be because the end of Gotrek’s search meant his death, and he was still not sure how he felt about this – but of course he had tagged along as he had sworn on that one drunken night so long ago. 

“Stay out of this, manling, this is my battle!” the dwarf roared and charged through the water, towards the monster. 

With a long suffering sigh, Felix fixed the torch in a nook of the wall, wrapped his cloak around his free arm and went a few steps deeper into the cave, so he would see everything that transpired. 

And then he gasped, for Gotrek’s wild charge had carried him past his goal, without ever making contact with the cat. Instead, he almost ran headfirst into the opposite wall, only halting his momentum at the last moment. The dwarf screamed his rage – and then it turned into a scream of pain, as six deep scratches suddenly opened in his bare back. 

Felix had seen the thing leap, but from its trajectory had assumed it would miss. Surely it couldn’t have made contact with the dwarf... He couldn’t dwell on it though, for Gotrek once more raised his mighty axe and brought it down on the animal in a stroke brutal enough to cleave it in two. And once again, there was no contact. The creature turned, and began to circle around its prey...

It seemed like this time, the villagers actually had spoken the truth about the thing’s invulnerability. Sure enough, none of the dwarf’s swings managed to do the slightest damage as they passed through the monster’s body. The monster, on the other hand, ignored the slayer’s defenses, scoring bleeding cuts on his chest and arms. 

Slowly, but inexorably, the dwarf was driven backwards, towards the slippery stones of the rivulet, where it disappeared into the darkness at the end of the cave. 

Felix wanted to charge in, to help, but of course he could not. His job was to record Gotrek’s doom, not prevent it. Still, he moved closer. He just could not understand... He had seen Gotrek fight far faster, deadlier, and more impressive creatures, and they had all fallen to his rune axe... And now...

Now, the end was close. Only a few steps seperated Gotrek from a fall into the darkness... Water spilled around his sturdy boots, making the ground treacherous. Twice, he’d almost fallen, while the monster...

And that was when Felix noticed. The water – it flowed through the creature's legs – but there were some places where it seemed to flow around something. Four obstacles. Like, four paws. BESIDE the monster, not underneath it. 

“Gotrek! Strike to your left! That’s where it is!” Felix yelled, while storming forward to prevent the creature from leaving the stream where the footprints gave it away. And then... he slipped. Felix lost his footing, and only just could keep himself from being disemboweled by his own sword. A sharp pain, accompanied by a loud crack, went through his leg and he landed on his face in the cold water, just as the creature’s tormented roar cut through the air, telling him Gotrek had finally figured out the reason of the beast’s invulnerability...

“So, the quest was a success? Gotrek killed it?” 

With a sigh, Felix leaned back in his chair and felt a blush of embarrassment creep into his cheeks. After all, while Gotrek had fought for his life and bested another terrible monster, all he himself had managed was to break his leg by slipping on a stone. 

“No.” The young man shook his head. “Gotrek killed the creature. But he did not succeed.” A pregnant pause. “The quest was a failure. He still has not found his doom.”


----------



## Boc

*HOES #12-11: Innocence*

*Mossy Toes:* A Memory, Sundered
1100 words​

Based on "The Fall of Kher-Ys" in _Codex: Chaos Daemons_, and borrowing heavily from the sonnet "Grief," by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

+

Kher-Ys is not silent, not yet. The Craftworld is utterly desolate, but oh no, it is not silent. So long as any of her people live, her corridors still ring with the remembered death cries of her people and the laughter of their slayers.

And one still lives. On a staircase in a despoiled courtyard, untouched by the ruination of her world, a white-gowned eldar maiden weeps and cradles the corpse of Kher-Ys's autarch: her father. His armor is rent and his corpse defiled. His spirit stone has been cruelly shattered and the silver wraithbone key he always wears around his neck, a finely-wrought locus of psychic power, is missing.

Human grief is an immense thing, capable of overwhelming any defenses the grieving can erect, but it is a pale thing by comparison to the true grief of an eldar. It is but warm, shallow and tempestuous water: never knowing the cold, deep sorrows to which the heart can truly sink. Hopeless grief is passionless; only those incredulous of despair, those half-taught in anguish, can possibly shriek in reproach and beat with futile fists against the fickle fates.

The maiden sits in the fading fragments and shattered shards of her world, and there can be no balm to ease her injury. As far as the eye can see, the crystalline landscape of Kher-Ys is dead. Its elegant structures are milky and discolored, and have been crazed into distorted, shattered parodies of their former beauty. The Aspect Shrines have been defiled. The sibilant, soothing song of the Infinity Circuit has died. The corpses of her people are scattered in horrific commonality: the abandoned playthings of a capricious god. She is the last, and memories of cruel laughter grant her no respite.

Why was she spared by the servants of She Who Thirsts? Why was so perfect and unflawed a soul not fought over rapaciously? Only because the greatest among the Dark Prince's servants present had already claimed her.

A shifting in the taste of the air presages his arrival: a faint and cloying musk the maiden finds achingly familiar. A gentle wash of warmth. A faint, fiery crackle. The scrape of metal upon wraithbone.

"Express grief for thy dead in a silence like to death," says the soft and tender voice she knows so well, "most like a monumental statue set in everlasting watch and moveless woe, till it crumbles to the dust beneath. Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet: if it could weep, it could arise and go."

She turns to face him: the immense, measureless blasphemy of that malign spirit possessing the Avatar of Kher-Ys. Its molten metal flesh has been twisted into a panoply of cruel barbs and foul sigils and its ever-bleeding right hand, the symbol of Khaine, has been severed. Its fires are banked and fading, no longer fueled by the orgy of destruction in which it has taken part: they shine faintly through the cracks in its ash-colored metal hide and glimmer with an avid cruelty in its eyes. When it speaks, smoke wafts between its dull, pitted lips. An ornate silver key dangles at its waist.

"Ail," she says. It is all she can say.

"Ilthania," he replies, nodding in deference. "Is not this form more fitting to my true nature? A demigod am I, now: the wrathful Young King bathed in sacred fire, capable of redeeming our declining race."

His every word is a cut across the tattered remnants of her heart, recalling the daydreams they had idly shared. Such daydreams had lured her, initially, from Kher-Ys abroad onto the Path of the Outcast. There, she had met and been bound inexorably to him: laughing Ail, beautiful Ail, compassionate Ail, whom she had thought to be a fellow Ranger. Ail, whom she had loved with the depths of the heart that only an eldar can bring to bear, and had assumed the love reciprocated. Ail, whom she had brought home to her Craftworld and inside its wards. Those wards had come crashing down, unlocked by the key at this Ail-Avatar's waist after he stolen it from the autarch's neck while the latter slept.

"Why?" Ilthania asks. She has to know.

"Secrets are my stock and trade to Keep," he replies, "but you have given me so generous a gift that I can tell you this. Among your kin, I am aptly named, and in that name lies the only reason that I need, my love: I am Ail'Slath'Sleresh, the Heartslayer."

"Your love?" she says, her voice curdled by a note of disgust and choked by the immensity of her emotions.

"My love. My purest, truest love--as befits your beauty." No smoke comes from his mouth, now, and when he extends his remaining hand, the cooling metal of his being creaks in protest. "Chaos is not a solely destructive force: the truth of Creation, the building up, is just as vital as that of Annihilation, the shattering of what has been built. Your life in wasting sorrow, now, is so very much sweeter than an abridging death."

Ilthania does not reply. What could she possibly say? Full desertness, in souls as well as countries, lies bare under the blanching, vertical eye-glare of truth in absolute.

Ail's stolen body cools further. The light in his cavernous eye sockets flickers. At last he moves again, and his still-extended left hand groans in protest as it reaches down to lightly touch her cheek. His metal fingers are cool where they touch her alabaster flesh.

Then his fires die and Ail's presence is gone. The scene is a tableau: The looming, defiled Avatar frozen in a lover's caress; the maiden sitting on the stairs; the fallen autarch, head still resting in her lap; and about them, the tragic dissolution of Kher-Ys.

After a suspended, infinite moment, Ilthania stands. She takes the key from the Avatar's waist and rests it, once more, around her father's neck. Then she departs, wandering as far as she can within the Craftworld's bounds. She seeks some unsullied place to hide herself away, but she will not find one, for the servants of the Dark Prince have been thorough in their play.

Before long, she will die. Though she eats and drinks not, it will not be deprivation that is her end. Nor will she visit harm upon her flesh, for to do as such would be to act in bitter parody of the violence of her foes.

She will die nonetheless, bearing what no heart can bear. Perhaps then, at long last, the drifting shell of Craftworld Kher-Ys will fall silent.

+


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## Boc

*HOES #13-01: Last Stand*

*Jonileth:* Defense; Futile
1098 words​

Fear permeated the small defensive bunker, almost as tangible as the mud caked to the defenders’ boots. Each man in the small fire team was rife with it, almost oozed fear from every pour. Each of the five men had seen action on nearly a dozen different worlds between them. Each man had extensive training, unshakable faith, and indomitable will in the face of enemies they had faced before. But they faced no enemy they knew of. Each of them had seen traitors rise up against the Imperium. All of them had, at least once, seen what the warp could vomit up from the depths of such a hellish realm. Two had even seen the blood of the alien spilled upon the ground before them. It didn’t matter now…

Maxus looked into the eyes of his fellow Guardsmen and could see the unbridled fear clawing at their mental discipline. Reflected in every man’s eyes was a gripping uncertainty and urgent desire to flee with every ounce of strength they had. He was sure even his eyes reflected such fear. The only thing that kept them rooted in the poorly made bunker was duty to the Emperor. The only fear that outweighed the fear of this new and unknown enemy was that of being marked a traitor and being killed for deserting their posts. If not for such promises of torment, each of them might have bolted at any moment.

The sounds of explosions, of lasgun fire, and screams of the fallen rang out all around them. It had been like that for untold days. Maxus and his small squad was the last bunker, the last bastion of protection standing between the invaders from some unknown place and the capitol of their small outpost world. More than likely the evacuations had already taken place. More than likely, a call for aid had been sent out. And it was entirely likely that they wouldn’t live long enough to see aid come…

Impact tremors rippled through the ground, tossing several loose crates the fire team had stacked up into the mud. No one made a move to gather them up. In fact, had Maxus not been looking in their direction, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. The pitch black darkness that bathed the battlefield gave the group little clue as to what had fallen, or perhaps what had exploded. If it had been some manner of drop pods, it meant that the defenders would simply be even more outnumbered, which made little difference as their line continued to collapse and decay with each passing hour. If it had been the result of explosions, it meant that the generators powering the outer ring of tarantula gun turrets had been destroyed and the advance was no longer impeded in the slightest.

“You think the other teams are holdin’ them off?” Maxus overheard his squad mate Ferris asking the Guardsman huddled next to him. The Corporal scoffed at the question. The sounds of death and carnage all around them could answer with certainty what Hayden could not. Maxus turned his eyes away from the two and set about scanning the muddy landscape that was visible to him. The small searchlights hardly pierced a few meters into the darkness, not even far enough to see the bunkers positioned in front of them. If not for the constant echo of the battle raging just beyond that veil of darkness, the Guardsman could have almost forgotten that there was any battle raging at all…

As his eyes scanned, he caught the dim glint of something bright in the corner of his eye. Maxus turned toward the ghost light and could make out small streaks, each of them so blue they were almost white. Had they not been traveling toward one of the makeshift bunkers out along the perimeter he might have confused it for friendly fire. The streaks of light intensified and grew in number over the next few seconds before an unmistakable plume of flame erupted.

“They’re here!” Maxus warned his squad while lifting his own lasgun up onto the bunker’s mud crusted window ledge. The rest of his squad did the same, each of them looking out nervously into the darkness. Blue-white wisps of light streaked into view. Most of them landed harmlessly into the muck with no great effect, almost haphazardly in their pattern.

“Hold your fire until you actually see something worth shooting…” Maxus told his fellows. While he’d never fought this particular sort of alien before, the tactics weren’t all that different. He’d even used diversionary fire to root out enemies on dozens of raids, drawing his enemies out from some hidden place to be slaughtered in number.

The chaotic light became suddenly accurate, shattering the spotlights that sat just in front and off to either side of their bunker. The blue-white flames that engulfed the spotlights bore an uncanny resemblance to daemon fire… and yet it was almost… beautiful. Maxus shuddered at the thought, and wondered why now he would consider the weapons fire that would likely be his demise to pleasing in appearance.

When the spotlights had burned out and the fire was no more, the probing bolts of energy stopped. A strange calm settled back over the inky darkness that now almost totally engulfed their world. The sudden lack of light played havoc on Maxus’ eyes for several seconds, forcing him to shift his head several times at glints of light that were not there. It didn’t take long for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when it finally did Maxus almost wished it hadn’t.

He could see the vivid blue outline of what almost looked like a man, except that it was proportioned too strangely to be any man he’d ever seen. It bore no resemblance to any Astartes he’d ever seen, nor any member of the Legions of Chaos he had been unfortunate enough to battle. Its movements were utterly mechanical, which were all the more unnerving.

“Open fire!” he proclaimed, letting loose a burst of hot laser fire at the ghostly blue visage in the night. His squad fired upon similar apparitions, and while he was sure that he’d hit it, the thing just kept coming. Again and again he fired… to no avail. The last thing Maxus saw before some blast from some other creature’s weapon took him into oblivion was a burst of light rising from the thing he’d been firing at. A glowing orb of blue-white fire that looked utterly beautiful and hideous to him all at once… then nothing…


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## Boc

*HOES #13-02: Grace*

*Romero's Own*: Flames from Heaven
907 words

It is always with me.

I feel it like a blind man feels the sun on his face - as a pressure, unseen but always felt: a force just behind the eyes but there all the time.

I lie on the cold concrete of my bed, listening to the subdued hum of the watch-station's generators and the gentle click of the station's recorders as they monitor and catalogue some changing observation.

_What is my life?_

Still it lingers in the corners of my mind, like a cobweb just out of reach: a niggling presence, like a driving splinter in my mind, something I cannot ignore:

The Rage; The Thirst.

I fight these things in the quiet when the tumult of battle is stilled; when the last enemy falls, my battle continues. I hold damnation in the palm of my hand – and I must clench it tight, lest it consume me and all I believe.

May the Emperor guide me in these darkened watches of the night. May I remain within his grace for eternity.

_My honour is my life._

I cannot sleep.

I sit up, my feet moving to rest on the cold, metal decking. In the corner of my cell stands a low wooden table, surmounted by an ebony statue of the Emperor and fallen Sanguinius. A small candle stub remains beside; I light it, and its feeble luminance shines brightly in the suffocating darkness.

_What is my fate?_

The gentle glow of the candle shades the features of our Primarch and our Emperor. Shadowy tears well from their ebony eyes.

I feel myself slipping away into blackness, my eyes telling me of the peril which threatens my soul – it is almost tangible and I nearly fall.

_My duty is my fate._

Few of my chapter serve in these desolate regions. Commander Mordigael has been stationed in this sector for many years, but he is far away at Erioch, and I am here: a small station with little more room than is necessary for the maintenance of a lone Astartes and his equipment. Nothing more.

My lips move as I ask for guidance, for strength, but there is no surcease to my torment. No answer to my questions, only silence.

I step outside my cell and walk the cramped and acrid spaces of the station, grown so much larger by the blackness, shadows pressing in from all sides.

_What is my fear?_

Chaplain Andreus often told me, when I came to him disturbed by the Rage, that to experience the Blackness was a divine gift: a chance to experience the sublime presence of our beloved Primarch. Not something to be desired, nor wished for, but rather something to be understood and accepted as a part of the legacy left to us.

A legacy I must bear.

I wonder if I am strong enough.

_My fear is to fail._

The arming room: my armour stands here, painted black, with the sigil of the Deathwatch engraved in silver and gold upon its left pauldron. My chapter's blood-red sigil remains on the opposite shoulder, in order – so the tech-priests tell me – to avoid angering the armour’s machine spirit. I wonder if the machine spirit feels as I do.

I am alone in the night. Will I ever return to see my home again? My brothers? And if I do, will I still be one of them?

Starlight shines through the small porthole which pierces the armoured hull of the watch-station: somewhere out there is Baal, my home – my brothers – lost in a sea of infinity and space.

The awful weight of the emptiness presses down upon my shoulders.

_What is my reward?_

Lights blaze to life, and the watch-station's voice begins to blare:

DEFENCE PROTOCOL ACTIVATED: DISTRESS SIGNAL DETECTED

TRANSMISSION REPLAYED

The pale green light of the pict-screen displays the transmission: a flash priority alert to Sector Command, originating from the planet far below:

The Great Devourer has come.

There is no room for servitors or chapter-serfs on my watch-station; I arm myself – it is a tonic for the soul.

_My salvation is my reward._

I strap on my weapons; they are already loaded and ready. The magnetic holster on my thigh-plate clicks dully as it latches onto my bolter. I examine my chainsword carefully, looking for any pits or blunt edges; there are none. There never are.

The thick, heavy door leading to the drop chamber has been retracted by the station, and through it I see the heavily-padded interior of the drop pod. The reinforced retention bars shine dully in the harsh light of the sodium lamps.

_What is my craft?_

I hold my helmet in my hands, its green eyepieces staring up at me, and I see my face reflected in the armoured glass. The Rage rises inside me and I beat it down, my flesh rebelling against my will. Slowly, shakily, I lift my helmet and slide it down over my head, connecting the seals, locking myself inside the armoured shell. The Rage subsides, and my flesh calms; I become like my armour: pure, steady, unblemished.

I descend on wings of smoke and flame.

I am an angel; a fury; a bulwark against the darkness. I am the sacrifice which holds the horrors of the night at bay.

I am the one that dies so that I can live forever in the Emperor’s grace.

_What is my craft?_

_My craft is death._​


----------



## Boc

*HOES #13-03: Contempt*

*Liliedhe*: The Splinter in my Brother's Eye
998 words​
_Deathwatch training is hard. It is not just about learning to combat unfamiliar threats in unfamiliar ways with unfamiliar weapons. Ways to wage war are what Space Marines have been created to master. No matter how new, no matter how badly the deck is stacked against them, they will deal. 

The problem is far more mundane, and far more insidious. Ego. Ego and prejudice. Space Marines are geneforged demigods of war - but that does not explain all of their effectiveness. It all comes down to Brotherhood. In exchange for giving up a human life, with all those things humans consider important, Space Marines gain something else: a family that will support them unconditionally. 

Like all families, battle-brothers will bicker, bait each other or quarrel. When push comes to shove, though, when lives are on the line, battle-brothers stand together. Grown from one geneseed, raised through the same nightmare of hypnoconditioning and battle, a Chapter stands by its own. Battle-Brothers die for each other. 

In the Deathwatch, this natural advantage does not exist. Here, Space Marines do not share geneseed or upbringing. All brotherhood they have, they must develop from scratch. This is often difficult, as there rarely is a clean slate between Chapters, and differences in style, in tradition, even in beliefs lead to clashes. 

And then there are the cases of genuine bad blood…_

“The Ophidium Gulf. The Veiled Region. Where are my brothers? What did you do to them?” The rough, scorched voice of Navarre, the Black Templar, reverberated from the grey marble tiles of the ablutorium. The Veteran stood at an angle, feet planted solidly on the ground, leaning slightly forward and bracing his massive hands against the wall, while cold water rained on his shaven head, wide shoulders and scarred and branded back. Without leaving this position, he turned his head to the side, glaring over the impressive bulk of his biceps in the direction of the Space Marine who had just entered.

Asphodel, the Dark Angel Apothecary, much younger and less heavily built, showed no sign of having heard the question. He calmly strode into the room, a towel over his shoulder which he placed on a hook, before picking another sprinkler and turning it on. He turned his head up and allowed the water to fall on his face and broad chest, still completely ignoring the glare of the Black Templar, who now turned from his meditative position so he could watch his maligned brother.

Still the water rained down, cold and slightly salty, forming streaks over his broad face, beading on his jutting brow and dropping onto scarred cheeks. Some of it pooled in the grooves formed by the bulky muscles on his shoulders, before overflowing and splattering on the stone tiles. Several drops carried a faint red tinge they had picked up while travelling the geography of old and new wounds scattered over the canvas of the veteran’s body.

“The Ophidium Gulf. The Veiled Region. Where are my brothers?” He repeated, his tone stone cold, the grinding of gears broken centuries ago. 

The Dark Angel lowered his head and turned around, before rubbing water into his short dark hair. His body, slighter yet than the older Space Marine’s, offered much less structure to the falling drops, allowing them to swiftly flow over swarthy skin and pale scars, although they were just as pinkish in colour when they fell onto the grey marble and made their way towards the drains. 

“They helped your brothers. They won that war for you, and you threatened them. You stole their victory from them. You killed them when their backs were turned.” 

This was the moment when the other Space Marines in the Ablutorium began to take notice. A dozen eyes, light and dark, in human colours and much more exotic hues, turned towards the Black Templar veteran and the younger Dark Angel. Bad blood between Chapters, prejudices, baiting and arguments were nothing new. This, this straight accusation was. 

And still the Lion’s son showed no reaction. He had taken one of the scrub brushes and was working the bristles over the exposed parts of the black carapace, turning his back towards his accuser as well as the spectators. 

“I will not turn my back to you, Dark Angel. I have sworn an Oath to fight here, and if that Oath demands I fight with a member of a rotten Chapter like yours, I will. But I will not trust you, nor allow you to watch my back. In Dorn’s name, be glad my Oath protects you, you scion of traitorous curs.”

Now, the drops raining from the Black Templar’s fists were a deep red, congealing on the tiles as he ground his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. The massive muscles in his arms, shoulders and neck bunched, the tendons standing out like white ropes. His voice had dropped ever lower, and yet, everybody in the ablutorium had heard his speech. 

Finally, the Dark Angel stepped out of the water, picked up his towel from the hook where he had hung it and wiped himself dry. Then he turned and walked towards the door, still giving no notice, no sign, however miniscule, he had heard any of the insults and accusations. 

Only when he stood under the doorframe connecting the ablutorium to the dimly lit antechamber, he turned and looked at the tense, seething figure of the veteran, and addressed him. His voice was deep and smooth, calm, without emotion or judgement and his eyes were cold and quiet. “Consider this, brother. When we are in the field, I will hold your life in my hands.” He paused, and suddenly smiled, a thin expression, twisted downwards by the duelling scars on his cheeks. 

“If I was the debased, traitorous cur you insist I am, consider this, too.” The Apothecary placed a hand on his chest, right where the progenoid lay craddled underneath skin and muscle and bone. “I will hold your legacy in my hands.”


----------



## Boc

*HOES #13-04: Competition*

*Liliedhe:* Fuses
1094 words​
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.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*HOES #13-05: Treachery*

*Lord of Night: *He Who Betrays First​
The air was alive with bolter fire and the screams of the dying, both exhorting and plaintative. The streets of Serus III's primary shrine-city were being torn apart by the gods of war raging in them, clad in crimson armour chased with leaf of gold script scrimshawed across each plate of metal and festooned with bloody spikes. The Word Bearers had come to Serus III, their only goal to destroy the bastion of the hated God-Emperor that lay before them. The Adepta Sororitas, daughters of the Emperor, bled and died in the streets to hold them back. Only a single fortress still stood, the primary cathedral-shrine of the planet, and thus far the Word Bearers were stalled as the guns of the shrine kept them back.


_"This delay is unacceptable! The gods will not wait for your competence to reveal itself!"_ Gar Kaloth, Dark Apostle of the Word and Speaker of Litanies, raged at his assembled champions. Each had burned worlds for the Word of Lorgar, and yet now a simple shrine was stopping them. That the shrine was protected by an impenetrable four layers of void shielding meant nothing to the gods, they had been promised the prize and it would be theirs.

_"And now we must rely on heathens, degenerate scum to do what you supposed Champions of the Word could not!"_ Gar Kaloth's anger was almost visible. His men had failed to crack the shield wall, that the whores of the Emperor known as the Sororitas had pushed them back was an intolerable offense to both his pride and the word of his blessed Daemon-Primarch. That outsiders were required to finish this affair was salt in the wound.

_"Amussssing."_ Gar Kaloth looked up at the disturbance, his champions bringing to bear bolters and blades at the new arrival. Clinging to the ceiling of the debased shrine the Word Bearers had based themselves in was a figure in power armour of midnight blue. His feet were taloned like a bird's, and his helmet was cast in the image of a bird of prey. Crackles of lightning danced across his frame, the two lightning claws that flexed slowly as he hung inverted, only his talons keeping him attached to the ceiling. 

Arkannis of the Soulrenders chuckled as he observed the groundwalkers below him bicker and insult his brethren. If their opinions had been something that mattered to him, he might have cared, but they were not and he did not. His Raptors were to do what these worms had failed to do and destroy the void shields protecting Serus III's final shrine-hold. He could sense the Word Bearer lord's hate of him, and as the maggot laid out his plan Arkannis was sure of two things. This would be child's play for his warband, and that the Word Bearers would betray him as soon as they could.


Arkannis hissed as his lightning claw gutted the frail woman. Her bastardised power armour was no match for the ancient weapons. As she fell, bleating some prayer to the corpse-king, his brothers dispatched the rest of the herd. They had landed among the scum only seconds before, catching them unaware as they made their way into the first vent shaft. The void shields were impenetrable to artillery and the Word Bearers couldn't advance through without the main guns of the stronghold firing on them, but the Soulrenders could. Arkannis and twelve of his brothers loped into the vent, big enough to permit entry to their immense forms.

_"You know what to do, go!"_ he snarled. Shon Kel nodded, bobbing his head up and down three times, before scurrying off with five others in another direction. Arkannis hissed, so far so good. As he led the Soulrenders further he wondered how Krixus was doing, he should be nearing his target by now and once he had achieved his goal the Soulrenders could retreat and leave this place to the bastard Sons of Lorgar.

Not long after they entered the vents Arkannis cut a hole in the wall and entered into a colossal chamber. The generators that lined the walls hummed with barely restrained energy, all of it feeding the guns that kept the Word Bearers from advancing. The Apostle's plan was to mine this place with charges and destroy it, but Arkannis had a better plan. Though he doubted Gar Kaloth would agree that it was better.


