# Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories 8: Mercy



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Here's how it works:

Each month, there will be a thread posted in the Original Works forum for that month's HOES competition. For those of you interested in entering, read the entry requirements, write a story that fits the chosen theme and post it as a reply to the competition thread by the deadline given.

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

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

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

*Word Count*

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

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

Without further ado...

The theme for this month's competition is:

*Mercy*

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

The deadline for entries is Midnight US Eastern Standard Time (-5.00 hours for you UK folks)*Saturday, 20 August 2011*. Voting will be held from *21 August - 28 August.*

If you have any questions, feel free to either PM me or ask in this thread.

Without further nonsense from me, let the writing begin!



*Table of Contents*

*gothik:* The Price of Fear

Doelago: Mercy through death

Adrian: A Portrait Rendered

Boc: It is Better

Akatsuki13: Mercy of a God

Andygorn: Forbidden Knowledge

Deathbringer: Mercy

Bane_of_Kings: Cell 42A

Dinadan: The Warrior's Mercy

Vulkansnodosaurus: Black and Gray​


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## Doelago (Nov 29, 2009)

Mercy... I know a special kind of mercy that can be applied to an story.


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Huh?*

Doelago: Drink some coffee, lol. 
MadCowCrazy: coffee is like nurgle having diahrea in a cup 

In response to the coffee comment. I am enjoying some of the glorious caffine infused nectar of the Gods right now and loving every blessed drop! 

P.S. MadCowCrazy, how would you know what Nurgle's diahrea tastes like? Had some lately? Lol


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

Mercy, eh? This will be a nice change of pace. Maybe, unless you put a classic grimdark twist on the word.


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## gothik (May 29, 2010)

might have to really think about this one mercy and warhammer fantasy/40K don't seem to go that well together...hmmmm


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## Stephen_Newman (Jul 14, 2009)

hehehe.

I thought that this one would be a challenge. Lets see what I can rustle up.s


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## gothik (May 29, 2010)

The Price of Fear

word count 1,042


We had been on patrol, it was a normal boring monotonous patrol that took us over the sunken valley and back towards the garrison. The governor was always paranoid about enemies coming to claim the resources that contributed to the toxic smeg hole we called home. 

I had no idea who would come here I was 17 and I had no interest in anything off world. Xana was a smeg hole at the smeg end of the universe. The only interest the Imperium showed us was the coal that our world was abundant with and the Mechanicum had taken to claiming for themselves.

Over the years the pollution had grown so much that it blacked out the sun and eventually, our world of beauty turned into a world of eternal night. We wore face masks to protect our insides from the eternal coal dust that covers our world.

I cannot see the need to patrol this blackened hell and I voice my opinion to my oldest friend Zaska. She just shrugs and says its either a life as a soldier or life as a coal miner and we all know how the Mechanicum treats their human workers.


They came like wraiths from the pits of hell. I woke to the sounds of screams, terror, dying and pleas for mercy that went unheard.

The first place to be hit was the Government sector. The fires of the burning buildings could be seen for miles around. I woke to the sound of my commander, Captain Zanzara shouting orders for us all to get up and attack. 

I fumbled for my rifle and got up bleary eyed ready to face whatever it is that has come to this hell hole. What I did not expect to be confronted by a roaring band of humans all with sigils that hurt my eyes cut into their bodies by brands and knives. 

I used my rifle in all the ways I knew, I fired and I butted them until their brains spilled over the floor. My wrath geared more as I saw my friend Zaska felled and set upon her blood spraying in thick arcs as her body was cut into pieces. I just kept firing until they were dead and when I could not fire I clubbed them to death.

A giant shadow fell over me and as I looked up I saw a visage of hell itself. He wore power armour but it was nothing like i had heard of before. I had seen the Astartes when they had visited this world once when I was a child. 

This was nothing like those noble armoured warriors. He was twisted, a parody of honour but he had once been an Astartes that had been once of the Emperors chosen. Knowing that I was face to face with one of the so called traitors I felt my courage begin to ebb away.

He wore power armour of black and red trim, the glyphs on his armour were yellow and shone with a malevolence of their own. He looked down at the bodies before him; bodies that I had put there mere moments before.

He raised his arm and I thought about begging for mercy, allowing myself to fall at the last hurdle as my courage fled me but as his arm came back down I thought I could see the ghosts of my parents beckoning me.

Everything went black.


The doors opened and the monster that had captured me came in. The sudden flood of light hurt my eyes and the moans around me grew in intensity. There were cries of pain as the monster kicked some of the prisoners away.

He stood before me and without saying a word bid me to get up. I did as he ordered shaking from head to toe. His face was pale and yet his eyes burned red they seemed to bore right through me as if he was searching for something.


“We came to fulfil your masters wishes,” he began and his voice sounded like my worst nightmare “He wanted us to destroy the mines and make him the most important power in your sector no matter what the cost.”

I could not believe what he was saying. My own governor knew about this? I was adamnet that the monster before me was lying but his tone said otherwise. 

“He said we could take however many slaves we wanted as long as we left him and those who ruled with him in charge, he is now dead.”

A shiver ran down my spine when he gestured at the bodies around me all huddeled and hoping that he would show them some degree of mercy, maybe send them back home.

“There are those here we will use but there are those that are no good to me.” 

He handed me a las pistol and the urge to kill the bastard before me was great but seeing his size and his face, it would be a wasted effort. 

“End the misery of those who will be no good for it will be the last act of mercy you will do”

“Are you going to kill me?” I asked hoping that he would.