Gar Kaloth grinned as he watched the void shields flicker and die. The scum Raptors had done their job, and now all that was left was to destroy them. The cannons that lined the walls of the shrine fell silent, and the despair of the Sisters of Battle was a delight to his depraved senses. Now all that remained was to destroy both of the wretches, the Sisters would die under the bootheels of his men and the Raptors would be gunned down as soon as they tried to leave the vents. Nodding to his champions the march began, over 500 Word Bearers advanced under the chanting dirge of hovering servo-skulls and robed cultists that marched with them.

Suddenly his vox flared to life, the sounds of death and roaring chainblades coming in clearly. He could hear bolter fire as well, his own men were under attack. But all the Sisters and Raptors were in the stronghold!

_"Lord it's the Raptors! The scum flanked us, their attacking the armouries and stealing everything. We're trying to hold them back but!-"_

Gar Kaloth roared in anger as the vox cut out, the sound of a chainblade skewering his master of arms was the first sign that he had been betrayed. The second was when the guns of the shrine-hold came to life again and annihilated his position in a storm of lascannon and missile fire. Gar Kaloth died realising he had underestimated his opponent.


Arkannis smiled as he watched Krixus present the spoils. His second had led a second group of Raptors, their goal to pillage the Word Bearer armouries and extract payment that he knew the whoresons would never have given freely. Disabling the guns temporarily had given the Word Bearers bravery enough to advance, and reactivating them had ensured their destruction. Detonating the hidden charges that Shon Kel had planted on the Sororitas's supply of demolitions, turning the shrine into a crater in the process, had given them free reign to pillage and enslave the entire planet.

Arkannis laughed as he thought of Gar Kaloth's plan to betray them. The Word Bearer had forgotten something very simply about betrayal. He who betrays first, lives.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*HOES #13-05: Treachery*

*Liliedhe:* Out, damn spot...​
I am washing my hands as my Master’s voice interrupts me. “Acolyte Abelard, report to my office at once.” I acknowledge, dry my hands and go to him.

His office is dark and squalid as always, piled with trophies, ancient books, scrolls and the rests of meals. Sometimes I don’t know if a bone I carefully dislodge from the carpet is the remains of some fowl he ate or something foul he destroyed. He knows what everything is. He doesn’t tell me. He likes me unsettled as he squats behind his desk like a vulture, black cloak with high collar almost hiding his withered, pale face.

He is toying with something as I enter, and with a sinking feeling I recognise a black feather. Almost as long as my forearm, asymmetrical, it is a flight feather of some large bird. Or not a bird.

I bow before him. “Inquisitor.” No greeting, he merely gestures for me to sit in the deep armchair standing opposite of his desk.

The upholstery is faded and stuffy, smelling of mold and rancid blood. There are rumours about this chair. All different, all insisting on something lethal hidden in it. I wouldn’t know. So far, I always rose from it again, all my appendages intact.

Behind my Master a holoscreen blinks frantically, showing nonsensical characters scrolling upside down. It paints my face and hands green. It can’t erase the black stains on my fingers.

Blue eyes bore into my own. “What is treason, Acolyte?”

“To turn against the Imperium.”

The answer comes by rote, hammered into me during my training. My fingers - proof of my guilt - tremble.

“And what is Treachery?”

This one is harder. It isn’t a crime in the catalogue I learned. It is much more personal. “To turn against someone to whom you owe loyalty”, I try.

My Master nods. He dips the black feather into a pot of ink and begins to write. My fingers start to itch.

“Do you owe me your loyalty, Acolyte?”

His tone is smooth, purring, idle. His eyes are anything but. They are searchlights, boring into my soul.

“Yes, my Lord. I do.”

He nods and continues to write. His desk is so cluttered I cannot see what he is writing. My mind sees my death certificate, written out in the inklike blood of the creature I killed. The creature at the root of my treachery. The creature whose tears still stain my hands.

“You are washing your hands a lot.” A casual observation.

“Yes, my Lord.” Another twine for the noose to string me up.

“It has been said that this is a symptom of internalised guilt. Are you feeling guilty?”

What would I give now for a poker face. For the ability to tell a blandfaced lie. To smile and answer ‘What would I have to feel guilty for?’ I can’t do that. He would see right through me. Even if he doesn’t know of my foolishness yet, he would know then.

“I am not sure, my Lord.”

Am I feeling guilty? My hands are stained since I touched the tears of that mutated beast I caught and killed on my Master’s orders. I shouldn’t have done that. I should know better than to touch something tainted. It was stupid but it was not treachery. I betrayed nothing. And yet, there is this pervasive feeling of ... something. Of having sinned.

“Explain.” He has stopped writing and turns the quill, so perfect, so dark, in his fingers.

I raise my hands. I know better than to hide them. “I am washing them because they are dirty.”

“Those look like ink smudges to me.” Why is he offering me excuses? I know better than that. I know lying, even lying by omission, will damn me in his eyes. “Ask the scribes for a better soap.”

I close my eyes. I see my life flashing before my eyes. Once again, I see the moment of my fall. Of my betrayal. I stand over the mutilated body of the chaos thing, this unholy mixture of bird and man, armoured in plates of ceramite. I trapped it and now I kill it, firing sanctified bolts into its chest, turning its innards to mulch. I feel again the compulsion to look into the dead things eyes, black-in-black eyes, so old, so empty, so sad. I see the trails its black tears have painted on its face. Tears of sorrow, shed while it was living still. And I close its eyes. Stain my fingers, stain my soul. To this day I don’t know why I did this. How I could feel pity and respect for something damned.

“It is not ink, Master.” I drop from the chair to my knees. A little furry thing disappears under my Master’s desk. I see the litter of centuries on the ground, and bury my hands in dead things.

“Get up.” The disinterest is gone from his voice. Now it is sharp like a whip. My body obeys before my mind even registers his order.

“I ask again: are you feeling guilty?”

My voice is a broken whisper as I admit my failing, finally purge it from my soul. The consequences will come later, the punishment. Now, I confess.

“Yes, Master.”

“Why?” He uses the tone he reserves for the heretics, for those who turned from the Emperor’s light. Sharp, unforgiving, cold. Although everyone who abandons the Imperium is a serious blow to him, they would never hear it in his voice. Or see it in his face. Neither do I as I cannot look at him anymore and watch my feet and the worms crawling over them.

“Because I showed pity to the enemy. Because I felt curiosity and sadness and fascination instead of hatred and revulsion.”

He is silent and in the silence I hear his soft breath. And feel my own tears, painting trails on my face.

“Ah, Abelard... So young. So romantic.” Now he sounds wistful, even sympathetic. “Of all my Acolytes I knew it would be you to betray me like this. Not with your actions but with your heart. A heart... The most dangerous liability for all of us...”

I hear the sound of a bolt pistol being cocked. I know it well; it is my own. The first shot tears through my chest. I don’t feel the second shot as I collapse among the dead. I cannot breathe. My vision, my hearing fade as do my thoughts.

A hand, spotted with age and clawed with arthritis, wipes away my tears.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*HOES #13-06: Serenity
​Bloody Mary: Serenity of Purpose​*​

Steam rose from the cauldron and the water bubbled. An herbal scent permeated the room, sharp and fresh. The ritual was almost prepared, save for the final ingredient—Seth himself. The necromancer sat in front of the window, and absentmindly brushed his hand against the back of what had once been his cat.

Its fur was matted, but magic kept it from rotting. Sometimes, it would remember how to purr, but not today, not that Seth noticed. His mind was elsewhere, his thoughts fluttering like startled birds. Amon, his son, his world, was out there, where war was raging. The child he had longed to protect from the cruel world that took his mother, ran off and was lost to him, but still Seth had to protect him. 

But he would not be able to protect him as he was. He was too weak, too lost to keep the war from ending his child. 

A failure of a healer, a failure of husband, a failure of a father, a failure of a man—his mind sung and sung, and told him he would fail, but Amon was the last piece of a world that had crumbled, the single gem, the tether that held him back from going where he did not want, and oh just once, he wished he would not fail. Not just wish, wishing was not enough, but what else was left to him? 

He swallowed, and tried to focus. It was of crucial importance that he was calm during the ritual, though serenity seemed an abstract concept. Where would he find the elusive peace? Memories of the green-blue eyes, set in a tanned face, and smile sweeter than summer wine only ever brought pain, and the image of a dead, dead body, a gaping hole where her womb was staring accusingly at him. 

But with pain came focus. War was raging, and his son was out there, unprepared for the cruelty of the world. What other way did he have to atone for his failures, but to protect him? And to protect him, he needed more power, power that his body used for all those useless functions. 

To save his child, he needed to die a false death, and remake himself. In death, all was lost, but sometimes a glimmer of once-had-been remained. If he could make his love for his child this glimmer… Death would take all burdens and distractions, but if he managed to keep this one feeling in his mind as he died, it would give purpose to something new. A creature that would know no fear, no pain, and would never stop. His love would live on in a new form: as the driving force for a creature of terrible serenity of purpose.

Amon would be safe, and the father who failed him would be no more.

He put down his once-familiar, and with a steady hand, Seth took a brush and dipped in a bowl filled with red ink. Slowly, he drew a pattern on his arm, swirling signs flowing down and down, until it was covered in them wholly. Then, he dipped it in the boiling water.

Pain came, but he held the limb submerged, until flesh started peeling from bone. Slowly, he drew it out, and carefully ripped the skin and muscles away, revealing the bone. Patterns, red like blood, swirled and dancing down the skeletal limb, and Seth knew he would be his son’s salvation.

His thoughts stilled.

Clarity came.

Seth rose and stepped away from the cauldron, letting the water boil on. He cast of his robe and picked up the brush again. He dipped it in the bowl of ink, and resumed painting the same swirling patterns over his body. His movements were no longer slow, but remained deliberate. The brush glided across naked flesh, all where Seth could reach.

For a moment, he stood still, smiling to himself. 

No longer did he fear. He knew it would work and he knew this time he would not fail. The certainty gave him purpose and clarity he had not felt in ages. It stilled the fluttering birds of his thoughts and focused them on the cauldron. 

He steadied himself with his skeletal hand and stepped into the boiling water.

The pain was even worse, but the flowing patterns worked and Seth retained control of his legs, even as his muscles cooked. He knelt in the water, allowing his useless flesh to die, and with it his hunger, his need for sleep...

The sharp scent of herbs mingled with the smell of his own flesh boiling, and Seth thought that if someone had entered now, they would have been sick. The observation was a far away thing, almost as if it was about somebody else. 

What did others matter? His purpose was all that mattered, a crystalline shining beacon, the tether that would keep his spirit bound to his body. 

For the last time in his life, Seth remembered his son. The green-blue eyes, so very much like those of his mother. The solemn face. The steady low voice. The way he would bow over a tome, when he was reading. 

“Father, I can feel death in my bones.”

The words that would return each time Seth taught him a spell. 

“Father, I’m cold.”

Seth filled his mind with the thoughts of his child, and dove into the boiling water. The world was pain, and he welcomed it. Every terrible second made him anew, until all that remained was his purpose—there was no fear, no pain, no distraction.

He let his humanity die that day. 

That which rose from the cauldron was a being of one purpose, unburdened by a man’s weakness and hesitation. It was no longer Seth, the necromancer, who failed to be all that he had wanted to be. 

It was a guardian spirit that would never let its charge down. All that would threaten Amon, son of Seth, would meet its end—this was the purpose it existed for. It did not hate those that it would destroy, and neither did it love. 

It was, and its existence was its purpose. 

In death, Seth had found peace, and took it from his son once again.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

* HOES #13-08: Absence

​**Ye Olde Grandma: The mortal affection*​ 

”I assume there is a point to that”, Aetius said, indicating Cecilia’s dress. During their previous meetings she’d come in her simple remembrancer robes, but tonight she was clad in a scarlet silk dress that left her arms, her back and a lot of her chest bare. 

Cecilia smiled. “Perceptive”, she said. “I thought it well-suited to further illustrate the points I believe I’ll be making tonight.”

Aetius frowned. “Explain.”

Cecilia kept smiling as she glanced across the room. _La Fenice_ was, as always, filled with people, and though Astartes were not uncommon here, Aetius was the only one present tonight. At this hour though, the spirits had taken their toll on the patrons, and Cecilia felt certain they’d be spared most of their attention. 

She’d indulged in a few drinks herself while she waited and couldn’t help but giggle as a server came over with two fluted glasses and a bottle of wine. His gaze lingered on her exposed skin.

“That”, she said to the Astartes when the server had left. “That’s your explanation.”

Aetius poured himself a drink and leaned back. Clad in a simple toga he looked every bit the magnificent hero, with skin pale and smooth like marble. Reclined as he was now, wineglass in hand, Cecilia found she saw him less like a warrior. He almost fit in, among artists and philosophers. Almost.

“I saw arousal”, he rumbled. “I heard an increase of heartbeat from that man and saw his breathing quicken. That is the carnal desire, yet no more than so. It is not, from what I’ve learned, the full extent of the mortal affection.”

_The mortal affection_. He’d taken to calling it that, because the word _love_ already had its meaning to him. It was the bond between battle-brothers and, in particular, the affectionate fealty to their Lord Fulgrim. That made sense in his world, though it made things harder for Cecilia to explain.

“You are correct of course”, she said, “though one shouldn’t underestimate the part played by mere arousal in the greater concept that is mortal love. Remember that the next time you indulge yourself in such poetry and prose.” She smiled a wicked smile.”For the most part the author merely covets the recipient’s body.”

Aetius took a sip. “So it’s lies then?”

“No, no, no”, she laughed. “Well, sometimes.” 

Aetius frowned. Cecilia drank deep while weighing her next words. 

“To be fair”, she said, “such desire is for the most part a complementary factor. A man may love a woman, and in doing so he loves all that she is, body and person both.”

“We know that the server loves your body”, Aetius said. “Approach him, and he may prove to love the rest of you.” He cocked an eyebrow, unsmiling. “Correct?”

“Indeed”, she laughed. “Then again, I am looking my best tonight.” 

“I noticed. During our previous meetings you evoked behavior such as that shown by the server merely once, while tonight men and women have laid eyes on you three times already.”

Cecilia coughed, barely keeping the wine behind her teeth. She looked at the Astartes before her with wide eyes, staring up at his face. His calm gaze flitted momentarily to the side, quick as lightning.

“Four times now”, he added. “You blush. Are you well?”

“I honestly never thought…” she mumbled. “I mean, four times?” She looked down at her dress, realizing that perhaps it was too much.

She resolved to plant her elbows on the table and lean on them, covering herself as best as she could. Aetius simply stared as she shifted her posture.

“It’s a strange thing, your mortal emotions.” 

“So you’ve told me”, Cecilia muttered. 

“Over the years I have delved into some of the finest art and poetry of the human species. By decree of my betters I have sought perfection in culture as well as in warfare. And…”

Cecilia put down her glass. “And?” she said.

“I see easily the magnificence in the statues of old heroes. My heart soars to look upon the landscapes of Chemos rendered in imagists’ paint. Even the ruminations of Karkasy are not beyond me.”

Aetius lowered his gaze.

“Yet the true meaning behind the poems and prose which discuss the concept of… of what you would name love; that still eludes my understanding. I study the matter as frequently as I can, but the words remain dead to me. They do not kindle in me the recognition as other things do.”

The subject had been hinted at during their previous talks, but this was the first time Cecilia had witnessed anything like this candour. Aetius had put his wineglass down and laid his massive hands on the table. His voice was as level as always, but she saw something new in his eyes, something haunted. A shiver ran through her and she instinctively raised her own glass to her lips. She’d had a lot to drink, in fact, and her mind had probably been dulled by it. Perhaps she’d only imagined what she saw.

“I will not lie and say that it doesn’t vex me”, the Astartes went on. “For all our talks I am still in the dark. The mortal affection seems to lie at the core of much of human existence, and yet mortals often shy away from it. As you did.”

He fixed her with a stare and said no more. Cecilia found her voice.

“Pardon?”

“You were shamed when I informed you of the looks you drew. Why is that, when the encounter with the server gave no such concern?”

Cecilia struggled with her thoughts. Once again she was reminded of how thin her dress was.

“That’s different”, she mumbled. “I can’t be thought of as easy, as some cheap...”

“Why?” Aetius interrupted. Cecilia cringed. 

“There is no honour...” she began.

“It makes no sense”, he stated. “What rulings would seek to hinder you from pursuing your purpose in love and reproduction? What hypocrisy is it to condemn you if you do? Know that I shall gladly aid you if I can; I still recall everyone that found you desirable, and their names can be yours if you wish.”

Cecilia blinked. The room was spinning around her. Aetius’s massive frame filled her vision and somewhere far away someone laughed.

“No”, she whispered. “Please.” Her cheeks felt wet.

Aetius’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “Perhaps it is for the best that I do not understand. Mortals are weak, and your reasonings as well.”

“Be glad then”, she heard herself answer, “for you will never understand.” 

She saw the haunted look return.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*HOES #13-08: Absence

*​* Lord of the Night: Lost Memories*​
I awake. The darkness recedes, I feel like I have seen this before but I cannot remember where or when or why I would have. Data scrolls down in my optics, systems coming back online. I remember what I am, and the momentary tinge of sadness that passes through what remains of my heart is another thing that I feel I have felt many times before, but I do not remember. I am a Dreadnought of the Adeptus Astartes, specifically the hallowed chapter that is the Howling Griffons. My name is Gabriel Kuroso and I know this and one thing. There is something absent within me. But I cannot remember what it is. My systems are all active and working at near maximum capacity, my organic parts or at least what little remains of them are still functioning, in some cases barely but that is the way it has always been, I think. Something is absent, I know it. But what it is escapes me at the moment, but I feel that it should not.

In front of me scurry a mixed group of the living, some are servitor slaves that do the main work of reviving me from my dreams of war and death, some are serfs recruited from those that failed the initiation trials, and some are Techmarines of the Chapter that are responsible for my care. Suddenly a face flashes in front of me, it is a stern face with short blonde hair and piercing green eyes that promises honest and fair judgement. I cannot remember who this is. Perhaps he was a serf that I knew in life, or a Techmarine that cares for me even now, but I do not see his face among the mortals and brethren around me. It will come to me, I am sure of it. For now I focus on my surroundings, I am in a great bay of machines and forges. This is where the Techmarines work at their weapons and repairs, and where I live when I am not called upon by my living brothers. It is a functional place, we are not a chapter for beauty or form but rather function. If it works, then that is enough. I am unsure where that phrase came from, someone once told it to me but I can't remember who or when or even if I was alive when I heard it.

This is the first time I have been awoken by my brethren, and will be my first mission as a Dreadnought. I feel a fierce pride in my surviving heart that I will soon bring death to the Emperor's enemies and gain revenge against... what? I do not remember what crippled me, what was it that put me in this shell of adamantium and mechanical parts? Was it one of the Traitor Legions? Perhaps the brutish greenskins or the arrogant Eldar? Perhaps even the disgusting Tyranids or one of the minor races that clamour for our deaths and our souls. I cannot remember. No matter, it will come to me I am sure of it. And yet I still feel as if something is absent. I run another internal systems check, which comes back and reveals nothing. I am fully functioning, and yet my heart is telling me that something is wrong, that I am missing something important but I cannot fathom what it is. Could it be my memories... no they are fine. Merely hazy from my reawakening, they will return shortly.

One of the Techmarines approaches me. His armour is as I remember it, the rusty-red of the adepts of Mars while his shoulderpad carries the rampant griffon that is our heraldry with the quartered yellow and red that are our colours. They make me feel proud, we are a mighty Chapter and though the perils we face are many it is good to see that we still stand even now... whenever now is. I think back on my years of service, I can't quite recall when I began my service but I am sure it was long and fruitful. He begins to speak to me, addressing me by name.

_"Venerable Brother Gabriel, it is good to see you among us once more. Once again you awake with little difficulty."_​
His words make me pause, again? But I have never awakened before this, and why did he call me Venerable Brother? One has to serve as a Dreadnought for at least two thousand years to earn that title but I have not served that long... I think. No! I am sure that I only fell in the last century, fighting... whatever it was that slew me. I think about correcting him but I am not sure that would be a prudent move, so instead I reply.

*"It is good to be back."​*

My sharp voice is a shock to me. It is completely emotionless, which is good as I did not want my hesitancy to cross over into my reply, but it surprises me that it is so deep. But should it? I feel for some reason that it shouldn't surprise me, that I have heard it many times before and my shock is wrong. But that can't be, this is my first mission isn't it? Yes! It is. I look forward to it, in fact I can't quite remember why I was apprehensive anymore. I am sure it was of little matter. The Techmarine continues to speak with me, telling me mission parameters and the reason I have been awoken once more. I find it odd that he continues to call me Venerable Brother but perhaps he is new and it is a lapse of judgement, I will speak with the Master of the Forge later and have his error corrected.

For now I look forward to my first mission as a Dreadnought, but I still cannot escape the feeling that something is absent. I try to remember what but I can't, my memories will return soon. I am sure of it. They have to... don't they?

_...Battle Report: 11927.8327 "Battle of Hybriday"
2nd, 3rd and 6th Companies deployed to planetary capital, designation "Granitehole"
Venerable Dreadnought Gabriel Kuroso, once 2nd Captain, deployed alongside 2nd. Eleventh deployment on record for Brother Kuroso.
Enemy Target: Orks.
Addendum: Kuroso's crippling at the hands of Orks can be avenged once more.
Addendum Secundus: Kuroso once again awakes with no memory after internment. His inability to retain memory is permanent, according to Chief Apothecary Vincento. Continue to monitor. Praise Guilliman. Praise the Emperor._​


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*HOES #13-09: Delay*

*Veteran Sergeant: Delay*​
They found the Minotaurs sergeant lying near a tangle of mutilated bodies. It had been a vicious and brutal close quarters fight. Stretched out around the large dugout were the bodies of Night Lords renegades and cultists alike. Inside the fighting position itself, the ground was a mess of severed limbs, rent bodies, and spilled innards. Though his helmet's filters kept out the smell, Veteran Marcus knew it must be awful. Discarded and empty weapons lay strewn about, suggesting that the final confrontation had been a whirlwind of blades and rifle butts. Three of the Minotaur's battle brothers lay unmoving amidst the carnage. Apothecary Tulio knelt down to check them for vitals. His vox silence told Marcus everything he needed to know.

 The sergeant stirred, looking up at them. Marcus turned back to Tulio and motioned with his head. “Get him on his feet.” Tulio worked diligently, patching his narthecium into the suit's receptors, and working to identify the sergeant's most grievous wounds and push the proper stims to render him combat effective. Tulio was feeding the Minotaur's suit vitals to Marcus over the squad comms. The physiology of a Space Marine was extremely resilient, but it would still take some weeks before he would be at 100%. However, within a few minutes, Tulio was helping the Minotaur up, his system pumped full of combat drugs.

 From behind his helmet, the Minotaur's voice projected from the vox emitter. “Thank you brothers.”

 The Invectors stood silent. The Minotaur continued. “I am Veteran Sergeant Korragos. I am in your debt. Let me join you in taking the fight to what's left of this rabble.” He moved to retrieve a bolter that was lying amidst the bodies, but was stopped by Veteran Kester. He attempted to move around the Invector, who moved again to block him.

 “What is the meaning of this?” The Minotaur's voice was inflected with a simmering rage.

 Marcus looked to his closest battle brother. “Arctos. Your blade.” Arctos drew the short sword which was clamped to his pack behind his left shoulder, and tossed it to Korragos, who caught it reflexively. Marcus turned to Tulio, calmly handing him his boltgun, and then his bolt pistol. He then turned back to Korragos, and drew his own blade. The other Marines stepped backwards to form a ring around the two combatants.

 “Traitors.” The Minotaur hefted the blade, assuming a fighting stance. Marcus dropped into one of his own, but said nothing in reply. The two began to circle. Korragos lunged, expertly striking at Marcus, who just as expertly parried the attacks and moved out of the way. Korragos whirled back around.

 “I will cut both of your hearts out.” The Minotaur struck at Marcus again, who again deflected the blows, before delivering a short kick to his opponent's thigh, staggering him. Korragos brought the combat blade around in a sweeping arc, but Marcus was already gone.

 They clashed again, Marcus catching the Minotaur's blade, and sliding it flat to lock them guard to guard. The Minotaur tried to loop an overhand punch at his helmet, but Marcus stepped back, sweeping around and the punch landed flush against his power pack with a dull thud. Marcus shifted his arm up to catch the fist between his collar and the pauldron before the Minotaur could retract it. Taking advantage of Korragos's momentary surprise, Marcus threw an elbow which rebounded off of the Minotaur's helmet, before Korragos was able to wrench his fist free and separate himself. The Minotaur was slow. This was almost too easy. Almost.

 Korragos wasn't done yet though. “What did the dark gods promise you? What did it take to turn your back on your vows, your brothers, and your Emperor, traitor?” The Minotaur swung at him again, but he was a fraction too slow, and Marcus moved inside the strike, catching it forearm to forearm. The Invector drove two quick, short fists into Korragos's helmeted face, rocking his head back. The Minotaur staggered, and Marcus kicked his legs out from under him. The Minotaur dropped hard, but recovered quickly, rolling to avoid a downward strike that never came. Instead, Marcus simply watched him roll away and come up to one knee defensively. Realizing there was no follow-on attack coming, Korragos stood. But he seemed to know he was fading.

 “If I were not so gravely wounded, I would destroy you, coward. Your victory is tainted and-”

 “I've given you every chance you gave the Inceptors at Euxcine.”

 The Minotaur said nothing, but the slightest flinch betrayed recognition. For a few moments, the two Space Marines stood silently. Suddenly, the Minotaur whirled, bringing his blade down on Kester. But the Invector veteran was faster, deflecting the strike with his boltgun, and kicking at Korragos, who leaped backwards out of the way.

 In a sweeping cut, Marcus hacked through the soft armor behind the Minotaur's right knee, severing the posterior ligaments. Korragos staggered, falling to a knee, and Marcus looped the sword back around and down onto his wrist. The blade bit deep into the Minotaur sergeant's flesh and bone, and he dropped his weapon. Marcus gripped the Minotaur's pack with his left hand, wrenching him around violently. The Invector struck him on the forehead with the pommel of the blade, and delivered a kick that sent Korragos to sprawl on his back.

 With a sweep of his boot, Marcus kicked the Minotaur's borrowed blade aside, where it was picked up by Maro. Marcus walked over to Tulio, and retrieved his bolt pistol. He turned back to where Korragos was sitting, having pushed himself up with his one good hand. Their duel had trampled bodies and entrails into the dirt, churning parts of it into a foul reddish brown paste which now streaked the fallen Minotaur's armor.

 Without a word, Marcus shot him in the neck. The bolt round punched through the layered mesh of the soft armor, and into the Minotaur's throat, where it detonated, pulping the airway and fracturing his spine. The Invector re-holstered the stubby pistol as he approached the twitching Minotaur sergeant. Kneeling down, he carefully disconnected the seals on the bronze helmet, and lifted it gently off of his head. Korragos was not dead yet, his superhuman physiology fighting to overcome even such an obviously mortal injury, and his face was still contorted in rage. Through the dull black lenses of his helmet, Marcus looked down into the Minotaur's eyes, a vicious smile hidden behind his scowling faceplate.





“Burn the bodies. All of them. Their genetic legacy ends here.”


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*HOES #13-09: Delay*

*Adrian: Worry is Bad*​ 
David Hasson thought he could delay the inevitable but he was wrong. The Inquisition had not only seen but were on their way at this very moment. David wished that he were a speck in dirt, beyond anyone’s notice, but as Chief Administrator of the librarious Lex, he was sure that even if he were a speck in the dirt, they would find him. The Inquisition could find anyone at anytime and that was a fact. So what he had failed to see and tried to hide when he did see it would cost him his life. He was under no illusion about that. They were coming and would put a bullet in his brain and really, there was nothing that he could do about it. 

David sat on the chair outside the back door to his hab and tried to see past his impending doom. He tried to think of all the wondrous places that he had gone to as a perk to his position. He tried to remember all the beautiful women that he had slept with, another perk to his position. He smiled at the thoughts that came to him, but then frowned when the doom thoughts came back with a slap of reality. There was not enough money in the universe that could save him and he knew this to be true. What had he done that was so wrong to deserve death? He began to sweat even though the evening was cool. He looked up. The stars were bright tonight. They seemed to be just out of reach but he knew that they were as far off as his salvation. He began to tremble. David did not want to die. The very thought of being put to death caused his mind to race, to look for a way of escape. But David knew there would be no escape. There was only one way out and that was a bullet to the head.

David slept in fits and cold sweats. In fact, David did not sleep. He couldn’t sleep because of his worry. They would be at his door in the morning and then everything would end. Everything that he had worked for all his life would be as the fog, here today and gone with the wind. Oh, how he wished that he had done things differently. Oh, how he wished that he could unsee what he had seen. But that was a false wish. There could be no redemption. He had seen what he saw and that was the end of it. 

The morning had come too soon. David had not slept at all even though he had lain there in his fine bed all night long. The sheets had been soaked with sweat and when he finally got up he was chill from the cool night air. He showered. If he must die at least he would be clean. Better to meet your death clean, he supposed. There was a knock on the door and David froze. He could barely even put two thoughts together. David’s dog began to bark but David did not get up. He was petrified. Finally the person at the door knocked again and with that, David stood and walked to the door. Each step was like walking though a dream. Every breath felt like he was fighting brutal gravity. Every blink of his eyes felt like crashing waves. 

David took hold of the doorknob and took a heavy breath. He turned it slowly and pulled. It took every ounce of strength to pull the door open, but he did it. He had opened the door and was a bought to let death in. The Inquisitor smiled but his eyes seemed to be soulless. His stature was short but strong. His hair was black as a raven’s wing. ‘Won’t you come in.’ David managed to say without too much trepidation in his voice. The Inquisitor stepped through the entrance and looked around. The home was simple yet full of nice things. It was not something that boasted great power but was soothing to the senses. ‘Mr. Hasson. Your home is very beautiful.’ The Inquisitor said with genuine respect. He continued, ‘The morning is nice. I do love the country life. Living outside of the hive must be very relaxing?’ David realized that it was a question, ‘Yes sir. It is very relaxing.’ David had no clue what was happening. He expected a bullet in the head at any moment. ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked. The inquisitor inclined his head. David went to the bar to pour a drink, but the Inquisitor stopped him before he could pour it. ‘Do you have milk?’

Milk. Yes he did have milk. It was rare and expensive, even more expensive than most jewels. David poured the milk for the Inquisitor and handed him the glass. The inquisitor drank it slowly. David stood there in his living room sweating and pale. The shot would come soon. He could feel it. He knew that the Inquisitor did not come all this way for milk. ‘I have something to ask you, Mr. Hasson.’ he said. He sat the empty glass down slowly and gently. The glass on the table. It stood out to David like a burning fire. For some reason David could not see anything else. He focused on it like it was a lifeline. ‘You have recently come in contact with forbidden literature. Do you remember anything of what you have seen?’ 

There it was. Now he would die. David answered truthfully. ‘Yes sir. I remember every word.’ The Inquisitor nodded and stood up. He reached for a leather pocket and dipped his hand inside. David closed his eyes and tried to prepare himself the best he could, but he was still shaking, almost uncontrollably. ‘Open your eyes Mr. Hasson. You are not going to die today. I need a person that I can count on to be able to remember and interpret meanings for our team. I make an offer to you.’

Years later as David read what before would have surly brought about his death, he smiled. Sometimes the Emperor’s will is better than we could have ever dreamed.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*HOES #13-10: Relaxation*

*HonorableMan: A Last Lho-Stick*​
They came out of the darkness, the soot and smoke congealing into gold-trimmed war-plate of the deepest black, roaring chainweapons raised high and already coated in drying blood. Boltfire rang out, mass-reactive warheads blasting away at both Cadian trooper and concrete cover; answered by eye-searingly bright las bolts, the armored giants nevertheless moved forwards, inexorably, inevitably.

It was a losing fight, the Cadian sergeant knew- but they were Kasrkin, the best of the best, the Caducades sea-eagle brand upon each and every trooper’s neck. They would not break, would not fall back, would fight to the bloody end. That was what the Imperium asked of them, and they’d be damned if it got any less than that.

He popped up, leveling his hellpistol and snapping off a shot. The bright ruby beam leapt from the weapon’s muzzle, flying true; one of the towering traitor warriors faltered and then fell to his knees, half of his helmet and head missing. Four more searing bolts of energy lanced out, transfixing the traitor Astartes’ torso, and it finally collapsed.

That would not be enough.

A bolt-round hit the waist-high concrete barrier that the sergeant crouched behind before detonating, sending shrapnel ripping across the faceplate of his helmet; the elaborate HUD inside his visor flickered and died. He didn’t have time for this. Ripping the helmet off and throwing it aside, the sergeant stood and snapped off two more shots, striking another traitor but doing absolutely nothing to stop it.

They were drawing close now, despite the increasing volume of hellgun fire and the slowly-rising number of Astartes dropping under its weight. The sergeant ducked down and drew his sword, more than a meter of adamantium crackling with energy, a weapon that could easily cut through even these traitors’ power armor, and stood-

There was a Chaos Marine right there, and the sergeant realized that there was something cold against his stomach.

He looked down, weapons falling from suddenly nerveless fingers.

The Chaos Marine wore a pair of lightning claws, and three half-meter blades were embedded in the Cadian’s gut. A slow smile spread across the traitor’s pallid, unhelmeted face, revealing teeth that appeared to be pointed fangs, and a tongue sporting its own mouth. 

The sergeant flopped to the ground as the traitor withdrew his claws, violet eyes open wide, his breath a cloud of mist in the cold air. It was so very cold, despite the armored and heated bodysuit; almost instinctively, he curled up on his side- or tried to, legs not responding to his will.

With a derisive snort, the traitor Astartes turned away and moved on. He was too close for that cursed battle-plate to provide any protection from a hellpistol- with a grunt of effort, the Cadian reached out for his dropped weapon. He couldn’t reach it; dragging himself closer, his gloved fingers finally closed around the pistol’s grip, but his killer was already gone, disappeared into the rubble.

The sergeant coughed. Something dribbled out of his mouth, and he was fairly sure he knew what it was. He became aware that he was lying in a puddle, a ruby-red puddle that was only growing, fueled by the founts of his wounds.

It didn't hurt very much. That was a bad sign.

Dragging himself over to the concrete barrier that had provided him cover earlier, the Kasrkin sergeant propped himself up on it in a sitting position. He had no illusions- this was a mortal wound, and there was no help coming. His squad was dead, of that he had no doubt- Astartes weaponry made quick work of most beings, often rendering them into unrecognizable gobbets of bloody flesh, such as he could see carpeting the ground not far to his left. Apparently the rest of them had been butchered while he had been distracted.

A burbling laugh left the sergeant’s mouth. Trained from childhood, equipped with the best armor and weaponry available… and slaughtered like this, all dead in a single cold afternoon on some little-known shrine world.

It was almost funny.

The sergeant dug in a pocket with shaking hands, gloved fingers finding the battered pack of lho-sticks and closing around it. There weren’t many left, and he dropped two before finally getting one out and between his lips. It didn’t matter- he wouldn’t need them again, that was for sure. He dropped the pack, too, trying to put it back in his pocket; his lighter came out of a different pocket, smooth chromed metal cool even to his gloved hand.

It took two tries to get a flame to leap out, orange at the top, blue at the bottom, wavering in the breeze. It caressed the end of the lho-stick for a brief moment, as the Cadian brought it close; snapping the lighter closed, he dropped that too.

He inhaled deeply, letting the lho take away the pain and the shaking. Reaching up, he took the small paper tube from his mouth with two fingers, dropping his hand to his lap. The end was stained red, the sergeant noticed; almost as if that had caused it, he coughed hard. It was a wet, rough cough, the kind that hurt his throat; flecks of blood came out, and more dribbled thickly out of each corner of his mouth.

There wasn’t much to do, he idly reflected, as one died. All one could do was sit around and wait for it- for some reason, the wounds weren’t quite so painful, or else he’d have contemplated finishing it quicker with the help of his hellpistol. But no, it wasn’t so bad, not at all- in fact, it afforded an opportunity for sitting down and not doing anything.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a chance to just sit down and have a smoke.

Taking another drag from the lho-stick, the sergeant tapped ash free from the end. No, transit through the warp he’d heard was boring for other soldiers, but for a Cadian, a Kasrkin? God-Emperor no, they spent that time training, mock-assaults, hand-to-hand combat, intensive studies on the enemies they’d most likely encounter. And when they weren’t on board a naval vessel, they were fighting. No respite for the best of the best, none at all. Never-ending training, and then battle. That was the life of a Cadian- he’d never really known anything else and hadn’t even thought about it. Not until now.

Something cold landed on his cheek. Something else. Again. Again.

It was snowing.

The lho-stick dropped from between his fingers, sizzling and dying in the claret-red pool that had formed beneath him.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Firemahlazer - The Craven Beast​*

Captain Crassus could feel the harsh glare of all the shadows boring down from the steep hills of the valley. The small town of Pella materializing into view was the source of his uneasy worrying. He quickly decided the feeling was not an instinct, considering his crow-eyed troopers were on the fence about their instincts as well. No doubt the fear radiating from the march-weary guardsmen from the Consentia Fourth company was about as raw as the wounds in last month’s casualties. Crassus would have to trust his scouts on the decision to force-march during the dead of night. The actual chance of coming under attack proved to be very low, according to his most trusted men. 

“Slave Raiders… you hear that? A town goes silent and they want us to go investigate- in the middle of the frakking night!” One of the grunt-privates had spoken up towards the fore of the marching column. 

The smack of a hand across his helmet by one of the Sergeants, Cassius Beatiatus, interrupted his rant. “Shut your gob, Lysuscis, and the nefarious Eldar being involved is just some gossip. Rebels could have easily stormed in and taken Pella for themselves.”

Lieutenant Ceasar of the first platoon suddenly chimed in smirking in the Captain’s direction. He raised his voice over the gossiping rank and file. “Makes little difference given the situation. The Fourth company all by its lonesome out in the fearsome wilderness, most of our vehicles broken and shattered, and the march shooting our morale to an all time high. Whatever’s at Pella, I’ll give them a day or two to surrender tops.” Ceasar’s words earned a couple of snickers laden with dark intent. 

“Consentians! Halt!!!” Crassus raised his fist at the very entrance leading into the town. His orders were echoed down the chain of command and soon the entire company was kneeling on the roadside. He could feel their eyes fixated on his back. 

Ceasar made to stand beside his Captain, sharing a similar look between themselves. “What in the name of all the Primarchs?” The Lieutenant mouth was visibly gaping. 

Crassus folded his arms patiently, a knowing smile crossing his lips. “I’d say an unharmed town of Pella. A welcome sight. Gather the men, we’ll rest easy tonight!” 

The weary tension among the Consentia Fourth immediately dissipated in the wake of relieved rejoicing. Three men abreast at a time marched into the undisturbed city much to the surprise and exaltation of those still awake so late in the night. Their joyous cries soon woke the sleeping and a crowd began to form from the windows and balconies. 

Lysuscis’ obnoxious voice shouted over the bellowed cheers of his comrades. “Why is everyone celebrating!? We could be sleeping out on the street tonight!” 

Ceasar was about to turn on his heel and punch him hard in the gut -a fellow Consentian warning- when a boy no more than eleven years suddenly rushed up to the head of the marching column. Ceasar and Crassus both stared down the boy with questioning gazes, the impatient looks on their faces quickening the boy’s certain praise. 

The boy looked distraught with renewed hope. “Did the Emperor send you!? Have you come to liberate us!?”

“Liberate you from what son!?” Crassus gestured with his arms all of Pella. 

The boy’s voice erratically shifts into inhuman tones and volumes. His smile too warps into something terrifying._ “... Liberate us from our shackles!!!”_ The monstrosity hiding in the form of a boy suddenly explodes into a nexus of energy. The core cackles madly while it continues to adapt into a humanoid shape. A horrible one at that. 

“Consentia Fourth! To arms! Kill everything in site!” Crassus’ piercing cry is echoed by decade veteran soldiers. The deamoness before him suddenly attempts to decapitate him in a wild spectacle for her deamonic on-lookers, but her disgusting claws fall short. 

The specters of the former citizens of Pella suddenly transform all at once, taking on the forms of lavender she-deamons and suddenly spring their carnival of slaughter on the fourth company. They beset on the slower, confused soldiers first, closing entire distances with bounding leaps and literally tearing them apart with their wretched claws in front of their comrades. The able-bodied still capable of putting up a fight are close enough to the sudden storm of death that they are painted in the blood of the fallen. 

Crassus leaped backwards into Ceasar. His plasma pistol discharging a molten hole in between the eyes of the she-deamon that had attempted to take his head the moment it looked real enough. His Lieutenant spins him away on instinct, taking his chainsword and side-stepping a sudden flurry of claws. His skill shows through even as he lashes out in desperation, severing a trio of separate limbs from their owners. Ceasar quickly steps back into their reach and cuts through them all at once with a vertical swipe. The monomolecular edges of his blade easily part through vulnerable flesh, spraying arterial blood all over himself and Cassius who fights beside him. Such was their bravery. 

Yellow trails of unloaded las-fire fly through the air and light up the dark streets of Pella. The battle cries of human warriors suddenly intermingle with the insanity of singing deamonic entities. Deamons pouring in from every angle fall where they stand under the weight of fire, absorbing a wasteful amount of firepower as they attempted to claw their way to fresh blood. The alien creatures came forth in a stampede colliding hard into a wall of resistance. 

Someone shouts._ “Crassus! By the Emperor, death from above!”_

The Captain immediately tuck and rolled away from the retracting press of lavender bodies, making enough room for a very slim creature to fall upon his previous position. His long serrated blade clanked against the ground futilely, then the mandrake - a headhunter, command had warned- jolted off his knees and connected a savage kick across Crassus’ temple. Crassus couldn’t react to the Eldar’s lightning coup de grace. The creature’s triumphant cry mixed with the defiant screams of both Ceasar and Cassius. 

The deamonic entities echoed his declaration of victory with mocking laughter. The Dark Eldar continued their cruel revelry even as their disguises -very realistic holograms- began to fade away altogether. Ceasar fell to his knees in horror at witnessing the horde of Wyches and Mandrakes butchering the wounded and trapping the survivors. 

A Succubus grips him violently by his hair. “Bring this man a communication device. He has a quite a story to tell.” 
__________________
"We advance south, towards Spartacus and those who would join him in rebellion! Let our shadow fall upon them! And every man, woman, and child so touched by it, struck from this world! By the might, and glory, of Rome!"
-Simon Merrells as Marcus Licinius Crassus


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Xabre - **A Nightmare Unseen*​ 

Sanguinus lay on the ground, his body still convulsing in its death throes. Dark blood pooled from beneath his body, staining his ivory wings crimson. His chest fell with his last breath, the broken blade of his sword buried through his armor and into his heart. His eyes closed, and the Angel was gone.

The pool of blood continued to spread, gathering at the feet of a god among those counted as gods among men. The great Betrayer, Horus, was standing there, towering in armor of slate grey and ebony. Done with Sanguinus’s weapon, Horus drew his own, a fel blade rumored to be gifted by the gods of all things terrible. Lightning crackled on the blades of the claw that graced his other hand. 

As dark and ominous as Horus seemed, the figure above him was just as magnificent. Even now in the darkest of times he seemed to defy description, a perfect creature that burned with all the glorious radiance of the sun. Golden armor as exquisite as was ever crafted graced his form, making him seem both regal and imposing, elegant and lethal all at once. The two figures were perfect opposites, the void of night against the blaze of the stars. Only Horus would dare to try and eclipse the magnificence of the Emperor of Mankind.

There was only one thing more absurd than the idea of father and son in conflict like this, and that was it would be witnessed by a mere mortal. In the shadowy corners of the throne room was another presence. He had no name, merely a string of numbers, a designation that seemed pointless and pathetic compared to the colossi before it. The figure was tiny and frail, and in the back of its mind it knew that was normal for a member of the Choir, though it could not remember what the Choir was. No other thought existed except for what was happening before it.

Horus and the Emperor were speaking to each other now. The sniveling creature heard them, but there were no words. From the Betrayer came terrible sounds of fire and thunder and death, while his father’s voice was a chorus of angels and a symphony of peace. The thunder grew more terrible, while the symphony was calm and soothing, each growing more intense as their argument heated. Finally the discussion came to its climax, with the quiet finality of the Emperor’s melody more terrible in its sudden chill than all the noise that Horus spouted.

The time for words were over with the Emperor’s final dismissal. From his throne he drew his sword, a blade of golden light that defied true definition. Like two titans of ancient Terra, Horus and the Emperor did battle. They were forces of nature, elemental powers that seemed less like men and more pure primal entities. The creature watched from the shadows, terrified of being caught up in the maelstrom. Its robes caught in fiery wind, threatening to draw him in, and his fingers bled as he clung to the wall and watched, unable to look away.

The battle seemed to last for hours, days, lifetimes. The two warriors moved in a blur that could not be followed by the unaided eye, and yet the huddling, numbered being saw every detail in slow motion. Blades flashed against blades in a corona of light. Armor was torn and blood was spilled. Small cuts gave way to grave injury, and still both fought on. At last one of the figures fell to his knees. It happened so fast that the choirman needed heartbeats to realize it was the golden Adonis that had fallen.
The menial had no control of what happened next; he screamed. It was the cry of mortal terror, of loss beyond any soul could ever hope to endure. Behind the Emperor’s throne, the very sky shuddered out the window, and fire rained from the stars as the universe mourned. And when the mortal’s scream abated, he turned and fled.

He had no idea where he was going. He disappeared into the shadows and found himself running blindly down endless tunnels. At one point he found himself running through corridors that seemed like they belonged in a starship. Rounding a corner brought him to the dark avenues of the City of Silence. The golden halls of the Imperial Palace gave way to ancient stone roads. Through it all he kept running, with the echoes of his own scream following. Somewhere in the midst of his flight, the menial’s mind managed to process that this was wrong. Some terrible dream. 

As soon as that thought triggered, he found himself at a dead end. The hallway ended in a dark room, some form of observation lounge. A massive window overlooked the curve of Holy Terra from orbit, and the entire mass of the palace could be seen from above. The city was burning, and fire fell from his perch in space, searing the world. The man ran up to the window, slamming fists against the glass. Behind him, nothing allowed escape as shadows closed in. He was trapped, watching the end of the galaxy. He banged on the class, clawed at it. Above Terra, a star exploded over the northern plane of stars. He watched the nova expand, until a blazing eye like fire could be seen. All at once the numbered wretch knew what he had seen. All he had to do was get the warning to Him, down there in the fiery blaze that was the palace. If he could just claw through the glass…



“Dead, you say?” The Mistress of the Astropathic Choir followed her assistant, already looking bored. Telepaths burnt out all the time, after all.

“Yes, Mistress. But this one was strange. Come, see.” The assistant all but pushed the Mistress into the small cell.

Inside the sleeping chamber was a small withered husk of a man, his body pressed up against the tiny slit of a viewport his chambers provided. His eyes were gone, burnt out of their sockets, and his fingers were mangled and broken, bloody and shredded from digging and clawing. Bloodstains around the window gave evidence to that. He had bitten his tongue and choked on it, it seemed, as if the rest were not enough.

“What could have caused it?”

The Mistress had no answer. In the distance, she saw a tiny flicker in the window, through the blood. A star had blossomed from the warp, and the flicker seemed to burn, like an eye in the darkness.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Xabre - The Three Wise Men

*​ Vorastrix banked through a bank of flow clouds, the bronze-skinned dragon soaring towards the mountain range crowning his home. Seated upon his back, Eldran’tyr, second son of Caledor and warrior mage gave a laugh as he felt his hair catching in the cross drafts. In the distance, he saw drakes circling over his father’s home, the smaller beasts the color of old blood, larger than the great eagles that roosted in the highest peaks, but nothing compared to Vorastrix’s majesty. 

Beneath them, as the dragon and rider came closer, Eldran’tyr could see regiments of heavily armored spearmen drilling. They were formed into strong phalanxes, each glittering in their mail armor, drilling with sword and shield. He saw another grouping of them off to a side, peppering targets with arrows. 

“Magnificent, isn’t it Vora? Father promised me a glorious army, and he did not disappoint. I hear the drakes will come too. You will have playmates.” The elf prince laughed aloud, guiding with his knees and thoughts to bring the Sun Dragon down on the large ‘landing pad’ that had been cleared behind the keep, as befitting the lords of Caledor, where so many dragons hailed. The creature’s response echoed in his mind. _Shiny elves in shiny skin. They would burn like all the rest._

The dragon landed easily, barely disrupting the loose gravel beneath them. Eldran’tyr undid his harness, and sliding down as Vorastrix lowered himself so that the mage could land easily. The onyx and crimson of Tyr’s armor whispered as his limbs flexed when he landed, the golden chains that held his spellbook twinkling against his hip. Like any elf, he was graceful in peacetime or war, and his years riding in the saddle of Vorastrix had, if anything, enhanced that. 

As Eldran’tyr stepped forward, four men stepped forward to meet him. One was an older elf, dressed in crimson robes, with an elegant golden crown shaped like a dragon. The other three was girded for war in ornate but functional armor. Each carried long two-handed blades across their backs, hilts appearing from dark crimson cloaks. All three had the look of veteran warriors. In unison, the three swordsmen took to one knee, bowing their heads to the prince.

Tyr’s father bowed to no one. The current Lord of Caledor, like his predecessors, had taken the name of the realm, and answered to no other. Closer, Eldran’tyr saw that beneath the robes he was wearing dark armor, just like his own, enchanted to withstand dragonfire and the trials of aerial, mounted combat. Instead, the mage offered his own bow, at the waist as befitting his own station and his father’s. 

“My lord. You summoned me home, and so I have returned.” That was a very brief summary of course; Caledor’s summons had mentioned a great gift for his son, as befitting a Dragon Prince of Caeldor, and his standing as one of the magi of the realm. His father had wished him home immediately, to put him at the head of a great army, an expedition out into the world to show the might of the Elves to all, to prove they were not a fading people.

“So I have, and so you have.” The prince agreed. With one hand, he gestured behind him, and the three stood, stepping forward. “I am sure from your perch, you saw the host I have gathered. There is a host of elven bows and spears worthy of a true prince, not to mention the drakes flying overhead, and a force of Knights, trained from my own guard. What do you say to this?”

_Dragon Knights, drakes, spearmen and archers. Truly a grand force._ Vora’s words echoed in Eldran’tyr’s mind, almost in time with the same words in his own thoughts. The difference was that while Eldran’tyr saw glory at such a host, his steed’s mind was mocking, as he felt that most mortals, lacking a dragon to give them strength, was just more fodder for the war.

Tyr bowed low. “I am honored by this gift, father, my lord. I will endeavor to live up to your glory, and lead this host to—“ 

“You misunderstand me, my son.” Caledor’s hand came out, fingers tilting Tyr’s head to look at him, and then slowly raise him to stand again. “This is your host, certainly. You will ride with it, and I have no doubt that your strength, along with Vorastrix’s,” at this the prince bowed to the Sun Dragon, for even the youngest of the great beasts were worthy of respect to the elves of Caledor, “will bring us glory and honor. But you will not be leading this force.”

That gave Tyr pause. His mind raced, thoughts tumbling through his head. He did not understand; he was a son of Caledor. Certainly, as second son he was not heir, but he was a warrior mage, with his own dragon, he deserved his own force of war! How dare his father put him beneath another lord! Force his tone calm and even, he managed to ask the next question in what he hoped was a neutral tone. “And which wiser, more experienced lord shall command, my lord?”

“Again, you misunderstand me.” Caledor spoke. Then he stepped aside, and the three armored warriors stepped forward. “_Three_ wise men shall guide your efforts in this war. I present to you the first of a new breed of warrior for Caledor. Aldor, Gareth, and Elladan are Loremasters, trained and Hoeth in the arts of the blade, and spellwork. They are three of my greatest generals, and shall lead your force. You will learn from them, and follow their guidance.”