“No” he smiled for the first time “I saw anger in you when the slave army killed your friend and I have need of that anger. There are those who are too weak to work and if you do not end their lives then they will be cannon fodder for the next world we land on.”

He folded his arms across his chest and I knew then he was serious. With a bitter taste in my mouth I did as he instructed but killed them all. 

It would be a mercy killing in the long run. Before I could turn the weapon on myself he snatched it out of my hand breaking it.

“Your fate is sealed boy” He sneered.

As he took me out of that room I prayed for mercy that would never come. Not for me not anymore i had no more to give. 

The _Brotherhood of Darkness_ had need of me alright and they wanted any mercy drained from me. It would not take long.


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## arumichic (May 14, 2011)

I'm looking forward to this one! If not writing for it, then reading all the stories!~


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## bunnysunny (Aug 1, 2009)

Hope there's some good entries.
Also how do I sign up?


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

All you've got to do is post up your story with the word count, no sign up necessary, looking forward to having another face in the challenge!


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

*gothik:* The Price of Fear

An intriguing and minimalistic story. It has the feel of a stream of consciousness narrative throughout, until the closing scene with the Chaos Marine, which was an effective way to wrap up the preceding events. There were, however, a few errors throughout (missed commas at the closure of quotations, "i" not capitalized) that need fixing, especially for a challenge such as this. Don't get me wrong, though, still a great story!


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## ThatOtherGuy (Apr 13, 2010)

I think I can conjure something for this before I leave for my trip... hopefully something by tomorrow.


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## Doelago (Nov 29, 2009)

Mercy through death

911 Words​

Brother Malcador brought his sword around in a wide arc, beheading the two hell spawns. The third one came leaping through the air, torturous scream of madness on its lips. Malcador brought his sword up to parry, their blades clashing. Malcador jumped a step back, and with his free hand sprayed the creature with a hail of stormbolter fire. Thugs of its unnatural flesh was torn asunder as the mass reactive shells tore into its body. Any normal man would have died thrice over, but this was no man, this was madness incarnate, something which should never have existed. A Daemon. The bloodletter roared in defiance and charged, leaping through the air with unnatural speed. Malcador parried the blow two handed, and even then he was not far from being overcome. The daemon pressed on with all its strength and forced Malcador to one knee. The tip of the sword came down towards Malcadors head. It was only inches away. He had to act quickly. 

*“Ego invito pangomanus!”* he yelled, and the daemon recoiled as Malcador summoned the power of his faith. His nemesis force weapon flared to life and tore through the daemons blade as if it was thin air. He looked the daemon in eyes, and saw the terror in them. The fear of meeting something it could not slay. 

_“Existo absentis daemonium!_” he yelled as he brought the sword down. 

--- 

Utejamuz Ultra was a planet of rich mineral wealth, and thus it was a critical part of the Imperial war effort. It alone accounted for the exports of raw metal to half a dozen forge worlds. When the prognasticators on Titan foresaw the hell about to bear down on Utejamuz Ultra, the Grey Knights did not hesitate to act. When they arrived, they found a planet in turmoil. The capital, the area most directly affected by the daemonic incursion, and the source of the rift which had let the daemons flow forth, had suffered greatly. Of the twelve million citizens and eleven regiments of the planetary defense force, barely ten thousand remained, scattered around the city. These pitiful souls had born witness to the forces of chaos. The planet itself was too valuable for the fires of Exterminatus. The populance – and its defenders – were another matter. Fatal quarantine was at hand. After the warp rift had been shut, and the daemonic threat had been banished, it was time to change focus upon those who had born witness to the uncountable horrors which had befallen them. A single mortal man with the corruption in his heart was a threat. The seeds of corruption could not be allowed to bear fruit, and thus risk a new incursion. None must be left alive. All must burn. Thus started a week long slaughter. 

Those defenders who had fought alongside, or seen the Grey Knights, were the first to feel the mercy of death. As if by some unspoken command, the warriors of the Ordo Malleus turned their weapons upon the civilian population. Thousands died in the ensuing manhunt. The Grey Knights would purge every soul. How innocent or pure it would be. Places of refugee, churches, hospitals, all were burned, by thrice blessed promethium. Men, women and children, priests, Mechanium adepts, all were killed. None must survive. All had to die. 

--- 
The Imperial Palace was on fire with the rest of the city. The night sky was lighted, and could be seen from miles away. But there was none left to see it. What once had been a majestic city, a great example of the might of man, was but smoldering stone and ash. The Grey Knights had seen to that. 
Malcador`s armor was stained with blood. Human blood. Noble human blood. He had dispatched the Imperial governor and his family single handedly. They had pledged for mercy as he stormed into the throne room, the bodies of dead strewn behind him. He ignored them. They had prayed to the Emperor as he hacked their heads off one in a flurry of swipes with his sword. His heart had been filled with anger. It still was. Beside him, slumped against the palace wall lay the body of his brother. His noble Astartes brother.

As they had forged their way through the palace hall on their way to the throne room, brother Agnatus had fallen, his throat pierced by the blade of a cult assassin. His brother had met an unworthy end, he should have perished fighting the daemonic, but instead he had been killed by a mortal. A foolish mortal. Malcador has seen his brothers die before. But it never ceased hurting. Malcador had torn the assassin in two with his bare hands, his anger leading him forward. He had been shot, he had been stabbed, and he bled from a dozen spots. His ribcage had been crushed by a sentinels foot, but he had forged forward, paying his brother`s death with blood. None had survived. With his brothers incinerator, he had lighted a pyre with the bodies of the dead. It had been a good fire, burned for several hours. One would have admired the majesty of it, had his heart not been so filled with sorrow over his brothers passing. And the spilling of blood. Human blood.