Generals. They were not even lords of their own houses, but generals that led his father’s men. Tyr’s jaw locked, his teeth grinding quietly. He forced his expression to remain aloof. How dare he! Slowly, cautiously as to not give away his irritation, Eldran’tyr bowed in turn to each of the three Loremasters. “I look forward to learning from you all, Masters.” He glanced back to his father. “Is that all, my lord? Vora is eager to hunt, and it has been a long flight.”

The Lord of Caledor waved his hand in dismissal, already turning back to the loremasters. Behind him, his son mounted the Sun Dragon, and they took to the skies again. He looked back to the three with a shrug. “In the fires of war are all weapons forged. You three will be my hammers. Do not fail.”


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Xabre - Lessons of the Masters*​ 
It was an army worthy of saga, and it had yet to even experience a battle. Regiments of spear-wielding elves, armored, trained with pike and bow to equal lethality. Dragons flew overhead, ranging from large firedrakes, to smaller reds bred for aerial combat, and those meant to draw the Skycutter airships. Knights wheeled on black horses bred for generations for war. As if that was not potent enough, it was led by a great bronze Sun Dragon, Vorastrix, and its rider, the fire mage Eldran’tyr.

_No. It is led by a trio of my father’s spies._ The fire mage in question stood in the middle of a large chamber, with the three men in question. Eldran’tyr had not bothered to learn any of their names; he did not care about any of them except as a means to an end. He hoped that with enough bowing, scraping, and humbling, these fools would allow him to have his own glory, and run back to the Lord Caledor to explain that he did not need babysitting.

For now, however, the mage and prince found himself struggling to survive their most recent _lesson._ All three stood in front of him, throwing powerful bolts of raw magic at his direction. They explained it as a lesson in defensive magics. Like Eldran’tyr, the Loremasters were able to cast in full armor, though their chain and scale was less impressive and encompassing than the ensorcelled dragonscale armor he wore. Unlike the Loremasters, however, Eldran’tyr also wore numerous amulets and charms to offer further protection from crude, mundane dangers. Fire mages existed to _destroy_, not throw up pitiful shields and block spells. Who would hurl fireballs at him as he sat astride Vorastrix?

Needless to say, the prince was not faring as well as he had hoped. As befitted his mastery, his defensive wards shimmered before him like a heat haze in the desert, wavering as they were battered by a combined volley of lightning, molten iron and some dark miasma that threatened to crawl around the edges of his protective spell. He staggered back as the force of all three attacks struck him, barely able to keep his footing. Sweat glistened on his brow, and frustration was obvious on his face.

“I still… don’t understand… the point of this.” The elven prince grunted out, stepping forward again, pushing back against his own wards. The haze of shadow faded away, and Eldran’tyr let his wards fade between attacks.

One of the Loremasters, the leader of the trio, with long flowing silver hair held back by a silver crown, stepped forward. Unlike Eldran’tyr, he did not look like he had been struggling in the least. “You are strong, highness. But that is not enough. Your steed is strong, but that is not enough. We are just as strong as you, and there are three of us. You cannot hope to defeat all three of us, and any enemy that has the same resources will know that. They will not hold back. If you do not have the fortitude to endure what we can throw at us, how do you possibly expect to survive an enemy who would do anything to end you?”

Eldran’tyr seethed at the verbal lashing, refusing to admit that the Loremaster was correct. Instead, he decided to try and humble him. He was tired from the constant defense, using powers he was unused to depending upon. So he turned to what he _was_ good at. The incantation tumbled from his lips easily, almost silently. A sword of flame appeared in his hand, and he leapt forward into his favorite aggressive dueling form.

The lesson failed to humble, at least the way Eldran’tyr planned. Without losing stride the Loremaster stepped back into a defensive guard stance, the elegant two handed sword on his back drawn and countering to arcane weapon. In response, the elder mage parried and riposted, quickly pushing back and sending Eldran’tyr on the defensive. “Did you think that because you were able to wield a blade that you could surprise me? Are your eyes failing? Do we need _larger_ weapons for you to notice?”

Eldran’tyr staggered back against the heavier blows of the ithilmar greatsword. He parried with the magical weapon, the living flame forged into his anger and rage, but he was not trained the way the swordmasters of Hoeth were. It was a foregone conclusion that he would lose a battle against such a warrior.

“Pathetic. You want to lead, but simply assume that your magic and your dragon will carry the day.” The Loremaster lashed out with his blade, pulling blows so that each one was parriable, but with enough force behind it that the prince was hard-pressed with each strike and counter.

“You think you are some great mage, but you are brash. Reckless. You have a sun dragon as your steed, and you think that it is some great feat that you can throw fire? Vorastrix can do that as easy as breathing!” The Loremaster seemed to be growing angry. His temper growing short as he lashed out with each blow. 

“Insolent whelp! You are no worthy mage! You think because you have a few tricks, that you can wield a sword, you will be better than another magus? Well now what do you do against your better?” The sword flashed out again, connecting with the fiery sword, and the magical blade fizzled and disappeared. Eldran’tyr staggered back, falling to the ground. He was breathing hard, exhausted, his endurance spent in magical and physical duels.

The tip of the blade was suddenly at Eldran’tyr’s throat, as the Loremaster stood over him. “Pathetic. Your father was right to entrust us to _protect_ your army.” And with that dismissal, the man turned, walking away. He sheathed his sword, and the other two magi turned and followed.

Eldran’tyr was seeing red. _How dare he!?_ He pushed himself to his feet, panting, breathing heavily. “I don’t need fortitude. I don’t need _tricks._” The air grew heavy around him. He raised one hand, and the very shadows seemed to waver, as if cast from a flame. A moment later a powerful inferno surged from his fingers. A living torrent of fire rushed away from him, and washed over all three. “I have anger.” He spat out at the spot where all three mages had been enveloped in flame.

The flames guttered out, leaving the three Loremasters, unharmed behind their own wards. The lead Loremaster looked over his shoulder. “A pity that’s not good enough.”


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Myen'Tal - Maw of Granite*​
I once carried the name Hel’xata with great pride. The name belonged to a line of champions in patronage to Tzeentch, yet did not bend knee to him directly. I used to tower over the legion-host as a mighty tower made mobile. Two wicked Sabers, etched with the name of every soul that had previously wielded them into battle, were mine to cleave and rend. My armor was nothing but my scaled and human flesh, save the Sash of Dreams. That lovely sartorial gave my enemies glimpses into my own aspects, which were not me. 


I crashed down with the mighty hooves of the Centaur. I danced through the greater champions of the four like a four-limbed genie. I drained away the ages from the mortal races with one cursed bracelet. My masters wished me to turn from warfare, to disgrace myself in order to humble my stoked sense of hubris. Therefore, they desired it, but I never knelt until the centuries had come and gone. Only the tattered banners of the heralds remained to sing the praises of their overlords. The Great Four beckoned me to forsake my allegiance and swear fealty for eternal rewards a demon simply could not shrink at. 


I never gave much concern to invading the mortal planes in the universe. Until my Master, Guardian of the Forlorn Towers prepared my host to march into the unknown. I never knew why the sudden change of heart, the Guardian always seemed content to prove himself before the Gods of Chaos. Yet when the portals began to shatter the bonds between our world and theirs, I knew there would be no turning back. Never, so long as mortal souls still defied the whim of the ruinous powers and fought their divine right to rule. What sovereignty isn’t given freely may be taken through conquest. 


The Necrons of all species were the first to defy our invasion. Our factions joined in battle on the ashen sands of the tomb world Silvan V. I fought tooth and nail on the frontlines, an endless sea of writhing demons against a phalanx of quicksilver and machinery. Their weapons thrashed through our ranks for weeks, their monoliths and fallen Star Gods slaying even the greatest legends among the Guardian’s armies. The battle soon turned ill. The Guardian called upon my services to slay the aspect of the Star God: The C’tan. 


My sabers carved path after bloodless path through their defensive formations, gauss whips lashing into my flesh, peeling away the skin rather masochistically. Only my finest fought and bled with me, until I was sure we would all be no more until the eve of the next millennia. My powers did not seem to have the desired effect on these soulless machines and they continued to press the advantage against us. Their commanders must have convinced themselves the conflict had been won. The ghastly C’tan emerged from a parting host of undead machines, larger and wielding a scythe with unknown powers. 


I knew that I must tread carefully, the C’tan feast on souls like any other possessed with their power. The scythe came down, fluid like water against my Sabers. The explosion of unstable powers erupted across the battlefield, the fallout pulsing through the throngs of our minions like a mental thought. I found vulnerabilities in the God’s guard, cleaving through mist and darkness as if I had struck a black hole. The Star God lurched with a monstrous maw, all ghastly grey teeth and utter blackness. 


So I revealed my own fangs. My friends in the Forlorn Towers always noted that the bite of my fangs is the hardest. A spew of incomprehensibly burning flames made the strike incredibly more painful. The darkness lurched away from my person, shadows blazing away while it howled the most terrifying wraith-howl to rattle my ears. I leapt into the encroaching blackness, my fangs snapped deep into whatever looked real. The C’tan dropped the scythe. His explosion nearly eradicated my physical manifest, my own chosen were not so fortunate. 


The Guardian named me Champion of the Host. I carved through system after system in no coherent fashion. After the Necrons I landed in the Tau Septs and warred for no longer than a year. The young race proved resistant to the influences of the warp, so their worlds were of little value. The Host invaded the Eastern Fringe inside the Imperium next. I challenged my first Astartes in the invasion of Karlia. All one hundred of them came down to face the chosen and myself. One hundred heads claimed for the Gods. 


My campaigns ended on one fateful decision to launch a surprise assault deep into Imperial territory through an isolated sector called the Hellas. Four worlds by the name of Tarmathon writhed in the flames of war over a protracted period. All seemed lost for the miniscule Imperial presence located there, their effort hinging on only one distant planet. Had it not been for the intervention of one certain Eldar Craftworld, I would have succeeded. 


The Aspect Warriors of Teyl-Jhen arrived across the four warfronts in lightning blitzes. Wherever they came, they repulsed us. Their actual numbers remain unknown, but I believed they were few enough given the task they were set to. Never enough to commit to open battle with our kindred, but they freely harassed us whenever they saw fit. The true intent to stop us, masked beneath the annoyances of raiding and ambushes, did not come to sight until the Imperials made to stand with them. We met across the four worlds and met our demise with some honor. 


Our own demise came through the great Raihan, Tiger of Teyl-Jhen. A Farseer draped in a shimmering sapphire cloak emblazoned with both the Sea Dragon and the Tiger. He did not stand against me alone. All the council of Seers wielded their potent magic against me. I never yielded before them. Instead, I crushed them under heel. Yet the Tiger’s resolve only seemed bolstered. Raihan alone conjured an eldritch storm powerful enough to send me down to one knee. He gripped his Singing Spear overhand and cast the weapon from his fingers. The Spear was designed to disrupt the physicality of anything beyond the average warp creature’s proportions. And I, Hel’xata, looked disrupted without an eye to gaze through. 


Struck blind by a tiny mortal in one eye, I had little choice but to watch him through whatever remained lingering in the physical world. I snapped my jaws at him one last time. One defiance repaid with another.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Xabre - Earth, Steel & Fire*​ 
It was another of those damnable tests, created by the three _Wise Men_ that led his army. Eldran’tyr sat in the war saddle of his great steed, the sun dragon Vorastrix, slowly circling over the training grounds for his budding army. Over the last few weeks, the Loremasters had come up with dozens of drills, activities and tests for his soldiers. The Dragon Mage was willing – begrudgingly – to admit that many of their methods seemed to strengthen his forces, but the idea that these three _outsiders_ were directing his army still grated on the heir of Caledor. 

Currently, one of his regiments was spread out on the training field. The large block of elite guardsman moved in perfect, disciplined blocks, their scale armor glinting beneath blood red and black uniforms. Each one held a large shield on their arm and a long spear in their hands. At least, the ones that were in the front lines did. In traditional Elven battle tactics, the soldiers in the front ranks had their spears raised and shields up, defending the back ranks, which had drawn full-sized longbows. With blinding speed, each knocked, drew, aimed, and fired steel-tipped arrows at their target.

Unfortunately, the enemy before them cared little for steel.

The golem, a massive elemental construct made of living stone, stomped through the field. Its body was made of rocks and stone, varying in size from giant boulders for fists and torso, to tiny pebbles grinding in its joints. Slow and ungainly, it staggered and forward unrelenting and unstoppable. Arrows struck the bulk of the elemental, sparks flying as steel stroke stone, wooden shafts splintering and shattering. The rocks showed a few scratches and chips on the surface, but otherwise they were unmarred by the projectiles.

When the golem got too close, the spearmen stepped forward, driving their weapons forward. Made of magically-reinforced wood, the weapons fared better than arrows. The steel spearheads struck the elemental, keeping it from storming forward. Runes carved into each spearhead glowed softly, minor enchantments keeping the weapons from shattering, but not strong enough to do any more to stone than a normal spear might; which was nothing. It kept the creature at bay when it found it could not cross the wall of spears and shields, then stepped back, and looked for another path of attack.

It was a stalemate. The Elven soldiers had no weapons to harm the elemental, while the creature could not overcome the Elven discipline or defenses to defeat its foes. “This is foolish.” Eldran’tyr offered aloud, though only his great steed was near him to hear, swooping above the training field. “Of course our men would not be able to defeat such a creature. That’s why there are other elements to the army. The bolt throwers on our skycutters could pierce that thing, or a drake would pull it apart.” The prince’s voice was tinged with disgust and impatience. What was it about these Loremasters, making up their own rules, not paying attention to the tactics of their own men?

No. Not _their_ men, _his _men. He would prove these three were fools, and take back his command. Seeing his soldiers holding their own against an arcane construct gave him pride, and made him feel certain that the Loremasters had misjudged his warriors. But at the same time, knowing that they couldn’t defeat the creature, lacked the tools to do so, discouraged him. What was the point of this exercise?

_Perhaps the Loremasters think that your warriors carry pickaxes._ Vorastrix’s words echoed in its rider’s mind. The barely constrained violence in the dragon’s thoughts was obvious to Eldran’tyr. He could agree. He would much rather take the great dragon hunting in the mountains, but the Loremasters had _requested_ his presence to watch the exercise. The sooner this farce was over, the sooner they could get back to the nature of a true dragon. 

The Loremasters themselves were nowhere to be found. After summoning the creature, the warrior magi had stepped back past the soldiers, told them to defeat it, and disappeared into the shadows as if they never existed. They were probably still somewhere close, watching, but Eldran’tyr could not see them from this height, and if Vorastrix could, the dragon was not pointing them out.

Again and again the cycle repeated itself. The golem would lumber forward, be pressed back by hardened spears, but the Elves could not cause any damage to the construct. 

“I have had enough of this. I will show them _my_ pickaxe.” Vorastrix growled beneath Eldran’tyr, feeling the rage in his rider. The growl turned into a roar of conquest as it fell into a dive. The massive dragon came at the training field at a sharp angle, and even as they descended the mage was summoning a sword made of living flame, intending to tear through the elemental himself, but the dragon beneath him had the same idea.

With a terrible crash of claws and stone, Vorastrix smashed into the stone elemental. Claws sharper than swords tore chunks out of the granite body and the dragon’s massive bulk crushed it to the ground. Even after all that, the animated golem stroke to rise, finally having an opponent to fight. Eldran’tyr lashed out with his sword, but the elemental was blocked by Vorastrix’s profile. Finally the sun dragon opened its mouth, unleashing a blast of liquid flame. The fire from the creature washed over the stone elemental’s form, and the rock began to melt, starting to run like mud. As everyone watched, the stone softened, and the magic animated the creature faded into the air like purple smoke.

Then it was done, the elemental dead, half melted, unmoving. Vorastrix reared back, roaring in triumph. Eldran’tyr felt a glimmer of disappointment at not having a chance to kill himself, but at least he and his steed had had a kill together. The mage jumped down from his mount, looking around at his fellows. The warriors had all raised their spears in salute to their lord.

Hidden in the shadows, the three Loremasters watched the triumph of the dragon mage. “Fool. It took him long enough to realize he was supposed to help defeat the elemental. He keeps thinking of himself as a lord, and not a weapon the soldiers can rely on.”

“He will learn. We will teach him. His head is like granite, but eventually it will sink in.”


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Dark Angel - Brotherhood*​
For the fifteenth time, Elias Krateron slapped a magazine into his bolt-pistol and expelled it. He was armoured, like all of his brothers, in the sea-green of the Sons of Horus, a belt of pteruges ringing his waist. There were hundreds, _thousands_, of warriors around him - Each undergoing their own preparations, checking armour seals, boasting and bantering amongst one another, revving the motors of their long, barbaric chainswords. Krateron's own squad, 17th of the 17th Company - Some naysayers claimed, that after Murder and the loss of four brothers, they were unlucky, damned and doomed and damned again - Were crouched together, silent and statuesque, their helmets sealed and their weapons ready, though unloaded.

_Snap-click_, sixteenth time. 

'We are the speartip,' Krateron heard someone say, jovially, nearby. 'We'll go in, beat the Isstvanians around a bit, and let Abaddon mop up the mess.' 

_Snap-click_, seventeenth time. 

Isstvan. Vardus Praal, the local governor, had revealed his true colours, murdering Imperial officers, throwing up his arms in open revolt. He was a turncoat, a bastard traitor, blind to the light of the Emperor, to Horus Lupercal and the Imperium. And now the might of not one, not two, but four Legions had fallen upon the Isstvan System - The Sons of Horus, the Death Guard, the World Eaters and the Emperor's Children were all present, and in massive numbers. It was _almost _unprecedented. 

_Snap-click_, eighteenth time.

But something felt strange about this undertaking. Here, upon the _Vengeful Spirit_, a task-force had assembled, over a third of the XVI were present - An ad hoc formation of individual squads and formations, pulled from a hundred companies. Everyone had noticed the subtle rearrangements in the command hierarchy; tested, popular and capable Terran officers being rotated out in favour of younger, zealous Cthonians. Indeed, Esarhaddon now commanded the 17th, the Hesperus Guard, having replaced old Tybrean on the outset of the Isstvan Campaign. 

_Snap-click_, nineteenth time.

'If you keep doing that,' Rasped a voice, low and brittle. 'You'll cause a malfunction.'

Krateron's head snapped around. One of the Sons of Horus, his armour so superbly polished that it shone like a mirror, stood over him. He was bareheaded, with wide-set amber eyes and a straight, dignified nose. 

'Sarnbael,' Krateron called out, embracing his brother with a clatter. 'Brother.' 

Sarnbael and Krateron were polar-opposites - Krateron, tall, pale-skinned and grey-haired, one of the XVI's Terrans, old and hardened; Sarnbael squat, broad and bald, one of the true Sons of Horus, having been raised from the slump-hives of Cthonia, and later, inherited the Lupercal's noble features. Despite these differences, friendship had blossomed between the two, and their squads often worked in tandem - Sarnbael's choleric nature complimenting Krateron's steadier, calmer outlook.

'Sergeant,' Sarnbael said, tersely, disengaging from his friend. He straightened, eyeing the gathering of Legionaries, and whistled. 'Quite the show, isn't it?'

'It is,' Krateron replied, nodding in agreement. 'I did not know you were selected for the speartip.'

'I wasn't,' Sarnbael said, with a disappointed smile. 'I have other duties to attend to aboard the _Minotaur_, but that is later.'

'Came to see us off, then?' Krateron ventured. 

'I did,' Sarnbael meeting Krateron's gaze. 'I wouldn't miss this for anything.'

'Praal's a fool, a _dead _fool,' Krateron added, after a moment of silence. 'Fulgrim's peacocks have been given the duty of securing the Precentor's Palace, though.' 

'Not all of the Emperor's Children are songbirds, Elias,' Sarnbael growled, his expression hardening. '_Remember _that.'

'I meant no offence, brother,' Krateron said, grinning. 'Nevertheless, it shall be a glorious day. We'll be back by nightfall, mark my words. We're going in with Endall's lot, straight for the Sirenhold.'

'Or an infamous one,' Sarnbael grunted, folding his arms across his chest. 

Krateron raised an eyebrow. 'Infamous? You're mistaken, brother-'

'Infamous,' Sarnbael interrupted. 'Days like this, where such a show of hand is needed, are infamous. The war with the Interex and the campaign on Aureus were the same. No glory, just blood and piss and _infamy_. Isstvan will be the same. Many will die.'

'I don't understand, Praal is a rebel-'

'You don't understand,' Sarnbael cut in, smiling sadly. 'Of course you don't. How could you? You see only one thing, brother - _War_. It rules you, you see no other purpose. Isstvan, to you, to these,' He indicated the crowd of Marines with his hand. 'Is just another war.'

'Why are you telling me this? Are you envious, brother, that Horus has put you on deck-washing duties?' Krateron laughed heartily. 

'I'm telling you this, Elias, because I am your _friend_. Because my conscious wouldn't let me remain silent,' Sarnbael paused, pursing his lips. For a moment, he was lost in thought, in consideration. 'Isstvan is the turning point, the paving stones to something newer, something greater. Nothing will be the same after Isstvan. These next few hours, days, weeks and months and years? That will be the judge of whether today lives on in infamy or in glory.'

Krateron opened his mouth to speak.

'Speartip units to posts!' Commanded the deck officer, his voice echoing throughout the cavernous hanger. 

'This is it, then,' Sarnbael said, offering his hand. Krateron clasped it in his, shook it, and nodded. 'Farewell, Elias, watch yourself down there.'

'Don't miss me too much, Sarnbael,' Krateron laughed, slapping a fist against his chest. 'Lupercal!'

'Lupercal,' Sarnbael mimicked, grimly, and spun on his heel, marching away.

Krateron jogged away, leading his squad from the front, lowering his helmet over his head. For a moment, everything was bathed in blackness, before reality snapped back into being, fuzzy-green. 

He and the men of 17th entered their drop pod, buckling themselves into their harnesses, slamming magazines home, uttering oaths of moment. 

What had Sarnbael been talking about? He was on the point of raving, of lunacy. He made little sense. Krateron made a mental note to inquire further into the subject, after he returned from the surface. 

Slowly, deliberately, Krateron loaded his bolt-pistol.

_Snap-click_, twentieth time.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Dave T Hobbit - **Chuckle*​

_*Beep Bip Beep Bip*_

Lucas eased himself upright, and then winced. Sleeping in the flight chair wasn’t ideal, but since the accident left them with reaction drives there were frequent alarms. And with Anderson dead, there was no-one to spell him. Neck finally agreeing to straighten, he silenced the warning.

The main thruster was reporting a fuel interruption. Superb. He stretched for the intercom. “Engine Room from Cockpit. Do you read? Over.... Engine Room from Bridge, over....” Who was supposed to be on duty? “Wilson, do you read...?” Probably inside something, or dozed off. He could shout, but that would wake everyone else up. He needed a stroll anyway, to get the kinks out.

The corridor lights flickered as he passed. Since the experimental drive crapped out, everything was on the blink. And there weren’t enough of them to keep it going. On the plus side, the reduction in crew numbers would made the profit share very healthy.

Lucas yawned hard, and then leaned into the engine room. “Wilson. You sleeping on the job again?”
Everything was sealed up tight, and there was no sign of anyone. Must have gone for parts. Lucas tapped the intercom. After a brief crackle the power light flickered out. Which explained why Wilson hadn’t answered.

He could wait for him, but if something else crapped out he needed to be in the cockpit to deal with it. So check the stores. He jogged along the corridor, and then slid down the service ladder. Peering into the half-darkness, he realised there were legs stretched out of a duct at the far end. “Wilson?”

The figure slid out of the duct.

“No need to get up. Main thruster’s reporting a fuel blockage. I need to get back to the cockpit before we hit a planet or something.” Lucas headed back without waiting for an answer.

There were several amber warnings waiting for him when he got back, but nothing critical. And the thruster was back to normal. He revised the course to account for the interruption, then started working through the amber warnings.
_
*Beep Bip Beep Bip*_

Another fuel interruption to the main thruster. He stopped with his hand half-way to the intercom. The power light was out in the cockpit too. Looked like he was walking again.

There were hand-helds in the stores. If they taped them to the walls, it would having to walk back and forth all the time.

He slid back down the service ladder. Whatever Wilson had been fixing, it wasn’t the lights. Staring into the murk, Lucas tried to remember which cabinet the hand-helds were in.

He dived flat as something whooshed through where he had been. Rolling over, he narrowly avoided Wilson’s down swing.

“It’s your fault,” shouted Wilson, raising the wrench over his head. “It must be you. Laughing at me.”

Lucas kicked him hard in the crotch. Save the monologues for the movies. Standing, he kicked the wrench away from Wilson’s prone body. This was just getting better and better.

“Laughing from the shadows,” gasped Wilson. “But I’ll show you.”

Lucas peered around. Wilson had clearly lost it, so he couldn’t just leave him. But there was no way he could get him up the ladder. So he needed to improvise. Smacking Wilson behind the ear to make sure he stayed down, Lucas began to empty out the nearest cabinet.

With Wilson’s unconscious body locked in the cabinet, Lucas headed for the bunks. But it looked like Wilson had been there already.

Trying not to heave at thoroughness of the murders, he backed out slowly and then ran for the engine room. Hopefully there was a e-manual somewhere.

Something made a gurgling chuckle behind him. Scooping the wrench back up, he spun round. There it was again, behind the drive casing. He advanced confidently. Jumping around the casing, he saw nothing but pipes.

Something chuckled again. It was coming from that yellow pipe. Checking the valve tag, he let the wrench hang lose. The coolant for the experimental drive. Must be bubbles in the system. Wilson was right about it sounding like laughter though. He returned to his search for a manual.

There had to be one somewhere. It was a bloody requirement. He finally found it in the scurf locker.

Right, fuel interruptions. There it was. Following the diagnostics, he confirmed there was a real problem. And that he needed to purge the fuel lines to fix it. Which produced an significant drop in the gauge.

He ran back to the cockpit. The board was miraculously clear, and stayed clear when he powered up the main thruster. But, as he had feared, purging the lines had used too much of the reserves. So, the only option was to use the experimental drive again. It had worked fine the first time, and whatever happened the second time had only affected people actually in the engine room, so he should be fine in the cockpit.