_“Sileo in pacis, Imperator servo.”_ the voice of brother captain Damascus came from behind him. It was time to leave. It was time to mourn their own dead. Utejamuz Ultra had gotten its share of mercy. Mercy through death.


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*A Portrait Rendered*

A Portrait Rendered


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.

1,073 words.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

*It is Better*

Word Count: 990​


‘You are sure this is the right thing to do?’

Two figures lurked in the shadows, hidden in one of the many chambers aboard the massive ship.

‘Right and wrong is immaterial,’ a voice rumbled in reply, the source unseen. ‘It is necessary. Your orders are clear?’

The second nodded, ‘Aye.’ His voice was thick with emotion as he struggled to hold back the overwhelming tribulation within him.

‘Then do as you must.’

*****​
Captain Antonius sighed wearily, the weight of knowledge bearing terribly down on his shoulders. Running his hands over his shaven, olive scalp, he considered the horrible knowledge that assailed him. Knowledge of things to come, the trepidation of uncertainty, stirred a fear in his gut. Such a sensation was not only foreign, but despised. Rage and confusion tormented him equally.

Three days before, his primarch had spoken to Antonius’s company. He had confirmed their worst fears, _that damnable word_, and spoken of things yet to come. Atrocious, treasonous things, and his words had shaken Antonius to his very core. After the primarch’s audience with his sons, they had boarded their Stormbirds, boarded their warship, and made haste for Istvaan. For the first time in nearly two hundred years, Antonius felt doubt as to how to proceed. He had been in seclusion in his chambers since setting foot on the vessel.

‘Ulises,’ he said, his deep voice laden with anguish, ‘call the company together.’ He turned towards the room’s only other occupant and his most trusted sergeant. ‘It has been too long since we have spoken, and my Marines need to hear this from me.’

The brother sergeant donned his helmet momentarily and Antonius heard the vox click as the Astartes issued the order to assemble the Company.

‘It is done, Brother-Captain,’ he answered.

Pulling his robe’s sash tightly around his waist, Antonius approached the door even as it hissed open to reveal a hooded Legionnaire. The figure bowed deeply, and removed his hood.

‘Brother Ravven,’ Captain Antonius smiled grimly. He prided himself on being able to identify on sight each of his three thousand Astartes. Not that his Banner Bearer required any identification, as the warrior was as familiar to the captain as his own face in the mirror.

‘Captain,’ came the response, ‘Brother Sergeant Ulises has informed me that you require escort to the Reflectium. With respect, we must leave at once.’

Captain Antonius lifted his own hood over his head and followed Ulises as he departed the chamber. Ravven fell into step behind them as the trio’s footsteps carried them down the darkened passageway. Antonius hated the unease that filled him, the inner torment of knowledge and his inability to grasp the truth. He knew his Primarch’s plan, to stop at the brink of a new age to jump into a chasm of destruction.

He could not, _would not_, stand idly by as the Imperium was torn asunder by chaos.

‘Ulises,’ he said, his voice low, ‘I cannot watch as everything we have fought for is destroyed by the corruption of one misguided man. I will not permit my men to follow this insane descent.’

Sweeping through the corridor, Antonius felt it impossible to focus on his surroundings. The halls all melded into one endless expanse of banners depicting the Alpha Legion’s military victories and statues of fallen heroes. He could not bear to cast his eyes upon them and recollect the moments of glory that each represented. All was for naught if he allowed his company to follow the course it had been forced upon.

‘Sir,’ Ravven interjected behind him, his tone placating, ‘would it not be advisable to acquiesce to our Primarch’s wishes? Surely, in his wisdom, he would have thought of the consequences of this betrayal before casting our lot in with the Warmaster?’

‘I will not have us prostrate ourselves before Horus!’ Antonius bellowed. He felt his rage building within him, the same rage that had tormented him for the past three days and had kept him withdrawn from his Marines. 

‘You would have us betray our own blood?’ Ulises responded, ‘Our Father? You would have us turn back upon the Oaths we have made?’

How can they be so foolish? So willing to cast aside everything for which we have fought and died?

‘It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.’

‘My Captain, you are the best of us,’ Ravven said behind him, ‘It is better for you to not have to witness what must be done.’

Antonius halted immediately as time seemed to slow. Ahead of him, Brother-Sergeant Ulises glanced back, anguish twisting his noble features. He heard the whisper of steel against leather.

The blade’s kiss stung briefly as Ravven stabbed it into his back, severing his spine and piercing his lungs in a single, clean thrust. In an instant, Antonius collapsed as his legs lost all feeling, all ability to function. Leaning against the wall, he could do nothing but cast his hateful gaze upon his assailant.

‘In an era of atrocity, please allow me this one mercy,’ Ravven’s voice whispered.

He heard the blood flowing freely from his back, soaking through his robes and spattering upon the shining floor. He could feel it flooding into his lungs as he began to drown. 

Captain Antonius gasped and hacked bloody phlegm to the floor. ‘Mercy?’ he spat. ‘You are nothing but a coward, too weak to see the path of insanity laid before you! You have chosen to throw away your loyalty, and _for what?_’

His hateful stare did not waver as Ravven looked back at Ulisses. The sergeant, his features hidden in the gloom, only nodded.

‘For the Emperor,’ he said softly, and slashed. Antonius’s narrowed eyes, filled with betrayal and disgust, never left Ravven’s own even as his head bounced on the shining durasteel.

Ravven sunk to his knees and, for the first time since he was a boy, wept.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

*Doelago’s* “Mercy through Death”

First off, what does ‘Ego invito pangomanus” mean? I could guess what the other Latin phrase was, but this one eluded me. Anyways, moving on… overall a good story, but I think it had the feel of a summary as opposed to a telling. I think it’s a great overall idea (and let’s face it, who doesn’t love the thought of Grey Knights gallivanting through a city slaughtering everyone!) and ties in well with the theme, but due to the word limit, you were forced to rush through what could have been a very powerful story.

*Adrian’s* “A Portrait Rendered”



> 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.


 This was creepy for some reason…
My thoughts on this story can really be summed up in two words: Holy. Shit. Out of anything you’ve written so far, I have to say this is my favorite. At first, when the Inquisitor couldn’t move, I thought it was an allusion to a scene in _Prospero Burns_, but as I continued I found I was pleasantly mistaken. My one critique (and it is hardly one) is that, had I been more observant, the title overly gives away what happens in the story. Not saying that you need to change it by any means, just be cognizant of how much of your own story you are "spoiling" with the title. In conclusion, a truly original story that beautifully (if not horrifically) portrayed the theme, and most certainly a contender in my book. Well done, mate.


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## andygorn (Apr 1, 2011)

Oops! I only just got my PC set up and hadn't realised this was already up and running. As always, will try to see what kind of inspiration hits me and if I can get something posted in time.
Really good stories so far, everyone!


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## Akatsuki13 (May 9, 2010)

This was a hard one. I had a number of ideas that I was bouncing back and forth on but I just couldn't get anywhere. It wasn't last weekend when I was helping a friend get into WFB and the Tomb Kings that this idea wedged itself within my mind. I don't think it's the best I've come up with but overall I like how it turned out.

Mercy of a God
Word Count: 1,099

_“For all eternity your soul will be tortured by Usirian within the Dungeons of the Damned.”

The jars filled with scarab beetles were tipped over and poured out upon his bound body. Hundreds of scarabs scattered across his chest, biting and tearing at his clothes and flesh. It was as though a thousand knives were slowly raking across his skin. As he screamed in agony the lid of the sarcophagus was slid into place, plunging him into darkness as the scarabs consumed him alive…_

.....​
Slowly he opened his eyes once more. To his surprise his body was whole and unmarred as though his death had not happened. He almost would have thought it all a nightmare were it not for the fact that he was not in his private quarters but rather a hallway the likes of which he had never seen before. It was a long and strangely tall corridor dimly lit by rows of torches on the walls. The walls that reached beyond the height of three grown men were cut from white marble while ceiling and floor of black marble inlayed with golden hieroglyphs of the Language of the Gods, meaningless to all but them and the priests.

*“Apophas of Numas…”*

Before he could do anything an invisible force lifted him from his feet, pulling him through the hallway as fast as a racing chariot. It only stopped when he reached the end of the corridor, entering a vast dark hall. Only a single torch burned in the center of the chamber, standing alongside of a giant of a man. The man was clad in robes of black and gold, a dark veil covering his head while he held a pair of golden scales in a hand.

*“Apophas of Numas. I see that it did not take long for you to arrive before me,”* the faceless being said.

“Lord Usirian...” Apophas uttered in fear, immediately bowing before the God.

The faceless god merely ignored his prostration, releasing the scales from his grasp yet they did not fall to the floor. As they floated before him Usirian extended his hands out. In the god’s right hand a small orb of blue fire materialized while in his left a bloody dagger appeared the very dagger that had taken the lives of Apophas’s family. Without a word, Usirian placed both upon the scales. For a few seconds nothing happened, the dagger sitting on the left pan and the fireball sitting on the opposite pan but then the left pan dropped. Apophas knew at once that his soul had been judged.

*“Apophas of Numas, you have been judged. Your sins outweigh your soul. Eternal punishment awaits you.”*

“Please my lord Usirian,” he pleaded, his body trembling in terror. “Please reconsider your judgment on me. Surely I am worthy of a different fate.”
*
“You are a cowardly, greedy, pathetic little man Apophas of Numas,”* Usirian snapped, his voice tone filled with annoyance. * “Why should I reverse my judgment upon you? Why are you even worth my consideration?”*

“I am a Prince my lord Usirian, a son of a line that has ruled Numas for generations. My line helped bring an end to the accursed Usurper Nagash. Surely I deserve a chance.”
*
“Your blood is meaningless here in the Realm of Souls. As to your line by your own actions you have destroyed it. Nearly your entire family is dead by your power mad hands. And your grandfather only rose up against the Great Defiler at the end out of fear rather than a sense of justice,”* the Judge of Souls coldly stated. *“Your claims are meaningless to me.”*

It wasn’t his fault! His brothers were incompetent fools unworthy succeeding their father. If they had they would have driven Numas into its destruction. What he did was for the future of Numas! If only those blind followers of his brothers had seen that! He would have ushered in a new golden age for Numas and more than proved that his sins were justified. If only they had given him the chance! “Wait!” he exclaimed, momentarily forgetting who he was before. “Wait my lord. There must be something-anything I can do to redeem myself.”

The God merely laughed at his words. * “Your words, both spoken and unspoken amuse me. Tell me will you truly do anything to save yourself?”*

This was his chance, his one chance to save his soul from the unending tortures of the Dungeons of the Damned. He had to take it. “Anything my lord. Grant me your mercy and I will fulfill any task you set before me.”