He ran back to the engine room. The manual didn’t mention anything about the drive. He looked around. They were monitoring when the accident happened, so what were they doing it with?
Checking the drive case, he found an integrated terminal.

_Operational and Diagnostic Logs. Manual restart. Automatic restart._

That was more like it. He tapped the icon.

_System status preventing automatic restart.
Run diagnostic? Y/N._

Yes, of course you piece of junk.

_Coolant system inoperative._

Superb. And no option to turn it on. Must be in another menu. Probably the logs.

_Coils. Generator. Coolant._

_System Status: Offline._
_Coolant Reservoir: 0%_

The bloody reservoir was empty. That made no sense. He called up the detailed logs. The last entry swam in front of his eyes. The accident had superheated the system. He remembered Wilson talking about needing to recharge the reservoir, but he hadn’t realised he meant the system was empty. But if the pipes were dry, then what-

Something chuckled in the shadows.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*unxpekted22 - Mayhem*​
Jrvil’s boots hit the ground with a jarring thud. He had jumped from the third story of a ruined skyscraper. Undaunted, the Marine continued on his way.

He had been here so long, that the desert had made its way into the abandoned city streets. The once magnificent royal purple of his power armor was caked with sand and dirt, as well. Though, parts of the silver trim still held some shine, even after all these years. 

This world, Gehrta Tertius, was nothing like it was when he first laid eyes upon it. Massive cities, one after the other, lined several enormous rivers that made a spiderweb of the continent. He had checked several of these rivers. Some still had running water, which had helped keep him alive. The fish and vermin had helped with that, too.

He looked up around him, taking it all in. 

Familiarity struck hard, as he recognized this place. He had fought here, a battle, years ago. He chuckled lightly to himself in amusement, and amazement. He had searched seven of these infinite cities, their various levels, the floors of their buildings, their alleyways, shadowy depths, and hidden corners. He had traversed the expanse of land between them, walking on the sand strewn roads and bridges. Until now, he thought he was in city number eight.

There, he pointed for his own benefit, he had gunned down one of the traitors with his bolter. The holes in the side of the broken grav-car were still noticeable, though widened as the metal was thinned from corrosion and weathering. The sound of his heavy armor lumbering around the road bounced off the buildings beside him. There, he pointed again, silently, was where brother Farva had met his end. By that building’s corner, behind that fallen chunk of building. An enemy had been laying in wait around the corner, and stabbed his brother like a coward, pushing a blade up through the side beneath his chest armor. 

He made his way over, slowly, and his eyes widened to see that Farva was still there. The armor was, at least, and the bones. All of it grey and covered in dirt. No one had ever recovered him. Jrvil’s face curled with a mixture of outrage and disappointment, but he didn’t know where to aim the emotion. Was he more resentful at the enemy for this, or his allies? 

He knelt down, resting his knee in the sand, and picked up the helm that had been mag-locked to his brother’s waist. It had rolled away from the rest of the remains, connecting instead with the fallen building pieces beside him, the suit’s power supply having run dry long ago. For his own armor, he had found various means of keeping it functional over the long weeks and months.

He turned the helm over in his hands several times, noticing a few traces of purple yet to be erased. It did not feel right to set it back down. He took his gladius from the hip, and scratched his brother’s name into the side of the now grey MkVII Helmet. Then, he attached it to one of his own maglocks before moving on, recalling more scenes from the battle.

His entire chapter had come here, to this world. He had traversed the skeletal remains of two of his Chapter’s fallen strike cruisers, that had crashed into the vast desert. There were oceans on this world, and other continents. The rest of the fleet could have crashed anywhere, if they had fallen as well. He could still hear the fading sounds of war; the last gun shots that echoed through the streets of one of these massive cities. 

As far as he knew, the war was still on. He had never received confirmation that the war was over. To that end, nothing was certain. He had never stopped walking, searching, hunting for any enemies that had survived. Whether or not he was the only Marine of his chapter left changed nothing for him. He was still here, still alive, and his mission of exterminating the enemy forces on the ground had not changed. 

What was certain, is that he would die, one day. It was always certain he would die, even after he became ‘immortal’. 

Ironically, he thought, he became immortal to age and disease only to be sentenced to death, flung into the most dangerous war zones the Imperium could offer. He had already lived so much longer than he ever would have before his transformation into an Astartes, but that time was only used to tear more down and take more lives away, rather than to use that extra time to build something greater. 

Perhaps he could. Perhaps all his brothers and brother-cousins could, if the tides would finally cease their relentless crashing. The waves of traitorous uprisings, xenos invasions, demonic incursions...they never stopped. They hadn’t for thousands of years. Their hands were forced to use their immortality in the service of defense. If they stepped down from their martial place, humanity’s death wasn’t a question, it was certain.

“My choices ensure certainty of life and death, but little else.” he said to himself.

He smiled.

“I suppose it's appropriate then, that mortal men label me a god.”

Maybe, just maybe, he continued thinking, death was no longer a certainty for him . Maybe he had become the only Space Marine to ever really get the chance to _not _die. If he was the only living thing left on this planet, and age was nothing to him...what could he do with so such time and freedom?

He shook his head, worried about how long it had been since the guidance of a Chaplain or another Brother. His mind was wandering, and had been, for far too long.

His chapter symbol had faded so much, but his memory never would. He stretched his neck and shoulder to try and see it again. Frustrated at barely being able to see it, he took a deep breath and yelled his Chapter’s name at the top of his lungs, hearing his powerful voice echo on forever into the city, “The Warriors of Mayhem!”

He paused in his tracks to listen, hoping the echoes would remind him of his Company shouting it together, hoping to reawaken the pride he once held dear. 

Nothing.

Silence.

A crunch, in the dirt, as he began his steps anew.

He would use his immortality here. Something would come of all the time spent here. He would begin something, build something. Of this, he was certain.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*unxpeketed22 - Of Verdurous Nature*​
Johnathon pushed forwards, on his feet. Nothing was wrong, really.

The world around him moved on, it pushed on forward alongside him. The leaves fell from the trees around him, dying, floating past on the summer breeze. Skyscrapers rested their sleepy heads on the pillows of clouds in the sky on all sides of the spherical background.

He looked down, seeing his pants. Brown, clean creased, the fold showing in front of his shins above his shoes.

His palm opened again, where gold glittered with alacrity. A pendant rested in his hand. Encased within, was a picture of his mother.

Everything else was in abeyance, during this traipse through the park. His blue eyes stared down into the portrait of his mother, seven years now lost. Helen Schaeffer. Had he spent enough time with her, had they had enough conversations? Did she die happy?

The portrait was encompassed by lines of purple and lavender, her favorite colors. She was in color, too. The lightly applied blush on her cheeks, soft. The blue eyes she had passed on to him. The brown curls of her hair.

She had given him everything he could have asked for, and more. The whole time he was trying to figure out his own life and then, before he could rightfully pay her back, she passed. People told him it was alright, that was she was happy just knowing her son was still alive in the world, living his own life.

He supposed it was normal for people, to think kindly, and warmly, of their mothers. But John swore, his was truly the epitome. She would run up to people, stop them in their tracks when they were looking down at their feet, looking sad, looking hurt. She always found a way to make them rethink their troubles. She presented herself with little fear, though he was sure she had just as many as the next person, inside.

He looked up again, his eyes following the tan stone path weaving its way through the verdant landscape. He was approaching something, some kind of social event. He smiled, eyes thinning, the corners of his lips pulling up, the lines his face catching the contagion, multiplying the expression.

It was a birthday party, for a little girl.

There were balloons, all bright. An _enourmous_ cake laying half intact, and half obliterated, on one of the many picnic tables. Children, dozens he counted, running around.

His knees suddenly felt sore and weak, remembering what it was like to run everywhere when he wishes to move, without even noticing he was running. He wasn’t even thirty years old, but already in the past couple of years he’d picked up on his aging.

Everything the comedians had always joked about, his older relatives, people in movies, teachers. It was coming to embrace him. Tell-tale signs, slowly but surely, harbingers of his own death-to-come all too soon. His back was sore more often than not, his hearing wasnt what it used to be, his eyes…

He found himself stopped, watching the celebration. One of the little girls, wearing a white dress with furls, ran up to him exclaiming that it was her birthday.

At first, he was caught by surprise, not expecting anyone to run him, to speak to him, to involve him in their world. An excited smile lit up the girl’s face.

“It’s my birthday! It’s my birthday!” she exclaimed, laughing afterwards, as if he should come and join in the festivities. 

She didn’t turn and run back afterwards, but stayed in front of him just smiling, waiting for him to react, he supposed.

She had light brown hair falling naturally into curls at the ends, and bright blue eyes that demanded interaction.

After a moment he said all he could think of, slipping the pendant back into his pocket.

“Well, happy birthday then! How old are you now?”

“Seven!” she giggled, not needing nearly as long to think of a response as himself.

Not seeming to care that he didn’t have another response yet, she continued for him.

“Why are you sad? It’s my birthday you know? My name’s Helena and I’m seven years old now. What’s _your_ name?”

Johnathon turned his head slightly, looking away. His brows furrowed in perplexity. His heartbeat, maybe, changed slightly for a moment.

“My name is John, John Schaeffer. Nice to meet you, Heleena.”

Her eyes lit up like he had something awe inspiring. She reached up to shake his hand, eager to meet a stranger. Around her wrist was a multitude of bracelets, all various hues of purple. Her cheeks had some rose under them when she smiled.

He went to shake her hand slowly, when a woman called out her name, approaching quickly. He pulled his hand back.

“Helena, come back to the tables sweetheart.” The woman turned the girl around, leading her back the way she came. The woman smiled at Jonathan briefly over her shoulder, but he could see the mistrust in her eyes, if barely for a moment.

He hurried to return to his walking, so as not to look even stranger. His mind raced.

He heard a child yell out the woman’s name behind him. 

“Mrs. Schaeffer! Can I have more cake?”

His eyes widened, but he felt like a fool. It was a common enough last name.

A safe distance now, he turned, spotting Heleena easily in her white dress. His fingers, clutched the pendant in his pocket. He pulled it out again, hastily flipping it open. He felt he might accidentally crush the tiny frame, so he loosened his grip, breathing.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Myen'Tal - The Fire of One*​ 

Bork’an’Shas’O’Y’Suam bellowed over the wailing klaxons, the image feeds linked to his crisis suit only picking up the flash of spinning lights inside the Manta Hangar Bay. “Shas’la, my most trusted friends out of all of the fire caste! What we accomplish this night will determine the final fate of a colony!” 

The Manta Gunship trembled with enough force to throw the fire caste commander from his chair had his harness not been set in place. Over the channels, the screams of the ground infantry overwhelmed everything save the personal communications as the hangar quickly filled with stoked flames. The ship was going down, but to fall from the atmosphere of a world took a long time. Time enough for Y’Suam to gather his surviving warriors, his bond mates and most trusted elite of the Crisis Suit teams, and then finish what had been started. 

Y’Suam continued. “My brothers, the alien race of the Necrontyr have called you to battle in a fortnight. They arise from their underground tombs for one purpose and one only: the purge of our Ya’noi! These Necrons – they give a good show of overwhelming firepower and intimidation through their silence. Do not be dissuaded from your purpose, Shas’la, because I assure you, when they meet our guns, they will cry out in silence, and crawl back into the hell that spat them out. 

“I have led you through approximately fifty nine aerial deployments.” He earned a few laughs at that. “Half of those were inside enemy territory. Place your faith in me, my warriors of fire and we shall see this through. Jump!” 

The pod bay holding Y’Suam’s Crisis Suit popped open, revealing a violet hewed night sky and a planet under siege. The unforeseen moon, a terraformed colony perilously close to making planet fall on her neighbor. Her wilderness were untamed boreal forests and her settlements were writhing with sickly green flames. One such city directly beneath him was overran with a marching phalanx of warriors crafted from living metal, supported by all kinds of monstrosities that killed with abandon. 

“Follow my lead, warriors of Sa’cea!” He called again before he drove his XV8 Suit off of the flame wreathed wreck. 

The inertia drove him into a momentary limbo as the jet pack thrusters slowed his rapid descent. Y’Suam pulled on his controls so that he stared upward toward the destroyed Manta gunship and the dozens of small lights following him out of it. Massive, whip-like gauss blasts immediately beset them by the dozen. There were no screams, but a handful of small explosions streaked across the stary sky. 

The blue hexagonal grid of his suit’s shield generator flashed on and off again as gauss fire grazed against the surface. Y’Suam erected his suit and instantly half a dozen targets blipped onto his image feed. A small red icon flashed again and again in the corner of his screen. He veered the XV8 to the left in a strafe, avoiding fire from a Triach Stalker crawling over the a shattered ruin. 

Y’Suam’s connected nervous system and brain link instantly picked up the desired target, the crosshairs of his two fusion guns and missile pod instantly flashed green. “Team Shadow Sword, engage my target!” 

Y’Saum slammed feet first into the earth, creating a charred crater on impact, and then launched through the air again through a storm of small arms fire. He checked the life signatures of his teammates, they were following close behind. His missile pod unleashed a salvo on a dense formation of Necron machines that he swept over. Living metal and alien energies blossomed in a sapphire tinted storm of fire, the rest of his team followed, ensuring their devastation. 

As Team Shadow Sword flew towards the Triach Stalker, Y’Saum caught images of Shas’la and civilians either fleeing or fighting. In either case, he could not help but flinch as they wore atomized in the blink of an eye. If the Tau were to succeed here, the end results of this battle would be anything but satisfactory. There were thousands of half atomized corpses intermingled with shattered Necron husks. It was shameful that the Tau were forced to bleed this much to repel their enemy. 

Y’Suam’s teeth glinted in a knife cut grin, the Stalker rapidly coming into sight, blind sighted. The payload from the fusion blasters instantly vaporized against the quantum shielding, leaving a white hot trail from where the attack connected. As he glided past the Stalker, the fire trails left by the other teams made a mark against the approaching phalanx. Plasma rifles cut through individual infantry by the score. Missiles rained down and plunged their formations into further disorder. Flamethrowers rushed into the thick of their disorganized ranks, wreathing the remainder of the enemy in a torrent of fire. 

Nothing stopped the inevitable from coming true. Hordes of scarabs latched onto suit after suit that landed but for a moment. The Necron Elite easily dashed apart those reckless enough to fly into range of their ranks. The remaining Broadsides continued to pound the opposition with their missile salvos wherever Y’Suam’s warriors left their marks. Not even the Triach lasted long under the XV88’s attention, blasted apart by distant rail gun attacks. 

In less than an hour, the tide had turned momentarily in the favor of the Tau. But Aun’Kais’ reports of the diminished population left any thought of victory hollow. The inevitable had happened, there was no longer a population worth defending on this planet anymore. 
Y’Suam landed his suit a top a catacomb spider, placed his fusion gun onto the head, and obliterated the brain of the machine in one blinding flash of light. As the carcass skidded into the earth, a massive vessel, weapons alight from all directions, fired a blast that landed just behind his suit. His own team’s life signatures abruptly went dead, before the fallout of the blast crumpled his suit like toy. The last thing he ever heard was his own defiant scream. 
… 
“Shas’O’Y’Suam. He won a pyrrhic victory against the Necrontyr protecting one of Sa’cea’s second sphere colonies. Eighty percent of the colony’s population were killed in action. An awkward achievement to say the least.” 

“Though the Empire is shamed by his lack of preservation for the common civilian. A victory against the Necrontyr isn’t something we can just disregard. End the simulation. Revive him from Cryostasis, now that he is up to speed. We can use a Commander like him. A disgraced general can go far to find redemption.”


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Myen'Tal - The Sacrifice for Victory*


_“Heed the words of the fallen, sons and daughters of Khaine! The blood of the exiles shall weep from grotesque and crude altars, the shrines of worship dedicated to a corpse of a God!”_​
Landrun answered the animalistic brute with two imperceptive shakes of his head. He looked out over the shrine of Uppsala, a labyrinth of ferrocrete adorned with gold and silver. The Outcast Ranger swept his long rifle back and forth, no matter which angle he chose next, the inexorable legions of chaos were present. Unaware, perhaps, but present. “Perhaps your Emperor does indeed look after your kind, Brynjar. It’s a miracle that our presence hasn’t been detected yet.”

The Wolf Guard Brynjar White—Beard snorted as any predatory creature would when eluded by its prey. The Space Wolf towered over Landrun, his massive bulk laid down upon the ruins of Gotland Hive beside a dozen handpicked Eldar Rangers, also observing the temple with discerning eyes. He flexed that massive claw interconnected to his gauntlet in unbridled anticipation. The aged monstrosity of a mon—keigh sniggered under his breath, the pure hate in his gaze channeling into the alien beside him. 

The Wolf Guard growled, a primitive and crude gesture. “What do your witches say? They can see the future, can they not? Shall my lads fall to bloody ruin this day?”

Landrun sighed. “If we mount an assault without much more of a plan than ‘shred our foes with claw and fang’ than yes, the assault will not go as planned. The enemy can surround us easily if they were aware of our presence. In my opinion, waiting for your other ‘lads’ to arrive will probably be our greatest chance of success. I am signaling kin to withdraw.”

Brynjar snapped his jaws in disapproval, a frightening reaction that made the Eldar around him flinch. “Retreat!? I will never take a step back from the enemy, less our foes overrun us with their heathen armies.” He cast his gaze back down the slope of the ruined building. The White—Beard’s strike force of Space Wolves awaited his command eagerly. “I despise the thought of retreat! Sons of Russ and the All—Father! Attack!”

The distinct bellows of an artillery barrage disturbed the still air of the temple. Sirens wailed the very moment that portions of the ancient shrine collapsed in the wake of the barrage. Hundreds of cultists and dozens of Chaos Marines were buried beneath the rubble. The Sons of Russ hollered over the screams of the dying, charging over the lip of the ruins and into a no man’s land just beyond the Uppsala Shrine. Squadrons of sky blue and bright yellow Predators and Vindicators emerged from the rubble strewn roads of the Hive City, answering the blockading formations of enemy armor with precise barrages. Massive aerial craft that resembled flying buildings swept through the skies, shattering enemies with cannons that turned the lands around them into frozen hells. 

Landrun realized that his fate had been sealed. “Rangers of Alatoic! To battle!”

Landrun picked out a dozen skull faced helmets within a minute, placing a charged bolt through each ceramite surface with a precision that would put even the marksmen of the young Tau to shame. He heard the distinct discharges of a hundred long rifles supporting his efforts. Everywhere around the charging Space Wolves, Champions of Chaos and the leaders of the hordes were put down like rabid dogs from afar. Chaos Space Marines noticed their brethren falling over wordlessly, but the bravado of the Space Wolves’ onslaught distracted them from responding altogether. 

A Long Rifle fired just over the veteran Ranger’s head. Something on his other flank grunted in pain before collapsing in a heap. Ulreath called out from mere feet away. “Landrun, watch out!”

The Jump Pack wielding Chaos Marines known simply as Raptors soared through the air from unknown positions. They had been waiting for this moment for a long time, judging by their close proximity to the Eldar. Chainswords whirled and Eldar blood spilled freely as six of the Marines fell upon the unsuspecting Outcasts. The Rangers instantly shifted their fire from the outlying towers or were on their feet, blades in hand. 

“Damn Mon-Keigh!” Landrun shouted, rolling away from the overhead strike of a whirring chainsword. He managed to leap to his feet, ducking beneath another arced sweep through the air around his head. A kindred Ranger leapt from behind his assailant, but the bark of a bolt pistol tore through his chest, leaving him sprawled amongst the rubble. Landrun fired his Long Rifle, the bolt knocked back the Chaos Marine’s right arm. 

The Champion of Chaos roared in fury, unleashing saliva and heated air through the torn gaps in the grill of his helmet. His blade worked back and forth, cutting off each escape route Landrun attempted to take around the bellowing monstrosity. He continued his toying manner until the Eldar was pinned against a half collapsed wall. 

“Oh, Bloody Handed Khaine…” Landrun murmured as the Raptor Champion retracted his sword arm for the killing blow. “Forgive me for working with these stupid, lumpen creatures, whom have sealed the fate of me and my kin.” He closed his eyes. 

Bright light flashed inside of Landrun’s eyelids, he cried out as a shower sparks touched against his face. There was a wet growling in the air and the sound of blades crackling and clashing. He opened his eyes to reveal Brynjar’s bulk towering in front of him, the massive claw in on his gauntlet cleaving through the Raptor’s chainsword without effort. The Wolf Guard’s axe hand flexed and came down on the Raptor’s skull with all the thunder of a lightning strike. The Aspiring Champion fell, cleaved from skull to chest. 

Brynjar’s younger warriors, the ‘Blood Claws’ came storming back towards the Eldar, charging into their foes with an unholy frenzy that made even Landrun pale with fear. Chainswords whirred back and forth, splitting through ceramite and flesh, Blood Claws fell before the expertise of the Raptors. Yet in the end, the Space Wolves were too numerous and tore apart the remaining enemy. 

Brynjar smiled and snarled simultaneously. “Bleed your kind may, but that is the price of a victory worth attaining. Come, join the Space Wolves as they revel in the glory of battle! There are many yet that need killing!”

Landrun smiled, relieved. “Yes, we shall see what destiny entails for us, what vision that fate is guiding us toward.”


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Warhawk - Those Who Count*​

“Do… do you know what it means..?”

Macharis could just barely hear it; Just a pained whisper amid a din of crumbling earthworks, bellowing explosions and the chatter of guns and lasers alike.

He looked down over his shoulder with a kind of horror and disgust, suddenly aware that the body at his feet had not yet met peace.

It… he looked up at him, cracked lips in the barest of smiles, eyelids hanging as if about to pass into sleep. The impression was beatific, the scene almost picturesque, all a startling contrast next to the trailing gore that stemmed from what was once the man’s lower half.

“What?” Macharis yelled. He could not keep the wince from his face now that his mind registered just where that stench was coming from…

“Do…”

The fallen soldier seemed to lapse into the abyss for but a moment. Then, with a groan, he heaved his torso up against the shattered remnants of the wall nearby.

“Do you know what it means to be alive...?”

Somewhere across the next block of habs there was an explosion and a series of screams. Macharis flinched despite himself; the sound of shrapnel ricochet echoed around him.

“You’re… You’re alive,” the fallen one said, gaining volume with his conviction, “Don’t you understand…?”

The smell was getting worse. Or maybe it was simply his imagination. Or maybe the animated corpse at his feet was possessed, seeking to toy with his mind. Or perhaps… perhaps…

A three-story domicile across the street caved in with a deafening roar. A mouth of burnt gold punched through the nearest end, followed by a cannon’s barrel, and finally the hulk of a glacis plate adorned by spikes and wire.

Macharis’ eyes were bulging now, the prayer to his God-Emperor caught in a dry throat caked with dust and debris. He had heard stories of daemons and creatures of all kinds on this campaign, but the sight of this contorted and blasphemous image of a once blessed fighting vehicle gnawed at his innards…

“You think… think that it’s all hopeless and you’ve lost…”

A kind of claustrophobia set in, his mind running wild at what seemed like creeping death from all directions. Knees buckled and knuckles turned white around the stock of his rifle, both without his awareness. All that remained was that stench…

“No idea what… you have…”

He almost heard his nerves as they shattered, mixed in with the clattering of treads against tortured earth.

“What do you want from me?!” Macharis screamed, half at the approaching tank, half at the bloody pulp at his knee, “What do you want?! For God-Emperor’s sake!”

“Live…”

He finally looked down at the man, wild-eyed and on the verge of frenzy. Shades of green and khaki mixed with the brown earth and caked blood, and it was only then, when the image of this broken man filled his whole sight, that Macharis saw the offering in his hand.

It hung there from a limp and shredded arm, held up by the last vestiges of this man’s strength.

As Macharis grabbed it, abruptly and by instinct, the man’s arm fell for the last time.

“Live.”

A terrible howl drowned out all thought as the tank’s engines gunned. It powered through the remains of rockcrete and twisted beams, pitch and volume increasing from within a shroud of black exhaust. Its turret leveled in his direction and stabilized on the way up the small embankment.

Die.

Macharis’ took a step back and found that his balance had left him. Tumbling backwards over a legless table, he rolled into the crater at the center of the rubble and looked up in time to see the window frame ruthlessly crushed between a dozen tons of unholy iron.

Time seemed to wait, to drag out this scene just for him. His heartbeat slowed despite his adrenaline, and for a moment he felt his own life leave him where he lay.

He looked to the item in his hand, the gift of a corpse now thoroughly churned into oblivion.

A krak grenade.

He screamed.

It wasn’t the scream of an animal, or of a man being tortured. It wasn’t a scream of desperation, or of horror. He couldn’t describe what the scream was about, but it no longer mattered, because he had already gone over the top of the crater, grenade primed.

In mere meters he had reached the front of a tank which could not depress its cannon enough to hit him from such close range. Its sloped glacis plate seemed to beckon him onwards. And so he went, sliding between the spikes and cutting his body through the wire.

The cannon was at his feet, the commander’s cupola before him, and an instrument of righteousness firmly in his hand.

Yes, he was alive. And so long as he was alive he could fight.

And that was the greatest gift of all.

He saw to it that such a gift was not wasted.

-----

Somewhere behind the front lines, a Munitorum servitor sorted a pile of twisted and bloodied identification tags. Many had been charred beyond legibility. Others came clutched in dismembered hands, as if those who returned them for sorting were reluctant to defy the wishes of the dead.

It picked one up with a pincer apparatus and examined it with the calculating stare of an algorithm. The tag was still caked with burnt flesh, atomized in the explosion of some such mechanical device.

The servitor detected only the word “Macharis” and deftly tossed into an adjacent pile for unknown and irretrievable data.

In another age, the one doing this work would have cared. But what did a machine care for the labors of the living?


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Moriouce - Mind War*​ 

Amatheri was led by the humans through the dense under growth. They had walked for nearly an hour but they had made little progress due to the clumsy nature of the humans. Amatheri had walked many forests but at greater speed and without disturbing even the smallest leaf. The sons of the corpse-emperor cut their way through the forest like brutes, and brutes they where, leaving a trail of destruction behind them. Only orks do more damage when walking, Amatheri thought. 