*“Very well I shall grant you mercy but not without a price.”*

“Thank you my lord. I shall not rest until I complete your task for me,” he said, bowing to the point that his forehead was touching the floor.

*“No you shall not for if you wish to enter Paradise then you will bring me a soul from the Realm of the Living equal to yours to take your place in my dungeons.”*

“But how my lord?” he asked. “I have no body with which to search for this soul or a means to bring it to you.”

The God lifted the bloody dagger from the scales. *“The dagger with which you took the lives of your kin shall be you instrument in your salvation,” *Usirian spoke, the weapon beginning to glow pale blue. *“When you come upon a soul that you believe is your equal, slay them with the dagger. It will take their soul into itself until you bring it before me.”*

With that the dagger rose up from the Gods hand and flew into his hands. The glow faded but he could still feel the power of the God’s magic within it. He looked up from the weapon to the faceless head of the God. “And my body for this quest?”

*“Those that consumed your flesh shall be the vessel for your soul.”*

From the darkness of the chamber legions emerged, swarming him. They covered his body yet none bit into his flesh. They just crawled and skittered over his skin. No matter how fast or sudden he moved the beetles clung to him.

*“Now go Apophas of Numas. Find the soul that is your equal or suffer forever within my Dungeons.”*

Apophas grinned as he was pulled from the Domain of Usirian. It didn’t matter to him if it took a thousand years, he would find the soul that was his equal and take his rightful place in the Afterlife.

.....​
*“And so his eternal punishment begins…”*


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Oh Yea!*

I have read them all and am really happy so far. The stories are cool and the writeing (for the most part) is really well done. 

Boc, thank you. I have changed the title... would'nt want to spoil the plot.


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## andygorn (Apr 1, 2011)

Hi all,
Inspiration finally hit me (but it doesn't mean it's any good though -lol).
Hope people like and comments, queries, positive/negative criticisms welcome because I always want to improve (might need to edit if there are any glaring errors/spelling mistakes, so any pointers gratefully received):

*"Forbidden Knowledge"* (1079 words I think?)

Sacred oils burning in nearby braziers sent flickering shadows across the ancient machinery.

Myriad bronze glyphs covered the walls, proclaiming their devotion to their God-like master, reflected not only the the room’s silent sentinels, but also the contorting form of their prisoner.

Instead of eyes, the captors bore mere lenses of green glass set into titanium coated grills where faces should have been.

From beneath deep cowls and ragged hoods, these ‘eyes’ bore into his being, analysing pheromone scents and muscular exertion, yet gazing upon his frenzied motions dispassionately.

Recording every motion and reaction, all was to be filed and stored for later retrieval, yet not one of the seven figures lifted a finger to prevent the ongoing tortures...made all the worse for the prisoner because of the fact that he _knew_ there was no hope.

Of course, few amongst the assembled even possessed fingers in their emaciated hybrid forms:

Purity of machine having replaced most of their frail organics, the five autocannon-toting servitors did not require even their arms to fulfil their guardian programming.

The lesser of the other two had brought him here in the first place and -under the unflinching stare of it’s master- there would be no succour from that quarter, either.

Adept Tharlus watched the man shout and writhe in agony as five syringe stimulants entered his body.

The sedatives _should_ have been sufficient to knock out even an Astartes, yet still there remained a spark of defiance within.

_‘Though it is a sign of potential success, how could this be happening in a mere unaugmented..?’_ he wondered.

Even unspoken, just the recognition of that last word left a foul taste in what remained of his augmetic trachea.

The sacred purity of enhancement was to be preserved and encouraged, yet the reason why this one deserved such special treatment had hitherto been beyond his understanding...until _now_, that was.

Of course, “treatment” was entirely the wrong word for what was now being done to the young man:

Take one healthy human specimen in the prime of it’s life, one which is already trained for war and battle-hardened.

Inject a cocktail of especially selected growth hormones and stimulants.

Addmix a Grox-felling amount of sedative, followed by up to nearly a litre of ‘Onslaught’ to test the purity of their furious dreams whilst they slept.

Then, and _only_ then, would they be ready for the next stage in development.

As always, the failures would be rendered down into nutrient paste, passed on to the next generation.

As the human suddenly stilled, his only motion being to open his eyes, Tharlus leant closer. His mechadendrites’ needles lashed eagerly, mere millimetres away from the man’s eyes, alert for any signs of treachery as the fettered prisoner uttered four words.

At this, Tharlus staggered backwards -almost losing his footing- and shuddered in incomprehension as his cortex sought to find the meaning of the diction...now believed having been lost to time.

The man gave a bloody smile through broken teeth, but his sole moment of triumph at his tormentor’s discomfiture was lost in a violent coughing fit which wracked his beaten body and which vomited yet more gore down his heaving chest.

His final chance at laughter turned into low sobbing as more of his vitality leaked out of him.

Finally righting himself, Adept Tharlus returned to the excruciator-rack and gave his barely-audible reply.

The remaining 17% of Tharlus which had remained obstinately organic was infuriated by the captive.

As such, it was also the part of him which could not deny a considerable amount of pleasure, as the man’s eyes froze in abject terror upon hearing the almost expressionless, metallic, response:

_“Nevertheless, Lieutenant Geraint, your body will be transmuted into a newer form, one more pleasing to The Omnissiah and more suited to a useful function in this Galaxy.

“Your former life will be scrubbed away, washing your memory clean of previous affiliations, friends and family. I see your eyes sparkle in hope and, yes, they still exist.