Amatheri had been captured, but to see the mon-keighs fumble around him as they led him, light-footed over any obstacle, made him feel free. Even with his hands cuffed he had more grace than the humans. 

Behind his back, some dead metal held his wrists together. He could feel it’s weight but nothing more, it was dead unlike the psychoreactive substances he was used to. He was a Striking Scorpion of the Bloodied Shadows and he knew that anything that happened to him would happen to the humans a thousand fold. 

The humans soon found their way into a newly cleared road. The tracks of heavy vehicles cut through the soil, despoiling root and rock of the ancient maiden world. Like a ragged wound it ran through the forest. Amatheri had been forced to remove his war helm and the sights that met him, with every step of the way, angered him greatly. Every fibre ached with the rage of Khaine, screaming for vengence. He wished the humans dead, not just lifeless but utterly despoiled like the planet they despoiled. 

Amatheri closed his eyes, he did not need them to walk. His every sense was atuned with the world around him and for walking he only needed his feet. He pictured himself in the midst of the enemy. The mon-keighs stumbling around him with their crude lasguns held across their chests. He made the vision move slowly, as he was looking at each human individualy. These brutes expressed nothing but fear of him and he hated them back for their weakness. 

In his vision he heard the hiss of shurikens and the first humans sank to the ground around him as blood erupted from their bodies. The other humans turned in every direction to face the aggressors, only for a second wave of shurikens finding their backs and necks. Lasfire erupted in blind fury into the surrounding bushes. Amatheri still walked with the flash of lasers impacting against trunks across his eyelids. The smell of blood and damp soils played in his nostils and the shouts of the humans intruded upon his ears. 

Then the sound of chainswords could be heard from the forest on both side of the road and almost two dozen of striking scorpions emerged from the shadows. The humans twisted, turned and fired their lasguns but few hit their mark. Then the sudden sting of fine lasers as the mandiblasters ignited while the scropions closed the gap in a few strides. More humans fell to the ground as the scorpions launched themself into a melee.

Still walking, Amatheri pictured a scorpion run in from his right, slaying one human with his shuriken while his chainsword cut the neck of another. He turned to face a third human as it levelled his rifle towards him. The soldier fired, but he was already moving; the lasbeam hissed past, taking another human in the back. All around him the scene of humans beeing cut down by shurikens, chainswords and laser. 

He could see a scorpion wielding two chainswords dance like a hurricane of death through the mon-keighs. His wrist mounted shurikens spitting more death into those who where out of reach of his swords. The excarch killed without hesitation, no regret. A kaleidoscope of laserbeams danced around his elusive form. Behind him more scorpions joined in slaying humans who where stunned by fear and awe in equal measure. 

Amatheri felt someone bump in to him from behind and he lost his step for a slight moment. Putting one knee down into the mud beneath he felt sadness rush from the world into his mind. Without looking he was walking again with his next stride. Who ever pushed him from behind would be thinking twice before he did it again. 

The paniced voices of the humans started to die out in his mind and there could not be many of them left, Amatheri thought. A slight releaf filled his mind and he took in a deep breath of the virgin air. 

But there was something different with the air. He could taste a hint of iron and ozone on his lips. More of his senses return to reality and he could no longer hear the humans stumble around him. He opened his eyes.

He was standing still on the road but no one was infront of him. He turn to face the direction he had come with the humans only to see the remains of his captors. Laying the the pools of their own blood, there were no sign of movment. Without his war helm he could feel a shiver of joy fighting it’s way into consience. He allowed himself a small smile to the vision before him, nearly one hundred bodies laid on the road and around it. Some had tried to run but had only managed a few steps into the bushes before being killed. Khaine screamed with delight through Amatheris veins and he forced himself to close his eyes for a few heart beats to regain control of himself. 

Amatheri then freed himself from the shackles, a feat he had no intent to let any human witness. He walked into the field of battle and retrieved his war helm from the human who had taken it. He put it on and the feelings of joy disapeared. He caught a movement among the trees to his left. He turned and saw the helm of a scorpion standing there, he noded towards Amatheri. Amatheri returned the gesture silently and walked away from the carnage around him.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*YeOldeGrandma - Skydancers*​ 

”Mark!”

Cassander jumped and his world widened. White clouds spread out before him, all around. Gone was the rattling of the Valkyrie, the roar of its engines; now there was only the rush of air as he fell, faster and faster.

The vox-bead in his helmet crackled with lieutenant Sharn's voice: ”Skydancers, report.” 

”Victyr, clear”, came the staff-sergeant.

”Barnan, clear”, said the sergeant.

”Askur, clear”, the corporal reported.

”Selwer, clear”, Cassander chimed in. As he held the most junior rank he sounded off last.

”Skydancers all clear, lieutenant”, Victyr said. ”Cloud-break in 37 seconds.”

”Initiate form-up, on my mark.”

Cassander spied downwards. Below him, about one hundred metres according to his visor display, the lieutenant was falling, arms and legs splayed out to the sides. 

He blinked up his auspex display. Victyr was to his left, Askur to his right. Barnan, the demolitions expert, was above them, slightly off course as of yet. He dismissed the display again and gripped his chute harness.

”Mark!”

Victyr and Askur were the first to move, dipping forwards and activating their grav-chutes. Cassander saw them shoot by on either side, down towards Sharn. As they reached their positions, on either side of him, they killed their chutes and spread their limbs, levelling off their descent.

Barnan whistled over the vox. ”Flying worthy of a medal”, she said. Cassander couldn't help but agree. He'd drilled more hours than he could count, and had still to fully master the finer points of grav manouvring. 

Abruptly, the trio below him was swallowed up into the clouds. Moments later his vision was reduced to little more than pale strands whipping past. ”Cloud-break”, Sharn called out. ”Activate strobes.”

Cassander reached down to his chest plate and pulled a cord. ”Strobe on”, he reported as a rune lit up in his display. Below him three lights winked into existence; red, slow pulse for the lieutenant, blue and moderate for Victyr, green and fast for Askur.

Barnan fell past, strobing an angry orange. The demo specialist took her position in between, and some twenty metres above, Victyr and Askur. ”It's all you, greenhorn”, she called. 

Cassander swallowed, putting his thumbs on the harness triggers. A fine spiderweb of frost had begun to form on his visor, distoring the light of his squad's strobes. He wiped his armoured thumb across, getting some of it off.

”What's the hold-up Selwer?” 

”All good, lieutenant”, he said. ”Initiating manouvre.”

He dipped his head and body forwards, tucking his knees together and elbows to his chest. Then he pressed the triggers.

He felt the jolt throughout his body, the force of the twin nozzles on his backpack propelling him forwards, ever threatening to spiral him out of control. He fought the impulse to let go of the triggers and splay out again to slow himself down; instead hekept his head down, diving straight into the gale with one eye on Barnan's strobe and the other.on his targeter.

_Fifty metres, forty metres, thirty metres..._

Every muscle in his body tensed as he let go of the triggers and jerked his body up, kicking both feet forward in order to get them beneath him. Then he hit the triggers again, slowing his descent abruptly. Barnan was below him, splayed out like the rest. He gauged her velocity, licked his lips, and let the triggers go again. The air howled all around him, the cold beginning to seep through his armour. He flipped himself forwards once more and extended his arms and legs, assuming the final belly-down, splayed out position.

”Selwer, clear”, he panted into his mic. He'd taken position above them all, just twenty metres from Barnan. Overwatch, best suited to his rookie status.

”Look sharp, Skydancers”, Sharn said, ”we're about to hit biosphere. Auspex shows multiple potential contacts.”

The clouds were different now. The snowy white of the upper troposphere had given way to a sickly yellow. These weren't so much clouds as the fumes of their enemy. And they were dissipating, Cassander realised. He could see the lieutenant clearly now, for the first time since initial cloud-break.

”Steady and calm”, Sharn murmured. ”Call them out as you see them.”

They fell in silence. Gradually Cassander realised he could see the ground, far below, a dark mat of what looked like vegetation covering it. 

_No, not vegetation, but_...

”Harridan at our five”, Askur snapped, ”and gargoyles. At least a hundred by my count.”

”I got gargoyles at our seven, ten and twelve”, Victyr added. ”Two harridans at our eleven . Hell, they're everywhere.”

”They're intercepting from all around us”, Barnan said. 

”Stay on target”, Sharn ordered. ”We'll brush by them. Selwer, eyes on your auspex.”

”Aye, sir.”

They quickly dropped below the tyranids, though the creatures dove after them, following on their trail. Cassander's auspex filled with red blips above and below, all of them rapidly converging on their position. They were falling through the middle of a swarm.

”Firebird, this is Skydancer”, he heard Sharn say. ”We have gargoyles and harridans converging on our position, nicely lined up for you.”

A large blip on his auspex suddenly vanished. As he craned his neck to look he saw one of the harridans falling to the ground in separate pieces. Gunfire blanketed the area around it, tearing through the packed swarms as a score of Thunderbolts came roaring in.

”Stand by for course correction on my mark”, Sharn barked. ”I'm taking us in.” He flipped and dove away, levelling out thirty metres below Victyr and Askur. Cassander and the rest of the squad jerked themselves upright and pulled their limbs in, assuming a sitting position.

”Twenty degrees to our ten!” Sharn called. ”Mark!”

Grav-chutes roared, one by one, as the Skydancers corrected in a staggered fashion – Sharn first, followed by Victyr and Askur, then Barnan and lastly Cassander.

”Target is the big one to our nine”, the lieutenant said. ”Skydancers, acknowledge!”

”Victyr, acknowledged!”

”Barnan, I have visual.”

”Askur, acknowledged.”

Cassander stared. The surface, which was rapidly rushing up to meet them, was packed with tyranids of varying size. There could be no mistake on which of them the lieutenant had indicated however. It towered over the rest, even its bodyguard of what looked to be carnifexes. A bio-titan, it had to be a bio-titan.

”Selwer, acknowledged.”

”Follow me in and we'll take it down!” Sharn yelled. ”Course correction, ten degrees to our nine, on my mark! Mark!”


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Asmodai - Underhive Thieves*​ 

“Ok, stop me if you've heard this one. A human, a ratling and an ogryn walk into a vault with almost zero information. They are never seen again.”

“That's not funny.”

“Then why are we doing it!?” the ratling Samual asked exasperated, his head darting around nervously.

“Will you just trust me?” his human partner Riley replied, shooting him his irritatingly charming smile that had been painstakingly perfected over the last ten years.

“Why? Because that's always worked out so well for me before?”

“Well Rok trusts me, don't ya big guy.”

The third member of the party, the huge ogryn clad in poorly stitched together rags grunted in a manner Riley had always taken to be approval.

“See.” Riley added smugly.

“Well of course the ogryn does, he's an idiot!”

Rok turned, reached back and gripped one huge hand around the back of Samual's shirt, hoisting him effortlessly from the ground. 

“Towards whom I have only the utmost of respect.” Samual added hurriedly. This satisfied Rok enough to return him to the ground.

“Knock it off, we're here.” Riley said.

Down in the underhive's of Rysis II one would pass many an unmarked door with no clue as to what lay behind them and if one was smart, they wouldn't ask either. This was one such door, tucked away at the bottom of a dirty narrow alleyway, not far from the main market square.

“This is it?” Samual asked disbelievingly.

“This is it.” Riley confirmed.

“Doesn't look like much.”

“That's the idea.” Riley said and started feeling what appeared to be bare rockcrete wall. “A-ha.” he said a moment later as his thumb depressed what looked like a loose stone which in turn revealed a small round scanner. “Keep watch.” Riley said, gesturing back towards the market. The other two looked away as the human removed a small moist package and held it up towards the scanner, then quickly tucked it away.

“What was that?” Samual asked.

“What was what?”

“That. In your pocket. Was that an eyeball?”

“Maybe.”

Samual pulled at his hair to keep from screaming. “What the Throne are we doing Riley? No, that's it I'm out.” he said, throwing his hands into the air and walking away.

“No, Sam, I need you.” Riley hissed.

“What for?”

“You'll see, come on.” 

Rok pushed open the heavy metal door and led them into a long bare chamber. It was dark aside from the light of a half dozen dull glow globes spaced evenly down each side of the chamber. The floor was covered in large hexagonal tiles. Riley stopped just through the door and Samual made to step past him. 

“Stop.” Riley said, placing a firm hand down on the ratling's shoulder. 

“What is it?”

“Pressure plates.” Riley said, gesturing to the tiles.

“Oh right, let me guess. They're rigged for human weight and I won't set them off. Is that it?”

“No, they're very sensitive. It's just that Rok can throw you further than me.”

“What? Riley you son-of-a-aaa!?”

Before he could finish his cursing Samual had been hefted up by two three trunk arms and thrown head first down the length of the chamber, impacting with a loud dull thud as his shoulder hit the wall at the other end. The ratling groaned as he got to his feet and reached for the stocky autopistol at his hip.

“Whoa, don't be hasty short stuff.” Riley called out after him. “I know where the shut down is. If you shoot me you'll be stuck over there.”

He didn't hear a response but the ratling took his hand off the gun and allowed himself to be directed to a hidden switch. A faint electrical buzz that none of them had previously registered, stopped and the rest of the party crossed the first chamber and passed into the next. As they entered, brighter glow globes activated and bathed the room in a warm orange light. It was the same width as the previous room but much shorter. All around the edges were trinkets and heirlooms of obvious value, but one object dominated the room. In the centre of the rear wall atop a waist high marble plinth was a small black box with complex looking lock. As Riley approached the plinth, Samual and Rok examined the assorted treasures. The ratling picked up a golden pocket watch, inspecting in admiringly. Then he noticed the seal embossed on the back.

“Who did you say we were stealing from?” he asked.

“Um, Romero, someone...” Riley said dismissively.

“Romero? As in Romero Eiman? Of House Eiman? As in the nobles that run half of Rysis II, House Eiman?”

“Oh so you've heard of them?”

“That's it, we're done here.” Samual declared, heading towards the plinth. “If this is what you're after then let's go.”

“No wait I need to-” Riley said desperately, but it was too late. Samual had lifted the box. “Deactivate the sensor.”

The lights changed from orange to red and unseen panels on each side of the plinth opened up. A pair of heavy gun servitors emerging. 

“Oh Throne.” Samual cursed.

“You are trespassing on House Eiman property. The Adeptus Arbites have been contacted. Remain still until they arrive.” The Servitors announced in unison.

“Um, no. Run!” Riley yelled, drawing a smoke grenade from the inside of his jacket and throwing it to the ground. In a second the room was filled with thick grey smoke. The trio fled, chased by streams of heavy stubber fire. Leading the way, Rok shouldered through the first door, almost taking it off it's hinges and the trio were clear. Moments later and they were just three more faces in the crowd of the markets.

Another day in the life of an underhive thief.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*jonileth - Catastrophic Loss*​

_Memories… small fragments of the self that linger in the recesses of the mind, each one a small glimpse at the larger picture they draw. For each fragment that goes missing, so too does a small portion of the self that it helped to create. Lose them all and you are left with nothing but an empty shell. Then, let’s say, the empty shell suddenly regains what once was lost… What happens then? I’m betting on something akin to pure anarchy…_
- From the personal journal of Inquisitor Lucian Andiron​ 
“What do you hope to learn, child?” the inhuman voice droned in the echoing room. Unnerving as the voice was without the acoustic assistance of the chamber, it was made even more alien with the unintentional assistance of the thing’s surroundings. 

“Weaknesses… strengths… anything really,” Lucian admitted without much thought to the question. His agents had spotted the strange being wondering the hive complex, unnoticed by most. Indeed, in the Imperium it wasn’t all that strange to see someone that had given themselves so completely to the Omnissiah that one could not find a stitch of flesh upon them. What had drawn the attention of the agents of the Inquisitor was the manner in which it would stop from time to time and marvel at things that usually wouldn’t warrant a second look from someone truly born of the Imperium.

“I can teach you things,” the voice offered, “Though I sincerely doubt you would be able to fathom their depth very easily.”

“Perhaps not,” Lucian shrugged the comment off as he reached for one of dozens of implements that had been brought for the interrogation, “But then again, I don’t really care to know anything you want to tell me. I want to know the secrets you keep locked in that skull of yours. From what I’ve been able to gather about you and your kind, you’ve had a considerable span of time in which to collect secrets. And I do enjoy learning new things…”

The Inquisitor rolled the implement in his fingers gingerly as he gazed at his prisoner. The creature had put up a decent fight when his men had descended upon him. But something about the number of casualties gave the man pause… mainly that there weren’t any. The pragmatist that had begun to develop within him had reasoned that the thing wanted to be captured for some reason…

“I assume you wish to use that crude thing to pry my head open,” the metallic abomination surmised.

“That is the general idea,” Lucian nodded, “I take it you’ve endured similar.”

“No,” the machine remarked in monotone, “Though your kind’s methods always did strike us as barbaric in nature. I merely made a presumption based on previous encounters with your species.”

“I see,” the Inquisitor murmured somewhat distractedly. For a few more seconds he rolled the tool between his fingers before setting it back on the table abruptly. The machine’s head cocked to the left slightly, the first real sign that it had been caught off-guard.

“Tell me something,” Lucian walked away from the table and approached the creature, “Where do you fit in your hierarchy. I know your kind have one. Are you somewhat near the top? In the middle perhaps?”

“I was a peasant…” the machine seemed almost unhappy at the notion, though Lucian had to admit that it was likely the thing couldn’t actually feel any emotions at all.

“A peasant? So… you’re one of the fodder drones your kind spreads across a battlefield?” the Inquisitor asked, slightly perplexed at such an idea.

“Were I from some other Dynasty… then you would be correct,” the machine remarked. Again Lucian had to censure himself for seeing emotion where there hadn’t actually been any. He wondered somewhat casually if his work with the Eldar girl Aeliel had somehow given him an unhealthy sympathy for creatures not of Imperium origins.

“How is your… Dynasty was it? How is that different from all the rest?” the Inquisitor folded his arms across his chest as he spoke.

“We remember…”

“That’s it?” Lucian almost scoffed at the simplicity of it.

“Ours was a slave race to ancient and deceitful gods,” the machine intoned, “We once possessed flesh and blood just as you do now. We were once a people no less ambitious and cruel as your own. But the cursed world we lived upon made our ambitions for not against a backdrop of less than half a century. When given the choice between that flesh and bodies of metal that would not fail… our ancient leaders chose for us… all of us… on thousands of worlds. And for most Dynasties, those who had been transformed against their wills were blessed with the loss of their memories. They knew nothing of the flesh they once had, the lives they had lost, and the things that had made them Necrontyr. Even their lords and masters lost bits of themselves in the exchange, though they still remember what we once were…”

Lucian frowned in confusion, “I fail to see how any of what you’ve just told me holds value…”

“Because you do not know the value of the memories,” the machine remarked.

“Then enlighten me…” the Inquisitor prodded.

“You see those like me as simple fodder, yes?” the creature paused until Lucian nodded in agreement with the statement, “And that is true enough. But if the mindless fodder were suddenly made to remember…”

At first the machine’s musings were lost on Lucian, but slowly he began to put the pieces together. An unstoppable wave of mindless troops depended on that mindlessness to conserve order. The endless phalanx that he had seen on various pict-frames that had survived Necron attack would be useless if they all at once began to relive their lives of flesh and bone. The chaos such a thing had the potential to create within the ranks of an otherwise nigh-invincible foe could be the very thing that could tip the scales in the Imperium’s favor.

“Can you show me how to use those memories?” Lucian asked.

“I cannot… but I know of one that can…” the machine seemed to almost taunt the Inquisitor.

“It looks as if you’ve earned yourself a temporary stay of execution…” Lucian said as he motioned the guards to release his captive.

“I am confident you will not be disappointed with your choice… Lord Inquisitor,” the creature bowed slightly.

The gesture gave Lucian the resolve he needed to endure the thing’s existence… for a time…


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Brother Edmund - Alliance*

_“The better the devil you know” _ 
Old Terran saying​
“It has to be a mistake” said Freundel as he read the dataslate for the second time. The runner, a youngster of maybe seventeen years who lacked any of the customary gang markings, rocked uncomfortably on his heels. He shrugged his shoulders. “It is from the top.”
“You read this Jones?”, Freundel raised an eyebrow. The runner grinned.
“Of course not Lieutenant."
Freundel picked up his lasgun and jumped down from his bunk.
“Get me Sergeant Hassler and gather up the platoon.”

Joldusteinn, Hive World.. infested.

For six months the Guard had been spilling their blood over this nightmare of tall hives and sprawling conurbations. For six months they had been locked in bitter fighting with Ork’s who’s numbers never seemed to diminish.
Freundel despised these animals, but his hatred paled to how Sergeant Hassler thought.

“I hate the fuggin’ mongrels,” growled Sergeant Hassler “turning up here with not even a by your leave, and then kicking our butts. Always on the back foot, always retreating, and now top brass have come up with this wonderful plan that will suddenly turn the tide.” 
The grizzled NCO spat contemptuously.

Freundel smiled. He knew he should calm the old veteran down and curb his anger before he dug a hole that was too deep. However, he felt the same and rather the Sergeant get it than him.
“It gets better Sergeant. You and me are going to lead this mission, but we will not be alone. Brass have sent us… specialists.”
“That is our turf Boss, that is white skull territory. We should take it back… on our own.”

Freundel helped him to his feet. Others might frown on such familiarity between an officer and an ordinary rank, but both of them had been through the grinder and stood side by side in the grimmest fighting, so Freundel cared little for what others might think.

“It’s not that simple I am afraid’ he nodded to the silent figure sitting in the corner. ‘Have you anything to add Commissar Bitencourt?.”

Bitencourt stood up, his leather jacket and boots creaking as he did so. He gazed for a second at the Sergeants angry face and watched his expression turn slowly to realisation and then worry. He had got used to their ways, but he would not tolerate it for much longer. If they faltered but an inch in battle, he would have their heads.

“The 27th Vlagow Stormtroopers will assist your entry to the Hive. Once inside, you are on your own,’ he paused and then looked at Freundel. ‘The Lower Hive is your territory and you know it well. That is why you are going in.”

“Cannon Fodder.” Hassler whispered. He turned to Freundel. He knew he should keep quiet, but history dictated that he at least say something. “Boss, I will say it if you don’t.”
“Sergeant Hassler…”

“No. The high-Almighty Stormtroopers come from the Upper Hive. They are the clean breathers, the privileged and elite. Us White skulls are just low-life…”

“Scum?” Bitencourt interrupted, his anger rising. “Scum, or hard done-by Gangers. The 216th Vlagow are Imperial Guard first and foremost and ‘Gangers’ last. You know the area and they don’t. They can get you in, but the Lower Hive is an alien environment to them. You put your differences aside’ he paused for effect and then looked deep into Hassler’s soul. ‘That is an order.”

* * *​
“_Uitae sordes_”, hissed a tall Stormtrooper, resplendent in white carapace armour, and a red-plumed helmet. Hassler spat.
“I swear he is mocking me the tw…”
“Hassler!”

It was pitch black, though in the far distance there was the faint glimmer of a new dawn. Freundel did not know if Ork’s actually slept, but he prayed to the Emperor that if they did, it would be a deep sleep.

He turned to his compatriot, a fair-haired junior officer, who bore a neat dueling scar on his left cheek.
“The way in is through that exhaust vent to the right of that statue of…”
“Our beloved Lord Commander Huemac.” The Stormtrooper interrupted. Freundel winked at Hassler.
“Is that who it is? I thought it was some ancient grazing beast judging by its size.” 
There was a hiss of metal against metal and then Commissar Bitencourt was between them, his power sword drawn.
“I am just dying to administer the Emperor’s Peace. Both of you… all of you get on, or on my honour, it will get bloody.”

At a nod, all twenty Stormtroopers activated their jump packs, and with an agitated growl from the jets, lifted their cargo of twenty White skulls into the chilled dawn air.

Five seconds later they had cleared the forward trenches and were over no-man's land, climbing higher and higher as full power finally kicked in.

The Ork front line began to stir as individuals and then squads began to try and locate the noise. Before the first heavy weapons were brought to bear, the unlikely squad of low and high-born Vlagow’s, were already approaching the Hive towers.

“Ten seconds.” Freundel’s earpiece rasped over the scream of the jump packs.
“The Emperor Protects.”

The exhaust vent was only three meters high and the same length wide, but the Stormtroopers managed to land two abreast in perfect synchronicity. 
Freundel was almost impressed.

The White skulls unhitched and spread out, securing the landing zone with practised ease.
Freundel voxed their position and called the Stormtrooper officer over.

“You hold here. We will blow the generator and be back before you know it”. He took hold of the Stormtroopers vambrace adding. “When it blows, we will only have a few minutes to get out, before everything turns nasty. It will be tight.”
The tall officer grinned.
“_Simul ire ibimus_… Lieutenant. We will be here.”

The White Skulls knew their trade and exactly where to strike. It was afterall their territory. The Orks paid them no heed. 
The job was done quickly and without incident.
When they returned to the entrance, the Stormtroopers had gone.

“They called us low life filth.” Said Hassler.
“And I knew they would run.” Added Freundel. 
The whole hive began to rumble and shake as charge after charge went off below them. Hassler grinned.
“Can’t wait to see their faces.”
“When the central Spire comes crashing down,” said Freundel. He pointed to the tiny glinting specks of the stormtroopers in the distance. “Just about where they are heading if I got my calculations right. 
They both laughed.
“It’s a lovely bloody war.”


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Adrian - Dogs of War Beyond the Scope*​ 

I watched through the scope as the world before me burned. Tears ran down my face as my world burned. Through the scope I am able to compartmentalize and separate what I see. Through the scope I am able to hold onto my sanity. Above me the clouds are black with smoke. In front of me the fire rages out of control. Body’s burn and flesh is boiled by the heat. The screams of children are more than I can take. I fire my rifle and a man fall to the ground. Smoke pours from the barrel. I move quickly low to the ground. I set up again and look through the scope and target my next mark. He is dismembering a mother while her children scream. I hate him for doing it. I fire and the bullet takes part of his head in a shower of blood and bone. I move again. 

This is my life now. Move, scope, shoot. Move, scope, shoot. The world around me is fallen. We are a ravaged people. I know this but I will not surrender to become the prey of the wicked. Every part of me wants to rush in and kill them all, but I cannot be foolish with my life. I must be patient. I must be patience. I must make the enemy pay for every step of ground they take, for every life they take. The dogs are coming! They are coming for me! Their handlers are running behind them chanting and shouting in their wicked tongue. I pull the scope from my eye and run. 

I hear the dogs sniffing and growling and see their iron capped teeth. They are inches from my face but I do not move, I barely breathe. The dead surround me and cover me with the putrid smell of decay. I hope it will be enough to save me. The dogs move on and drag a corpse away with them. They consume it and break the bones. I watch as their handlers reattach the leashes. They speak to the dogs and the dogs obey. The corpse is torn and bleeding and the dogs are hungry. But their masters have full sway on them and their will is iron in their words. 

I am patience. I am patient. I crawl from the dead and move slowly away. 

I find a hole in a broken wall and press my body into it. I have been awake for three days and am unable to move anymore. With the fires all around me and the enemy close at hand I close my eyes and do not open them again until the sun is up. 

I dread the daylight. I hate to look upon what the enemy has done. The buildings are nothing but rubble. They are black with soot. Thousands upon thousands of corpses cover the ground blackened by flame. Before I move from the hole I fix the scope to my eye. The world shrinks around me until it is a focused controlled environment. My stomach is growling so loudly I think that surly the enemy can hear it. I am thirsty; my lips broken, my mouth and throat so dry it burns with every breath I take. Ash covers everything. It is all that I can taste. I hate it, but do not have enough saliva to spit it out. I wait in the wall and do not venture out. I want to run. Fear holds me so tight it is a vice around my heart and a hook in my guts. Not more than a step away a man is sleeping. He is my enemy. He is one of hundreds. They are part of thousands. They are camped all around me. I am trapped. 

In daylight I am exposed. The enemy is sleeping, recovering from the torment they have inflicted upon my world, upon my people. Most are drunk. I watch for nearly two hours. My patience is tested to the breaking point. If I stay here than I will surely be found. Slowly I pull the knife from the sheath in its harness and slide from the hole. The man before me is snoring. He stinks of decay and smoke. He is as covered in ash as I am. I cover his mouth and slice his throat. I push it between his ribs and puncture his lungs. He kicks once and then is still. I move skillfully and quickly from one sleeping person to the next slicing and stabbing. My heart is beating so hard I can barely hear anything so I watch and move and kill. Watch, wait and kill. 

Behind me is a trail of death; twenty-six broken bleeding bodies leading from the corner of the building to the hole in the wall. I smile grimly as I turn the corner and slip away. 

Night comes all too quickly. I am rested and full. I made my way inside a home that had not been completely razed and found food drink and a carpeted closet where I slept the day away. It felt good to eat and sleep but I felt guilty for feeling a moments respite from my pain. The world is dyeing all around me. Joy and relief are swords in my gut. Under a blackened burning sky I moved and readied for war. 

The rifle is in my hand. The brace is against my shoulder. The scope is to my eye and the enemy is before me. I fire and am moving even before the man falls to the ground. I am set and fire once more. The man eating a screaming little girl loses the top of his head. I move and take joy in the fact the Emperor has let me fight. It feels good to fight and kill. It feels good to strike fear in the hearts of those who cause fear. 

I did not see them. I should have seen them but I was so focused on what was within the sites of my scope I lost sight of what was beside me. I moved with vengeance in my heart, but a lack of patience has delivered me into the iron capped teeth of the dogs of war.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Honorable Man - A Las-Flash in the Night*
​ 
Shit. Shit. Shit. This was bad.

Las-bolts cracked through the darkness, lighting everything up in staccato flashes. He was running, running like he’d never run before, boots hitting the dirt hard enough that his feet hurt with every step. That didn’t matter, so long as he got away.

His coat was too heavy. His boots were too heavy. Everything was too heavy. At this point, it felt like his legs were just too heavy. He should have worked out more. Shit, he didn’t belong in this kind of work. 

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” Every exhalation was coming out like that. He didn’t care. It _was_ shit, it had all gone to shit. They’d blown the operation and the puritans were coming. He didn’t know which ones, but it didn’t matter.

They’d kill him all the same. Or worse. He wasn’t sure which he preferred.

He didn’t even have the book. They’d failed utterly- the cult hadn’t handed it over before the shooting started. Shit, if he’d had the book something could have been made of this escape, instead of just a terrified sprint through the woods. The matter remained, though- he didn’t have it. He didn’t have it, the puritans probably had it, and everyone was dead or dying.

His toe hit something, a root, a rock, something hard, and he pitched over on his face. Something cracked- his nose, most likely. Didn’t matter. That could be fixed. He rolled over, grimacing, and hauled himself up.

Remember your training. Remember your goddamn training.

He was running again, one hand up to cup at his nose and stop the blood from dripping everywhere and the other at his holster, fumbling with the catch. It finally came open; the laspistol’s heavy weight in his hand was somewhat reassuring, but not nearly enough. The las-cracks had stopped, and that meant that they’d be looking for survivors. Shit, were there even any other survivors? Was it just him left? That wouldn’t surprise him. Not at all.

He had to get offworld. 

He shook his hand free of blood, digging into his pocket for his vox-link. Clicking the transmitter button, he held it up to his mouth. “_Ishtar_, this is Kental. _Ishtar_, I need an extraction.” 

No response. Just static. “_Ishtar_, please respond. _Ishtar_?” 

They’d hit them too, probably. Shit, it was all over. They were all dead, or were going to be. The inquisitor was already down- he had been the first one down, actually.

He could hear crashing through the forest behind him now, and the whine of auspexes. They had him now, unless the _Ishtar_ miraculously responded. The Inquisition wasn’t known for its mercy, either. “_Ishtar_-”

A crack; something hit him in the shoulder, spinning him around and throwing him to the ground. A second later, the pain hit and he let out a strangled cry. Stab-lights from helmets snapped into existence, lancing the night with brightness, picking him out from where he lay among the trees.

They had him.

Someone hauled him to his feet by the lapels of his greatcoat. They were stormtroopers, he could see that now, clad in red and black. All were helmeted, but he could hear muted clicks coming from them. They were talking amongst each other. Deciding what to do with him, perhaps?

That wasn’t up to them, though. Another figure, in the same carapace armor but unhelmeted, carrying a massive hammer rather than a lasrifle, appeared out of the darkness. This one, he recognized. Inquisitor Aethel, a noted monodominant. No hope of recovery then.

Aethel walked up to where the stormtroopers held him, coming face to face. The inquisitor was shorter, even in the carapace, and had to look up; there was a stern frown etched deep on his face, as one would expect from a puritan. He prodded Kental in the chest with the head of his hammer. “Interrogator Kental. Where’s the book?”

“Screw you.” the interrogator spat at him, following it up with a gob of bloody saliva.

A gauntleted hand smashed across his jaw and Kental sagged in the stormtrooper’s grip. “I said,” Aethel gritted out, reaching out and grabbing Kental’s wounded shoulder. “where is it?”

The interrogator cried out; waiting until he was satisified that he’d made his point, Aethel let go. “I don’t know.” Kental replied, panting to try to diffuse the pain. “You stopped the exchange.” 

He had nothing left to hide. He’d put up the token resistance, and that was all anyone could ask. He was an interrogator himself- he knew what would happen if he held anything back. That was a fate he didn’t need, especially since his own inquisitor was already face down in the dirt, gone in the first volley. Nobody he needed to protect anymore, and nothing worse could happen to him if he talked...

Aethel lifted his gauntlet to his mouth and muttered something into the vox-link affixed there, turning away. “You know what to do.” he said to the stormtroopers, nodding before dropping his arms to his side and starting to walk away.

The stormtrooper shoved Kental to the ground; the interrogator pulled himself up and began to run, already knowing what was to come. Aethel was whistling something as he walked away; Kental’s heart was pounding loud enough to drown it out, it felt like. Shit, he knew what was going to happen. Why did he even bother running? He knew already.

Still, it was a surprise when the las-bolts finally lanced through his back.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Adrian - In a Riot of Colors … Perfection*​ 

She looked at the canvas for a long time before she had even brought out her tools and brushes and thinner and paint. She didn’t look at the canvas as an empty thing but as what it would be. Now it is white. It is large, empty and … dead. She picked up her tea and sipped. It is hot. It burns her lips and she smiles. In her mind she sees what will be painted as a living thing. In her mind it is alive and fluid; breathing in and out and speaking to her. Her eyes are black as she opens her brush bag and tool tray. Her breathing becomes shallow and the room seems to cool. 

Time is forgotten as it fades from her mind. Her surroundings fade to the edges of her mind. She is calm and becomes focus. The brush is dipped and the first strokes from her delicate fingers mark the canvas. The paint is storm red. With the wide brush she sets the backdrop to the canvas. The white is replaced with darkness. The form of her will begins to take shape. Hours pass and still there is much to be done. The tea is forgotten. Food is meaningless while she works. Days pass and her will is still unbroken. 

She does not feel her muscles tire nor does she thirst for rest. The paint she is using becomes thick and jellied yet she works it into the canvas flawlessly. She uses many different shades of flesh and blood colors along with shades of brown and black. Paint is mixed and thinned and heated and cooled with her skill. Fourteen days later she comes out of her trance and falls to the floor, exhausted. Her canvas is only half way filled, the image incomplete. She calls for her servant and smiles as the man comes in holding his hands to his face. His mouth is covered and his eyes weep at the skill he sees before him. He falls to his knees and gasps, barely able to breathe. 

She motions to the man to draw his attention back to herself. “I am weak. Thirsty.” She motions to her paint tray, “The paint is now too old to use. I will need more within the hour.” The servant bows on shaky legs and leaves the room. It is only a few moments in time before the food is brought in along with fresh water and wine. She eats in silence and admires the view through the star port. Outside everything is black with small points of light in the distance. She sips her wine and regains her strength. A new bag of paints are brought in and laid on the table before the canvas. Two servants fall to their faces and weep as they see the work, though unfinished, that she has done. They are pulled from the room for they cannot stand on their own. As the door closes the woman hears the weeping of the servants turn to screams. She smiles and regains her seat before the canvas. 

Her eyes turn black. Her mouth opens ever so slightly. Her breathing becomes shallow and the room turns cold once more. She opens the paint bag and with fresh brushes she continues her work. Minutes turn to hours and hours into days; days into weeks. Even when battle rages all around her as the Pride of the Emperor is assailed from all sides, she continues to work. Even as the mighty Flagship of the Emperor’s Children pushes into the warp she seems not to take notice.

Even as her canvas is shaken from its mounting and falls to the floor not a single stroke is flawed. The painting is a thing of perfection. It is nearly finished. The rich reds and browns have dried and become darker. The flesh tones have become lighter. The shades of black and grey have become harsher. The gloves she uses are stained and blood comes from the openings at her wrists and dries on her alabaster skin. Time continues to flow around her like water around boulders. Even as the last strokes of the portrait are completed her eyes remain black. Slowly she brings up the sealant and applies it to the paint with gentle strokes. She does not hurry and her hand is steady. This process takes days to complete. Her eyes clear to their natural blue with the completion of her final stroke. 

She sways in her chair and begins to fall but firm hand catch her. She gasps at the touch of the Primarch of the III Legion, the master of the Emperor’s Children. Fulgrim’s eyes are black. His mouth is set in a grim smile. His hands though strong enough to crush every bone in the artists body are gentle as he helps her to the table where food and wine are already provided. Provided by Fulgrim’s own hand. Today servants are not allowed in the room. Today servants will not provide for her. The Primarch himself will serve her for he is pleased with her work. 

The woman is frail and weak. Her skin is older than it should be. Her hair has turned white. She removes the gloves from her hands. The human skinned gloves fall to the floor. The room has the smell of decay and spoiled meat. Her paint bag is old and stiff. The canvas is full with the detail of perfection. The Emperor in all his glory is fallen to the ground. He is beset by enemies that were once his trusted allies. He is weeping blood from wounds that have broken his might armor. His hand is outstretched, pleading. In a riot of colors the story is told. 

Fulgrim looks to the lady, “Today perfection is accomplished. Today your purpose is completed.” 

She smiles and bows her head. The food is left untouched. The wine has not been sipped. She does not speak or cower as Fulgrim pulls the blade and ends her life. Turning from the woman Fulgrim turns to the painting and weeps tears of blood with fresh emotion welling up within his breast. “It is perfect.”


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Adrian - Alive and feeling good!*​ 

I know that I was afraid and that it was dark. I felt the air around me so keenly, smelled the rain as it mixed with the grass and dirt and fell upon the trees. The storm that raged left lightning scars on the retinas and raged in the mind as that of a great beast with its thunderous voice. I lay on the ground with slashes across my face and chest. I shivered both from the cold and the pain that I was in. I could barely take in a breath. My lungs and body were on fire. What had I done to deserve this? Where had the beast come from? I had never seen anything like it before and prayed that I would never see anything like it again. 

I was walking in the storm trying to make my way back to my hab when the beast attacked me. It hit me with so much power that I blacked out. It thundered into my body without fear and without remorse. I do not know why it did not kill me, but I wish that it had. Pain! It is all that I know now as I lay on my back coughing blood and begging for death. 

I hear footsteps coming from what seems a long way distant. I try to call out for help but words escape me. I am sure I am dying. Voices are all around me in confusing tones. They are calling out for help and praying to the Emperor of mankind. Hands grasp me and set my nerves to screaming even more than they were. I pass out and wake again in flashes. 

There are lights and then there is darkness. There are voices and than the beeping of monitors. There is the dripping of water and then the rush of wind. I flash in and out of consciousness unable to put reason together with reason. My thoughts are muddled. It seems that only minutes pass but I am told when I wake that five days have passed and that I am blessed by the Emperor of mankind to still be alive. I do not think I am blessed. I do not feel blessed. I am in pain and fire seems to be pushing through my veins. Two days later I am walking out of the madica under my own power with barely a scar to show for my pain. The doktors are amazed and terrified. They say they have never before seen a miracle and are sure the Emperor has healed me. 

I am not so sure. Inside of me I feel … changed. Three more days pass and I am feeling stronger than I ever have. I no longer need optics or hearing aid. I see better than young men and hear better than the dog I love. I smell things. Scents flood my olfactory processes. I catch fragrances from the breeze that blows by. I cannot see the owner of the perfume but with an effort of will I can follow the scent for a klom or two and, well, there she is; a young blond woman looking into the window of a clothing store. Food has a better texture. I am starting to believe that I am indeed blessed. 
Two weeks pass. I am running in the morning. In the last few days I have taken up the exercise. I feel good and am able to run for twenty kloms without growing tired. Something is strange today. I can feel the earth around me like never before. I hear people talking from half a klom away. I can hear the heartbeats of people as they pass by. I can hear each surge of blood that is pushed through their veins. This is strange to me and a little frightening. When I get home my dog begins to growl and backs away from me with his neck hair raised and back rigid. “Come on, boy.” I call, but he barks once and runs into the other room, but not before he pees on the carpet. I am astonished and confused at the actions of my beloved pet. 

I have showered. The water, every drop of it was a paradise to me. I felt the slap of each drop upon my skin hot and bold against my muscles. I went about the rest of my day doing work around the hab and helping out a neighbor with painting and yard work. She is old and tired. I can smell death upon her. She is sick. I do not think she knows, but she will die within a month or two. I know it, but I still help her, unwilling to torment her with the thoughts of mortality. 

The sun is setting and with its descent the darkness begins to invade. Shadows grow longer and deeper. Stars begin to appear. I can feel it now, stronger than before. Since the attack I have always felt it but timidly like a light touch upon the mind. I can hear it calling out to me strong and violent. I look up and see the moon, full and in all its luminous glory. My blood quickens and my mind is cast into utter confusion as I fall to my knees and begin to scream. My skin tears. My face twists. My hands and feet elongate and shred the humanity from them. My chest expands and flesh falls from it along with my blood-soaked shirt. My pants split and blood pours from them staining the floor and filling the cracks in the wood slat floor. 

As the pain recedes so does my confusion. Clarity of purpose and desire floods my mind. I stand and howl. My voice is all animal. I see through the dark as if it were the clearest day and begin to run. I can smell her, the young woman I scented three weeks ago. Her scent is strong and so are her heartbeats. I find her walking in the shadows of the habs to the east. She sees me and tries to scream but the blood is spraying across the walls and the world is alight with fear. I run and kill all night long. I feast upon blood and flesh. I am alive, all confusion gone. The wolf is loose and I am free to feast upon the weak.

In a medica, in a clean bed; washed from all the blood and filth a doktor smiles down at the blond woman whose scars are already beginning to heal.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Brother Emund - Honora ad Finem*
​
Sergeant Dragan was trapped.

He had passed out, he knew that for sure, and now he was awake and in total darkness. He was also in immense pain.
“Janowski, Thika!”. His voice sounded weak and distant. It was an effort to talk, but he had to find out if any of his squad were still alive. “Brother Linda.. anyone copy me?.”

_Ahhrg, the pain._

His entire body was wracked with overwhelming waves of pain which his enhanced physiology seemed unable to cope with.

_Where am I? Am I still on the hulk? Where are my squad?_

The darkness was all around him. It was complete and suffocating.

_I need to get out of here. This.. place.. it is disturbing. This pain should be controlled._

He tried to remember what had happened, but he even found that difficult. 

A Spacehulk had entered the Cleron System and entered the trade lanes. It had to be investigated. Since the Eastern Hive Fleet incursion many years before, small colonies of Tyrannids and their xenos breeds had been moving through The Halo Stars spreading chaos wherever they were discovered. All Spacehulks and asteroids were routinely searched, and if need be.. purged.

This Boarding action was to be no different to all the rest.. except this time the xenos were waiting for them.

Dragan remembered that his squad, all veterans of dozens of contested boarding actions, were attacked the moment they leapt from the torpedo.

Genestealers, a yellow and blue breed, swarmed them before they were able to mount an effective defence. Brother Shoko and Brother Morcos were eviscerated without firing a shot. Brother Orchamus lost an arm before he managed, by the Emperor's will, to bring his flamer to bare and clear the space around them.
Dragan lead the counter-attack and gained them a hundred metres of corridor and precious breathing space.

It had not gone well.

All over the hulk his Brothers were meeting stiff resistance. His squad was now down to seven. Orchamus was still with them but his effectiveness was reduced. He had lost a lot of blood and without an Apothecary, he might not make it through.

_Ahhh, Orchamus. I remember your rearguard action at the Gloria Gates. What steadfastness, what courage. Where are you now? Are you with me? I must get out of here. I must find my Brothers. I must master this pain._

The Hulk was an amalgam of many different craft, some Imperial, some xenos. There was evidence of previous actions here. There were bones of unknown types, weapons and armour of exotic nature. They had even found an archaic bolter-like weapon that could only be human.

It would be purged and the xenos would be destroyed. They would fight on and join up with the rest of the company.

He had ordered Orchamus to take up the rearguard position with Brother Romana and his heavy-Bolter on point. It was not going to be a subtle advance but they would make the xenos pay dearly if they attacked again.

For six hours they battled through the corridors and rooms of the xenos vessel, bludgeoning, and hacking their way through legions of the foul Genestealers, until their ammo was spent and their armour was rent and battered beyond all recognition.

There were only five of them left.

“Such wanton hate,” he had thought. “Such mindless recklessness. A foe worthy of my skills, but not worthy of my respect.”

Dragan examined his Gladius. It was stained with foul spoor and nicked and scratched in a dozen places. With little effort he tore a bulkhead door away from its frame and brought it to his front like a rudimentary shield.
“We are not beaten my Brothers!” he had shouted. “By the Emperor, there will be no more of our blood spilt here today.”

The next attack came, lead by a huge genestealer with an elongated snout and abnormally long fangs.

_A mutant breed._

It swung it first claw which took Dragan’s helmet off. The second strike opened up his face to the bone, breaking his jaw and taking out an eye.

_I killed you though. Aye, you died by my blade like the rest of them. But we took the corridor and advanced onto the next.

My eye._

Light. Faint at first but getting brighter and brighter.

_Get me out of here! Get me out now! The pain._

He could see the the robes of an Adept but not its face. That was hidden beneath its folds.
“I am Sergeant Dragan. For Emperor’s sake remove me from this grave!”

Another figure came into view. Apothecary Kostin. He knew that battered white helmet anywhere.

_I am saved. Now the pain will go._

Dragan tried to move again but he was paralysed. His wounds were indeed dire.
“Kostin! I am here, can you not see me?”
Kostin removed his helmet and stroked his short black hair. He was staring directly at Dragan and shaking his head.
“Get me out of here!”. Dragan’s voice appeared weak and feeble.

More pain passed through him and a stab of pain struck his temple.

_The pain._

Apothecary Kostin stepped back off the dais and turned to the Adept.
“It has been a week now Magos Hernandez. Is there any hope?”
The Adept turned slowly back and shook his head.
“Not all your brothers can stand the transition. Sergeant Dragan injuries should have been terminal. I fear he will never make the walk.”
“It is done then,” said Kostin, emotion straining his voice. He nodded to a small group of the Chapters Honoured _Respexerunt Speculatores._
“He will be honourably laid to rest with the rest of his fallen Brothers.”

“We will remember him.”

Kostin stepped forward again. The Dreadnought dwarfed him, immobile and silent, a brooding, menacing figure of destruction. It was a Castraferrum Pattern Mark IV Dreadnought with a power fist and Plasma cannon. It was painted in the deep black of the night. It would have been a fitting weapon of war for a hero like Sergeant Dragan.

If he had survived his incarceration.

_No! I am here with you now. I am Sergeant Dragan of The Emperor’s Vengeance. It must not end like this._

+ SYSTEM PURGING +
+ DELETION COMPLETE +


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Brother Emund - It ain’t nuffink
*​

Skarrunt Magrot hated mornings. No, that was inaccurate, Skarrunt Magrot hated all times of the day and… night. But most of all, he hated being woken up from a deep sleep to start a morning.

“Dis betta be gud?”, he grunted to the shaking runt-servant. He then had a thought, “Na, nufink is dat important,” and he swung his enormous fist around and smashed the runt into the far wall.

His personal bodyguard suddenly entered the room with their weapons raised and axes swinging.
The Faceripper Warboss waved them back outside and then indicated with a casual wave that someone should also remove the mess he had caused.

A large Ork loped in behind them and nodded his respects. As one of the top Nobz in the clan, he had access to the Boss at any time and for whatever reason. Perhaps, he thought, he should have just delivered the message himself instead of relying on others.
He could not help but grin as the broken runt was dragged unceremoniously outside leaving a dark trail of body fluids behind.

“How’s the odds?,” Magrot grunted, pulling on his long leather boots.
“Boss?”
“The odds on me squig “Blood clot”?”
The Nobz was momentarily confused.
“Ahh! The races?”
“Yeah the races. What else would there be?” 

The Nobz now understood that his Boss had not been informed of the latest reports and was thinking about the Squig races being held the next day.
“Boss, your Squig is still odds on favourite (as of course it would be), but we ‘av reports of Hoomies.”
“Hoomies?”
“A gang of dem landed not far from ‘ere. Dey is da big one’s wiv all de armour and stuff.”

Magrot’s eyes widened and his face broke into a grin. This might well turn out to be a good day after all. They could have a bit of a scrap with the Hoomies followed by a lucrative day at the races.
He straightened up and wedged his iron helmet onto his head.

“Assemble the Boyz. I have paid gud teef for these races and I ain’t lettin’ no one get in the way. I want dem crushed, smashed, squished and flattened before lunch.”

* * *​
Sergeant Martinez rolled to his right and then shuffled backwards into the bushes that lined the river bank. The rest of the scout squad were in all-round defence, their weapons pointing in all directions and covering all approaches.

“It is true,” he said in his deep accented voice. “There is a whole town of the Orks down there. They number at least a thousand. They have settled. There is an arena on the far side and even a rudimentary spaceport.”

A second scout, still young in service but with the face that bore the scars of many conflicts, tapped the screen on his auspex.
“Do we wait or move off to extraction?”
Martinez rubbed his chin.
“I would like to get a look at that arena and see what is going on over there. There is a lot of movement. Ork’s are coming in from all over the place and heading there.”
“Could it be a command centre?”
“I think so.”
“Damn,” said the second scout. “We have movement to the east. Fast moving and heading our way.”
“It is settled then,” Martinez concluded. “We relocate for extraction. That settlement is obviously of some importance to the Ork’s. Call in evac at location Delta.” He signalled to the rest. “We move, single file, double-time.”

* * *​
Magrot was a Warboss of some note.. and intelligence. He had sent a horde of fast moving scouts ahead of the main gang, Cragnat Orks, bred for speed and agility. They had slipped behind the marine scouts before they were aware of them. 

Martinez was the first to react.

As the first Cragnat appeared in the undergrowth he was shot through the head, the second was winged and fell screaming to the ground.

“Immediate evac I think.” He nodded to the other scout.
A bolter hammered behind him followed by the swish and crump of a rocket.
“Form a wedge.” He ordered and the scouts moved back into a diamond formation facing outwards. “Fire and move. Head for the extraction point.”

Magrot reached the first bodies of his gang and was furious. He swung his war axe in one hand and a huge double-barrelled stormbolter in the other, and immediately charged the small group of marines, bellowing his war cry.
Scout Walton fired his shotgun at him at point blank range and Magrot was knocked backwards. Martinez bore down with his power sword and took off the Warbosses arm.

There was pandemonium as both groups met in a crash of hand-to-hand combat.

At the same time a flight of Stormbirds appeared overhead and unleashed a fury of missiles and heavy weapons into the Orks massed ranks, before hammering the outskirts of the settlement with a reign of fire and death.

Magrot became entangled with his own bodyguard before being knocked heavily to the ground and set upon by more Hoomies with edged weapons and bolter fire.
He remembered the pain he felt, and then saw his own blood arc around him before falling under a mass of bodies.

He saw a Hoomie lying facing him his face torn apart and bloody.