"But when you next meet them, it will be as one of ‘ours’, not as one of ‘theirs’.

“As you can see, your former Company -now sacrificed to take the most promising- is not the first to have tasted our... attentions..._

At this, a pale azure light bathed a previously unseen plaque, almost 3 metres high...one which bore the unit designations of dozens of former PDF regiments which had garrisoned the planet.

_“Your service record says that you used to be useful to the Master of All, yet you will now serve a new God, reborn in new form to serve Him.

“Your previous unbelief will be turned into dutiful loyalty in the fires of the Forge, perhaps even supplied to the Ecclesiarchy as the driver of a Penitent Engine if your prior rage is any indication of future conduct.

“Duty is not without it’s sacrifices, however, so no trace of that loathsome cancerous affliction you call ‘humanity’ shall remain._

With the words now stored for later evalutaion, the Tech-Adept turned around as the screaming prisoner was hauled away to it’s new fate.

_“Make your report upon his last words, Tharlus.”

“There was only the second word that I still do not understand, High Magos Xanten, but comprehension is not required. Relaying now:

“Assignment 24, Day 4493: Subject 478-XD55-F has mentioned a new vocabulary to Theta-Level Adept Assiognis Tharlus, Sacred Arc IV Cognitive Preceptory.

“Previously unheard of by our Order...Praise Be to The Omnissiah, who guides us to the recovery of lost knowledge...it shall be dutifully filed away for further research and understanding.

“Suggest cross-reference with Chaos Battleship of the Line ‘Harlot of Least Mercy’ destroyed M.39.559.415, cross-reference with Astartes Legio Tertius.

"Also refer to the stealth-data-capture of Astartes Legio Primus practises on Helix Prime and -of course- therefore with Archive Core VIII concerning Geneseed.

“New information revealed previously undiagnosed weakness: redundant systems will be exloaded, purged and replaced, purity is all.

“Subjects 478-XD55-G to U are also to be examined, lest they also prove to posess similar, forbidden, knowledge. In the meantime, this one can be used, yet it shall be scrutinised with the utmost severity.

“His last words, High Magos, were ‘No mercy for you’.“_

With Lieutenant Travis Geraint now storeys below deep in the bowels of the Forge, neither of the Technomagi could hear the initial detonations of their newest “recruit’s” latent psychic backlash as he was fed to the skin-stripping machines and his prophecy came true.


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## gothik (May 29, 2010)

well with any luck i have now corrected my really bad errors so happy reading all


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Let's go, all, less than a week to go! Get writing!


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## deathbringer (Feb 19, 2009)

been too long since ive done any writing
glad to make a contribution


Mercy- 1080 words

The crack of skin impacting upon skin reverberated off the tiled walls, echoing eerily to create a dull thudding cacophony, testement to bitter hatred.

Silence, stillness as the dull red flush of the cheek lolled back onto its bearers shoulder and remained still.

A second slap splintered the peace, the dying embers of an echo drowned by a soft groan of groggy anguish cutting into a startled choke as blood erupted from between cracked parched lips to stain the mass of purple and black that littered the muscular chest beneath.

Pain seered across him, lost interest, fleeing into the darkness before returning in greater numbers to gnaw at his battered muscles. It swept through the weakened reserves of his strength, mustering with the overwhelming sting of his cheek to reinforce the dull ache of his rattled brain. His body tried to cut its losses, dizziness threatening to return him to unconsciousness, the blankness his thoughts safe and secure, but impermanent, he fought its lure.Something gripped his shoulder roughly, nails digging into skin as the world lurched.

The head lolled, the grip tightened and true consciousness emerged, a sense of self sudden perspective through pain.

His pain

Eyes fixed groggily upon bare legs and unbooted feet lying upon tiles smeared with blood, trickles of crimson vitura seeping between the cracks as it languished under gravities pull.

It rolled downhill peaceful and tranquil only to be stopped by two great masses of black.

Standard issue boots, the shine dulled by dust from the roadside gave way standard issue combat fatigues, the slightest mud stain running up the outer seam.

Now sausage like fingers were emerging to pull his chin up, mercilessly wrench it skywards, vision blurring as his remaining blood sloshed sluggishly around his skull, bloodshot sleep deprived eyes meeting bright burning standard issue light bulbs.

His vision surrendered to pure whiteness then blackness as his eyelids clamped shut instinctive protection against the agony, the darkness of the unknown a cool balm against the pains of the world.

Something crashed into his abdomen, a sharp jab caused the muscles to buckle and his eyes burst open, defense reflexes activated by the sudden assault.

Blinding pain enveloped him once again, and the eyelids tightened, abdominals tensing for a second blow as he fought the pain, battled the overwhelming white light for his assailant.

Something glittered, something glinted, it sparkled inches away.

Impossibly close, he tried to reach for it, yet his hands strained, his strength futile against icy cool metal. He clenched it, enjoying the soothing ice against red raw skin, rejoicing in the touch of reality, the sudden stablility it leant his feeble abused mind.


The shape formed before him, glittering metal it coiled and curled, insignia laced its form yet the details unfurled slowly, tantalisingly, his realisation met with mocking laughter. Cackled glee as the comprehension manifested upon his face, befuzzled features contorting into an expression of pure terror as squinting eyes flittered across the ornate script.

The laughter stopped and words breached the boundaries of his mind, words to chill the soul, delivered in a monotone, the tone of a man about to commit murder, the voice of a man who knows he is right to do so

"I am empowered to deliver justice. I am a commisar,"

The slightest of pauses, interrupted by the slightest whimper, pathetic, the horror filled squeak of a man that has met his doom.

"And i see great injustice within this room today"

Gold mingled with the crimson liquid upon the floor as a single vehement vengeful strike sent the chair and its occupent crashing to the floor.

_________________________________________________________

He woke immediately, a gasp of shock bursting from his lips as his body bolted muscles snapping to attention as a wave of ice that rolled across him. 

Hands on his shoulder pinned him and the gasp became a whimper, the stiffened aching muscles trembling as icy water rolled down his spine.

His eyes fixed ahead, focusing upon a screen

"Confess" whispered the voice of death.

The man on the chair whimpered yet no words escaped him

"Confess to the murder of Colonel Callum "Crash" Harvey"

No whimper, resolute silence met the accusation

A remote appeared over the prisoner's shoulder, menacing confirmation in the slight click as pictures flickered across the screen.

On the chair lids slid shut, screwed tight over blood red eyes, salty tears leaked from the edges to run down flushed red cheeks.

Eyes clenched, he relived the sight that haunted his nightmares.

He saw the silvery tubes that pumped god knows what into the frail shattered body, listened to the repetitive click of the machines, the dull whirring of infernal machine after infernal machine.

Yet it was the eyes that held him, the eyes that still lay open, pupils flittering around the room until they fixed upon him and stared. Eyes wide... horribly wide, painfully wide.

He saw nothing but agony, a mind in a shattered body, a consciousness unable to move, locked within a form riddled with ceaseless torment.

He knew not how long he looked into those eyes, nor how long he would have looked had it not been for the single sound. A sound dredged from lips that could not moved, wind forced from a throat riddled with slits and tubes.

It was just air, wordless air yet it cried for help, howled with the desperation of a soul bereft, crippled by agony.

He needed help, the lazy point of his fingers accused, judged, summoned him to....

A sharp slap forced his eyes open once more. Upon the screen he watched, stared with horrified fascination at the colonel that lead from the front, the god of war that had defeated enemy after enemy without a scratch, the beloved father that the men had pulled aflame from his drop ship.

He watched their leader receive a single round between his eyes. He watched as the figure upon the screen walked away to leave a corpse, eyes still open, still anguished, still painfully wide, a smoking crater in the centre of his forehead.

The tape clicked and the commissars footsteps thudded against the tiled floor, a slow monotonous countdown, as he circled to face his prisoner for the first time.

The man met his gaze with a defiant wheeze as the commissar raised his bolt pistol to fix on the mans own forehead.

"It was mercy" spat the man

The commissar smiled, between two sets of rotten pointed teeth

"But the Lords of Chaos know no mercy"


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## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

After writing this it seems as though it's similar to all of the other entries on here, only with a slightly different twist.... let's see how this goes.

906 Words. 

*Cell 42A*
_An Iron Fists Short Story_

_The Bridge, ‘Winter’s End’, Battle Barge, Home to the Fourth Company of the Iron Fists Chapter, Orbiting Calexious IV _

BROTHER-CAPTAIN EXODUS of the Iron Fists stood ready, receiving the news through the vox-link embedded within his grey-coloured helmet, the same that he had worn ever since he had first been given the honour to bear one, making the plunge from a Scout, to an assault marine all those years ago, serving in the jump-pack boasting marines, back in the days when he was part of Eighth Company, under command of the still-serving, veteran Xavier Halden, the Master of the Skies. 

Oh, those were the good days, Exodus recalled, back when he was a newcomer to the ranks of the adeptus astartes, and didn’t have to worry about any leadership skills at all.

“Captain...” the breaks in between the speech made by the person on the other end filled Exodus’ ears with the static hum of the chapter’s private vox channel. “Prisoner...” 

More static filled the air, the Chaplain, who was speaking, having some of his words cut off by the unpredictable vox-link, “ready... interrogation... Cell... 42...A, Over.”

“I will be there shortly, Brother-Chaplain,” responded Exodus, cutting the link after murmuring a brief, “The Emperor Protects.” 

_Outside Cell 42 A, Detention Blocks of_ ‘Winter’s End’ _Battle Barge_

BY THE TIME Exodus had reached the Cell-Blocks, The Chaplain had withdrawn from the cell, the skull-faced helmet of Varon Reyes meeting his gaze. Both veteran Iron Fists locked eyes, and the Chaplain was the first to speak. “The Prisoner has broken, Brother-Captain.”

“Excellent,” Betheor Exodus responded. “Now, we will finally get some answers. I trust Brother-Librarian Obaion has done his work?”

Reyes nodded. “Yes. Like I said. The Prisoner has been broken. However, he will only speak to one person.”

“I question your definition of broken, Brother-Chaplain. Surely, a broken man would reveal every secret that he has, to the person that broke him?”

“It is progress, but we are wasting time. We need to learn of the archenemy’s whereabouts. The Tenth Company paid a heavy cost to extract this... heretic, and now he will reveal that he will only speak to one man.”

“You said that last bit before, Brother-Chaplain,” Exodus frowned. “I take it, you have called me here because I am that man?”

“Aye, Brother,” Reyes nodded, respectfully. “I don’t know what connection it shares with you... but you had better get some answers out of it.”

“I will do my best,” the Fourth Captain nodded, and entered the room. What met his eyes was a horrible sight, causing even a hardened battle-warrior to look away for a brief moment. The prisoner was, naturally in chains, and due to some curse gifted to him by the Dark God Nurgle, it was covered in bubonic, stinking and green pus. 