* * *​
“Well wots the damage?”, screamed Magrot.
“We won a great victory Boss!”
Magrot drooled and twitched and looked like he was about to explode.
“Da damage! Da damage!”, he raged.
“Boss,” the Nobz shook his head. “Yoose lost yor arm, dats wot.”

Magrot pushed him aside with his good arm and indicated back down towards the settlement.
“Da track yoose dork, da track! Is it still gud?”
The Nobz wiped blood from his mouth and grimaced. Magrot was going loopy in the head. Too much grog and happy weed was turning him insane. The Warboss had lost an arm and several chunks of his torso and was more worried about the arena.
“On second thoughts’ he thought ‘he is well ‘ard.”

“Boss, the arena is not damaged and the Squigs are all accounted for.”
Magrot laughed heartily and placed a paternal arm around his shoulder.
“Now dem Hoomies is sorted, we can git on wiv the real important fings. Da races! Da races!”


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Treesniffer - One Day's Hunt*​ 

It is a hot day. The snows have melted and the day trees have sprung up. You and the tribe have gathered at one of the groves. The break of dawn sprouts bitter flowers, poisonous fruits, and the attacking plants seeking a bit of extra food before the sun sets and the snow's return. The plant eating animals will also come for the day trees, as the Hunters come for the Plant Eaters, and the Killers come for them all. Like your tribe.

Tossed around the camp, the furs of the tribe lie scattered. It is too hot. Everyone is at the edge of the day trees, careful of Stranglevines while seeking them out. Until the animals come, Stranglevines are one of the few plants that can be eaten safely. They also come with the added bonus of whatever animals still in it’s gullet. Several others already have gathered branches from the new growth and taking their new acquisitions, the brush the remaining snow away from rocks and smaller bushes. Simulating the rooting of the Three Horns, the rest of the tribe waits for the investigation of the first waking Stranglevines. For the tribe’s first hunt, this will break their fast in easiest fashion. A good harbinger of the day.

Six of the tribe brush with the branches, alternating between short pauses and banging the ground. It makes noise, but not too dangerously so. The rest of the tribe looks outward. The trees are still growing with the new day’s sun and the Emperor has put the trees near the tribe’s camp. Hunters and Killers will take some time to find the trees. The tribe will be fed on Stranglevines and will be fast enough to chase down the plant eaters. It will be a good day.

Rather than the warmer breeze that heralds the day tree’s grove and blows outward, an invitation to all nearby animals of fresh food, the cold air of the snow dunes falls over the tribe. Heavy upon it, the scent of a Killer. Every member of the tribe freezes in place leaving only the muttering of the wind. Very softly, a woman begins a warbling whistle then waits for your response. You break her gaze and scan the rest of the tribe. Soft as it was, they all heard the woman’s plan. Anticipatory grins answer your unspoken query. Forgotten are the slowly awakening Stranglevines as the tribe’s thoughts turn to the advancing Killer.

You let out a piercing whistle. It is the Snow Bird herd mother’s call to those in her care to gather. The rest of the tribe begins to stomp the snow. The Snow Birds, tall and flightless, are two legged like the tribe and the easiest animal to mimic. Warbling cries and squaks of adolescents are called out. They are easy prey for a Killer, and irresistible to chase and maul. Killers rarely eat their prey, perhaps enough to find another victim, but they seem to exist only to see blood scattered across the ice.

The younger hunters run about, hopping in imitation the Snow Bird’s play-gait while the main body of the tribe sinks into the snows, burrowing just beneath the powder. You do not hide, you must continue to call the Killer with the Herd Mother’s voice and when he arrives, land the first blow.

You hand feels warm, grasping the haft of your spear. Light and short, it is a weapon of the Smalls. The Smalls come to try their hands at hunting. Sometimes just the animals of a day tree grove, but sometimes to hunt Hunters or Killers. Trying to be Men, but they are only Smalls. It takes Men to bring a Killer down. Your odd spear is all that remains of a Small who thought to take on a Hunter in the fashion of Men. You have carried it ever since.

A wave of snow is pushed before the great bulk of the creature, but that is all that is visible. Burrowing just beneath the surface snow, its claws dig into the permafrost for purchase and speed, only the swiftly moving dune of snow gives testimony to the presence of the creature. 
With an angry roar, the Killer rears itself up out of the snow, looming over the assembled tribe, it’s maw and eyes are easily as high as four of your tribe atop one another.

Expecting Snow Birds, it is instead faced with your tribe. Rather than the simple Snow Birds that never seem to notice the signs of a charging Killer and respond to the hunting roar by either freezing or falling to the ground in a faint, the Killer fails to make its signature strike of falling across it’s prey as it tries to pick a target from the milling members of your tribe.

Your people keep moving about. What is sound strategy when facing Stranglevines, or a pack of Hunters, is death at the claws of a Killer, for Killers always strike first at the slowest creatures. Now, as if movement of the tribe somehow points to you, the four eyes’ of the Killer focus at your immobile state. A breath’s pause and the head of the beast strikes downward.

You roar out your own challenge and, with all your might, hurl the spear into the face of the Killer. The roar is the signal to the buried hunters and they break out of hiding, attacking multiple legs of the Killer. The Killer’s strike is interrupted by your spear, lodged inside one of the eyes, and the gigantic creature rears back in shock and pain. Whipping back and forth, the Killer attempts to shake the spear loose. 

The writhing unburies the remaining two thirds of the beast. Legs uncountable sprout from the long undulating body of the Killer. As long as three hands worth of tribesmen, the Killer dwarfs you and your tribe. It’s claws, teeth, unstoppable strength, and gigantic size are mere obstacles to be overcome, for the Killer represents not danger to your tribe, but a couple days of food without the need to hunt again. Any lost in the fight simply ensure more for the survivors.

******* ********** *******​
Far away, in a heated room, two men watch the fight on a vid screen. A few minutes after the spear has been cast, the giant creature falls still. Without preamble, the surviving ogryn begin consuming the carcass.

“Only ogryn would think hunting one of those would be a smart idea. With their bare hands. Send a recruiter, these will make a good addition to our forces.”


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Brother Emund - Don't Count Your Chickens*​

Lieutenant Sébastien Dembélé did not feel like celebrating.
In the aftermath of battle, even in victory, all he could feel was grief, pain and a deep ache in his soul.

An ancient Terran Warmaster once said that a battle lost is only a little worse than a battle won.

They had won here today, but at a cost. He had lost half his command.
He sat down on a sandbagged wall and placed his face in his palms. He was exhausted, utterly drained. He let his feet hang down into the communication trench, which was now filled with the corpses of both his men and that of the enemy.

The damn Orks had fought well today, and despite being outnumbered and outgunned, they chose a last-ditch charge to a slow death, pounded into the earth by artillery and airstrikes. Not one of them survived, but oh the cost…

He felt the urge to be sick so scrambled quickly to his feet and turned towards the breeze that was blowing in from the south. The air was fresh from this direction, it came from the distant sea and not from the killing fields around him.

“What shall I write…?”, he said out loud.
“You write what you always write… sir.” Came a gruff voice behind him. He turned quickly, shocked that anyone was even in the vicinity. A dirty, bedraggled soldier stood in the shadow of a knocked-out Leman Russ and gave a weary wave.

“Sergeant… Timonen. I did not realise…”
“’Sis’alright Sir. I did not mean to startle you, especially after all this.” The NCO stopped amongst the detritus of the battle field and spread his arms wide.

“I was thinking what to put into the letters, you know, the letters to their kin.”
Timonen stood tall to his right and gazed out across the field. 
“You tell them that their boys died like heroes, that they died for their beloved Emperor with a Lasgun in their hand and righteous zeal in their souls.” He laughed, but it sounded gruff and forced.

Dembélé tried to smile back but his facial muscles seemed to be paralysed. He pointed to the body of a Guardsman slumped face forward over a Lascannon.

“How about Candella there? Dear Missus Candella. I regret to inform you that your son was killed in action at, blah, crap-hole on blah-planet. He was a brave soldier and fell protecting his comrades in the finest tradition of the service.” He shook his head at the NCO. “Or shall I say that his weapon jammed and an Ork split him in two with a cleaver before he could fire a single shot.” He stood up and walked over to a young Guardsman lying on his back who appeared to be sleeping.

“And what about young Jorjadze here? Dear blah, your brave son did not die with his spine hanging out of his back after a frag exploded behind him,” he paused. “Thrown by one of his own friends in panic. No, he died leading a bayonet charge against a whole battalion of greenskins.”

Timonen shook his head and then crouched down on his haunches.
“Or Lebona. Decapitated by an Ork boss while he struggled to get up… with no legs. Or…”

“I get the picture Sir.” The NCO interrupted aggressively. “But you will do your duty and do your duty well.” He placed a reassuring hand on the Lieutenants shoulder guard. He paused then looked into the officer’s eyes.

“All these men are heroes, every damn one of them. You will tell their kin that they saved this and helped that and deserved a medal, and you knew him well and he was well-liked, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Because that is what the folks back home want to hear. They are being fed crap back there but we know the truth, but they should never know what happens out here amongst the stars. They must never know about the horrors we endure and the bitter enemies we face."

The young officer smiled. The old NCO was right of course. Yes, his men were heroes and the battle was worth the cost. He would not hang his head in shame and remorse, he would celebrate their sacrifice.
“Very well said sergeant.” He stood up and stretched his aching back. Timonen shrugged.
“Besides Sir, the likelihood is that their folks will never know of their fate anyway. The Administratum mail system would struggle to find the final destination, the math is too complicated!”
They both chuckled.

“A bit naughty sergeant, such things could get you flogged.” Timonen shrugged again.
“Commissar Gaustad is not going to care. He’s somewhere out there in the mud with a slug through his forehead. Now he is a real hero… or was.”

Dembélé decided that the conversation was becoming too risqué.
“Did you come here to find me specifically sergeant?”
“Yes sir,” the old NCO straightened up. “The boys have found a warehouse full of Amsec and are wondering if you would like to join them in a wake?”

Dembélé knew that he should not. Fraternising with the junior ranks was frowned upon. But today?
“Of course. I will just retrieve my hat which I lost leading a charge against fifty-thousand Orks…” They both grinned. He had lost it when a short artillery round exploded behind his trench. “Ah, it’s here, battered, dirty, but still serviceable…”

CLICK

… We regret to inform you that Lieutenant Dembélé was killed in action during a heroic rear-guard action against a vast horde of xenos …


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*andygorn - Unveiled*​ 

_"So, how would you describe my effigy to our latest triumph, Brother Feran?"_ Halex watched his comrade in arms for signs of trepidation or fear.

Casting a critical eye over the piece, Feran responded:_ "The shading is crude and too basic - there are areas too touched by darkness...that should not be with a figure of our glorious Primarch."_

_"Good, you seem to grasp the essence of the work...it is unfinished of course, yet I always seek critique from my peers. How proceed your own travails?"_
Although genuinely interested, Halex could no longer keep an acid tone from his voice; the deadline approached and pride was everything...to be "second" meant "being last".

Casting aside a dirt-smeared cloth fascia from the nearby table, Feran revealed his own art: Halex could not contain his discomfort at the work and baulked at the sight of the offal-pile presented to his eyes.

_"You would...gift this..this thing...to our Lord?"_ Halex inquired incredulously, coughing as the stench assailed his nostrils, even through his autosenses.

Feran snorted arrogantly:_ "Of course, Halex! This is the artifice of many years, each item arranged alphabetically and then in order of size. Can you not see it's perfection?"_

It was one of the most debased things he had ever seen (let alone for it to be classed as any kind of gift apart from to swine). This would be a sheer insult to their Lord and Master.
Trying to cast an objective view over the steaming piles of meat, Halex used the brief lessons he had overseen in the apothecarion to judge the "work".

Perhaps it was his inner competitive nature, or maybe he was just looking for any excuse to avert his gaze, but he seized upon the opportunity to discredit his fellow entrant:_ "If they are alphabetically arranged, you have got some of these incorrect; 'eyes' should go after 'cranial sections', not before...even a novitiate should understand that concept....your usual standards are slipping, Brother."_

Feran gave a toothy smile in return _"You mistake the point of the organisation altogether, Halex, but you will...one time soon..."_ and walked away, leaving the cuts to dribble redly onto the once-pristine marble of their crafting chamber.

Seeing no other option, Halex put the covering back over the remains, yet the sight had troubled him deeply. That night, even the somno-inducers could not assuage his restlessness: no stranger to gore, there was something "other" about his comrade's offering that set his teeth to grinding and unbidden shapes to flit at the edges of his vision.

Unable to rest, his memory kept replaying over and over the bloody mass which had been so casually heaped before him:
'What could possibly be thought of as a gift? How could anyone in their right mind appreciate such gobbets?'
Then he suddenly felt a twitch of realisation: there had been a glint of metal in amongst the mound of entrails...perhaps Feran had mislaid it and even now walked the corridors in search of it?

Returning to the artisan quarters, he lifted up the grime-stained covering.
Although only several hours had intervened, the pile now seemed to be bigger than before, but he paid it little attention, sinking his fingers into flesh, thankful the armoured gauntlets prevented him from feeling all the sensations of being wrist-deep in body-parts.

Scattering several pieces to the floor, his fingers finally found purchase upon hard metal..wiping off most of the detritus, he pulled out a small metal disc engraved with two heads.
Astartes had no need for money, so perhaps it was an item crafted by Feran between battles? Surely such an item was valuable and worth returning? 

He found his friend's dormitory uncharacteristically bathed in shadow; calling out the name, Halex heard a somewhat unwelcoming reply from the darkness: _"I am in session with my muse, who goes there?"_

_"Feran? This is Halex, I think you left something behind and need it returning.."_
_"Did I?"_ the voice enquired, uncharacteristically dispassionate. _"Bring it here and I shall peruse..."_

Halex was unused to attending inside other's chambers...this was something which always seemed to be 'an intrusion too far', especially amongst their Legion, who valued their supremacy and individuality, even (and perhaps especially?) when measured against comrades.

His footsteps clomped across the floor, then suddenly there was a *squish* at contact with something yet unseen.
Halex had strangled Ogryns with his bare hands, yet something about this room made even him fearful to look down at the unnameable thing which he had trodden in.
Concentrating upon the task in hand, he passed the coin to his friend, eager to do his duty and be away from the place.
Feran turned on a lamp and his outstretched gloved hand glistened. His eyes widened ever-so-slightly in recognition at the proffered disc, then displayed a feign of ignorance.
_"Where did you find this trinket?"_

_"You mislaid it in your 'artwork' my friend."_ Halex replied quickly, the speed of his voice betraying his eagerness to be away.

_"No, I didn't discard it, but I have seen it's likeness somewhere else..."_

_"Where? Upon that last claimed world? Those savages possessed no metal"_ Halex laughed deridingly.

_"I love you like a brother, Halex, but I cannot say."_ Feran paused, as though expecting a reply, yet Halex seemed confused at the lack of further explanation.

Feran shook his head, turning away to hide his sorrowful look:
_"It pains me, but my muse calls once again, please leave. Now!"_

Turning slowly, still confused, Halex slowly left the dormitory...perhaps now sleep could return and his friend would be sufficiently recovered in the morning to resume their conversation?

He did not hear the squelch of quick footsteps behind him, nor did his brain register threat until his head was pulled back and serrated blades delved into his carotid artery; no time to even gasp in pain.

Hauling the corpse to his workbench, Feran continued his artistry.

*****
Later that month, Feran revealed his latest work to a baying crowd who revelled in their depravity; little more than beasts-in-armour than formerly proud Astartes.

At their centre: a Living God, basking in adulation and delighted screams...one whose fall abased him even more than those of all the lesser minions combined.
Picking up a selection of oozing morsels, Fulgrim's soul-spearing voice enquired: _"...and these? What are they supposed to be?"_

Feran's voice trembled with barely-suppressed delight:
_"I call them gifts of obedience worthy only of your majesty. In order, I name those particular ones: Acastus Ultramarine, Bellegeren Iron Hand, Garen Salamander, Halex Emperor's Child."_

The Astartes howled in triumph once again; Legionnaires and Primarch.


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

*Treesniffer - Dance Night for the Dwarves*
​
After draining one mug and starting on the spare she had intended for Y'Salnos, her Announced, he walked over to her. 

"Come join me. I want to dance."

Side by side, they took the traditional positions of the work dance and the musicians began to play. The work dance had no words for it. It was a song of heavy drumming and it complexity was elementary. All the beats were provided by the dancers' foot stomps and those were performed at the tempo of a hammer. Leg up and stomp, slide and stomp, clap and clap. Leg up and stomp, slide and stomp, clap and clap. Determined steps, slow turns, measured claps. It was the fall of the working hammer; Heavy slam, heavy slam, and two quicker taps to realign the aim. Again and again. Even Y'Salnos could manage the work dance. Around and around they moved through the dance. Doriama could feel her legs warming up and her claps fell to a more proper cadence. Her mirror beside her, Y'Salnos's robe twirled and swayed to the turns and stomps. Faster than she expected, the music ended.


The music began again and Doriama stepped away. Somehow, Y'Salnos had managed to divine traditional dwarven songs from the musicians. The second piece was for a healer's prayer. Y'Salnos began his dance and Doriama watched as he gave thanks for the successful healing of Narent, praised the Soulforger, and begged for the god for his continued support. Y'Salnos's robe flared up and back as the spins and hops caused it to fly away from his legs and boots. As the piece ended, Y'Salnos began a rumbling staccato of steps that lead into the Victory Dance which called Doriama back to his side. Together they danced the victory of the previous day's events. Dancing down the vanquished, and parading home. Extolling the strength of their clans and the alliance between themselves. Locked arm in arm, they spun and leaped. They smashed the floor with heavy jumps, so much more satisfying on the raised foundation of the inn's tap room where the mugs jumped in response to their dancing.

It took all of Doriama's strength to hold Y'Salnos up and keep his feet beneath him. In over twenty years she had only seen Y'Salnos take up the Victory Dance once, and over half that long for the Hall to stop talking about it. Though not a difficult dance, its speed and changes were more than her partner could navigate easily and it was only her knowledge of his shortcomings along with her strength and agility that kept them on their feet in more than one exchange. By the end of the song, she found herself overheated and shaking from the effort. Yet the musicians simply moved onto another song and, shocked, Doriama retreated to her mug of beer while Y'Salnos began an unprecedented fourth dance.


A slow dance began. A far cry from the stomps and leaps of the Victory Dance, this was a dance Doriama did not expect to see for some time. From the center of the floor, Y'Salnos bent and bowed to the humans who had been filling the tap room, unnoticed by Doriama as she had held Y'Salnos through the dance. The tables were all filled, while more patrons stood at the bar and along the walls watching the dwarves, though now focused on Y'Salnos. A harp began to play alone. Quick notes like raindrops rang out through the room, breaking the silence as none of the patrons spoke. Short little steps in time to the notes, Y'Salnos minced about the floor and Doriama cringed in anticipation. He was going to give her his Announcement dance. In a human inn. Months from the Hall. Miles from home.

It would be a dance he could not complete.

The harpist's fingers flew across the strings. Falling down through the notes before dancing back up, only to fall again. The individual notes blending together, no two strings plucked together, the music swirled about as Y'Salnos danced in vain to keep his heavy tread in sync with the harpist's own efforts. The bends and spins, twists and pirouettes, they were all beyond him. His strength, born of hauling water to the mountain's top when the pumps were down, was a thing of brute force and lacking in all finesse, could not save him in this dance. Nor his beauty. His flaxen hair or downy beard. The heart tugging blue of his eyes could not make his feet find the floor in any way other than ruin. Partnered, he stood a chance in the dance, but Y'Salnos was not shaped by the Soulforger for anything solo.

Doriama watched Y'Salnos dance his Announcement. His promises to guard and provide. To shelter and entertain. To cherish and love. To be there and give her the children that would strengthen the Hold and their clan. She watched him dance and stumble and fall. As she knew he would. As he knew he would. She watched his feet fall behind on a turn and spin back to the middle of the floor. Watched as his hands flew out to try and grasp anything to break his fall, and as luck would have it, watch as one found purchase on a table she had not pushed back quite far enough. The table flew out from beneath the mugs that rested upon it. Not heavy enough to slow his descent, his unrelenting grip dragged the table across the floor with the fall, the loud crack of splintering wood as the legs snapped, giving way as he fell to the floor.

Y'Salnos threw back his head and let out a great bark of laughter that broke the surprised silence of the tap room. The few others in the room joined in, though the barkeep scowled at the mess made. Doriama could not find it in her to laugh. She moved over to the sitting Y'Salnos and as he grasped her proffered hand, pulled him to his feet. Sliding her back up to his chest, as the music began again, she lead him though the first steps of her Acceptance Dance.


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## Dave T Hobbit

*Brother Emund - The Pain of Sacrifice*
​
THE ETERNITY GATE. 
The forbidden entrance to the heart and soul of The Imperium of Man.

Pilgrims from all over the galaxy tramp the long road to see the sacred entrance to the holiest of places. Most of them will never finish their journey or reach their ultimate goal. Uncounted billions will fail and millions will die on the way. 
It is a pilgrimage that only the truly pious will attempt. 

Three figures, a small group amongst thousands, trudged slowly along a road worn to the sheen of glass by countless feet. If one looked carefully they would notice that the group wore uniforms of a sort which were now threadbare and faded. 
Many soldiers made the journey. They had fought for their God and now they wished to be near him at the very end.

It had already taken this group the best part of two years to get from the spaceport at the Katmanda Gate to the outer walls of the Imperial Palace. 
There appeared to be no end in sight. They might not make it in time.

_Please my beloved Emperor, bless those who have made this most Holy journey. Look upon your devoted children and grant them safe passage. 
Et beatus est quicumque non tuetur nos.
Blessed is he who protects us._

To sergeant Norog, pulling the Commissar was an honour and not a chore. Lord-Commissar Anton Scheuer was not heavy.

For what seemed like a lifetime, he had hauled the old man along in a small, improvised rickshaw made from scraps he had fixed together. It was barely roadworthy, its wheels battered and worn by the endless miles they had travelled. By land, air and sea they moved slowly towards the ultimate goal; The heart of Holy Terra and the Sanctum Imperialis, the Legendary Golden Throne, where the master of Mankind watched over Humanity. 

“I can feel His presence,’ Scheuer would often mutter. ‘I feel his warmth and see his guiding light.” Sergeant Norog would smile and reverently stroke the old man’s grey hair.
“Soon be dere Boss,” he would always reply. “Soon be dere.”

Trusted Tamachi, the erstwhile Chorgoris scout, lead the way, weaving them along a path that only he knew, and keeping them clear of the curious or the foolhardy who dared stand in their way. Norog was physically imposing, but Tamachi was a hidden weapon that killed and maimed without pity or compunction. It was after all, his sworn blood-oath to get Norog and the frail Lord-Commissar to the journeys end.

“I want to see it,” said the Commissar. “I want to be near him at the end.” And his loyal Norog, the tough Ogryn sergeant who had fought alongside him in countless battles across the stars, was determined to grant his dying wish. 

Terra was not a pleasant place to be, and the roads that lead to the Imperial Palace were fraught with dangers. Even near the heart of an Empire and close to the citadel of a God, there was lawlessness and evil.

Bodies lay everywhere.
Most of them were pilgrims, dressed in white robes and wearing broad hats. Some of them were in rags stained with blood and filth. Some, like these men wore the uniform of the Guard, proud and true.
Scavengers stripped the dead clean and recycling teams took them away. There was no dignity here in the mountains on top of the world.

The smell was unbearable. 

They kept going, one foot in front of the other, mile after agonising mile, ignoring the dead and the extended hands of the destitute and needy.

When they ran out of food, Norog would fight in the Pits against all-comers. Sometimes Tamachi would slip out at night and come back with exotic foodstuffs that none of them had ever seen before. They never asked him where he got the stuff from. It was best not to enquire.

Hard faced Arbites moved them on with shoves and threats, sneering at their uniforms and bearing. No one was special here, no one deserved better treatment than the rest.
Scheuer tried to protest and he threatened all sorts of retribution on these men, but his medals and decorations meant nothing to them.

“Move along citizen. Move along.”

Then one clear morning they passed through a massive bastion of adamantium bristling with weaponry, its walls lined with grim troopers in carapace armour bearing the winged Aquila emblem of Terra. 
Scheuer’s eyes were closed, but he had a wide smile on his face. His fingers were crossed across his chest. 
He whispered litanies and prayed for more time.

Onwards and upwards through crowds of chanting pilgrims and then further and deeper into the Palace where wonderful murals lined walls of gold and silver depicting the Lord of Man with his vaunted Space Marines. Battles. Wars. Victories. 

Then there were gargantuan statutes of heroes from antiquity and Incredible works or art that were the size of small Hives. Sights that no man had ever beheld, nor ever would again.

Then finally one day, they were stopped by the masses who were now silent and in awe.

“Dere is a door Boss, a shiny door wiv two big men.” Said Norog enthusiastically.
Scheuer smiled, gripping the ogryn’s arm.
“It is the gate sergeant. The way leading to it is a mile long. Those...” he coughed a deep throaty cough. “Those men are Imperial titans.” He tried to laugh but the effort caused him distress. “Titans... the big metal walkers…”
“I will lift you up Boss, so you can see dem. Me and Tachi will help you up.”

But when they went to him, the Hero of the Augustus Gate and the Siege of Andromeda was gone. Lord-commissar Scheuer was with his God now and forever at peace.

Across that sanctified mile. Past the millions of banners and flags and the statues of the Heroes of the Imperium. Beyond that golden gate, the greatest man to have ever lived looked down on all he surveyed. Was that a sigh in a place without sound? Was that a whisper in a place that no spoken word was uttered? If one of the hundreds of golden warriors of the Custodes dared glance in His direction, and upon that grim, mummified face that none dared to look upon, would they have seen a tiny sparkle in the corner of one of those empty eye sockets? 

A tear of sadness perhaps? A tiny sign from He who watches over all…


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## Ambush Beast

*hello, I'm back*

Hello everyone! I'm back under the name of Ambush Beast.But BOC may change things for me and I may be under my true name which is Adrian. ether way guys ... I'm back.


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