It was quite clear that there was no aspect of his humanity left on this tainted soul, no way that it could be redeemed. Even though the creature was covered in cuts and bruises, had several legs, arms and even three eyes – it still didn’t show any visible pain. “You are the commander, I take it? Captain Exodus?”

“How do you know my name?”

“We will talk about that later, Captain,” the Daemon, for it only could have been one, responded, enigmatic. “Right now I have come to talk to you about other things.”

“Well, speak them quickly, and I will end your suffering.”

“I did not ask for an end aloud, but an end... would be nice. To have the embarrassment of being captured by Imperial scum,” The Daemon spat the word Imperial, as though it was anathema to its lips. “Oh, how my brothers and sisters would tease.”

“Remain silent unless I tell you to speak, Daemon,” Exodus managed to regain some composure. He wouldn’t let the Daemon overwhelm him so easily. “You will tell us the whereabouts of the Daemon known as Hakanor, commander of the Warband Hakanor’s Reavers. Now, and your death will be a quick one.”

“They are floating in space, Captain. They are not of a threat to you yet,” The Daemon responded with a small smile. 

“Yet?” The Space Marine raised an eyebrow at this statement. “What does yet mean, heretic? Answer me now... or I shall never end your suffering.”

The Daemon coughed before speaking, and all three eyes swivelled directly to meet eye-contact with Exodus for the first time. It was an eerie and haunted feel.

Its eyes were empty of life. “They will be a threat to you. They will be a threat to your chapter,” The Daemon spat. “You’ve got what you asked for. Now shoot me.”

A Growing look of revelation dawned on Captain Exodus’ face. “This questioning is over, Daemon. Your mercy will not be granted. Librarian Obaion will return.”

“No... Not him! No!” screamed The Daemon, distraught. “You lied to me, Captain Exodus. You lied to me!”

“You didn’t give us all that we asked for,” responded the Captain. “I will return when I see fit.”

He spoke into his vox. “Brother-Librarian Obaion. The heretic is ready for more torture. After it has been broken and given you the answers that you need... kill it.”

“Yes, my lord,” the Librarian responded. “I’m on my way.”

The link was cut. Captain Exodus stormed out of the room, leaving the Daemon to whisper in a hushed voice, “Nurgle knows you, Captain Exodus. Nurgle knows your name.”


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## andygorn (Apr 1, 2011)

I didn't think mine was too 'like anything else'?
But I'm not very objective, I guess. 
Intriguing + great stories here, everyone!


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## Dînadan (Mar 7, 2009)

Word count 1,015

*The Warrior's Mercy*

Sotar ground his teeth as the medic applied a medi-patch to his wound – a glancing hit from a bolter shell had torn through his flak vest, leaving a bloody hole in his side. Around them, the rest of the squad crouched in the ruins, taking cover in the rubble while returning fire on their attackers. Pain washed over his as the patch sealed and released a chemical cocktail into his bloodstream designed to dull the pain while keeping him on his feet. Pressing a hand to his side, Sotar limped over to the makeshift barricade which lay across the street and peered over it. Dust and smoke billowed across the once beautiful avenue, obscuring his view, but he could still see the lumbering shadows of the attackers looming in the clouds.

“Fall back!” ordered Sotar, turning from the scene. Obediently his squad began to retreat, some laying covering fire as the rest ran to the nearest cover where they in turn lay down covering fire so the remainder could catch up. They’d reached the end of the street and were about to turn the corner when suddenly one of the rearguard called out “Incoming!”

Sotar glanced back and growled in anger as he saw the missile dart out of the smoke. Instinctively he began to leap out of the way, but his wound slowed him down and the edge of the blast caught him, sending him somersaulting into a nearby building. Ears ringing, Sotar groaned as he tried to pick himself up, but a sharp pain in his gut sapped his strength, and instead he slumped against the nearby wall. Screwing up his eyes he gathered his strength and then glanced down. Piercing his armour was a large shard of crystal, probably from the tower that had once stood behind the building he was now in.

Glancing around, he recognised it as Athelene’s, a cafe he had frequented once upon a time. Now it lay in ruins, its marble was smeared with dirt and soot, its tables and chairs smashed to kindling.

Harsh laughter broke him from his reverie, a deep bestial growl that made his heart flutter. Looking to his left, he saw an immense shape crouching in the corner. It wore slate grey armour draped in furs.

“Mercy!” cried the Spireguard, raising his hands in submission. The beast laughed again, and Sotar noticed that his first impression had been misguided. The Space Wolf did not crouch – instead he too was slumped against the wall, and one side of his armour was scorched, while the furs were matted with blood and his unruly hair and beard smouldered.

“Why should I give you mercy?” slavered the Wolf, “You who consort with Wytches? You’re nothing but a traitor!”

Sotar gulped, tasting a hint of metal. “I am a warrior sir, and you will respect that!”

“Pah!” spat the Wolf. “What do you know of war coward?”

Sotar’s face flushed with anger. “I have fought on many battlefields,” he replied, “I have won many honours.” He tapped a bronze plate bolted to his flak brigandine; it was engraved with a stylised image of a man slaying an ork. “I was at Praadus V,” he informed the Wolf, “I fought for a year and a day to purge that world of the greenskin.”

“Heh,” sneered the Wolf, “If the Rout had been there it would have taken no more than a month, and that only if we’d been sleeping for most of it.”

Sotar’s eyes narrowed at the arrogance. He tapped another honour plate. “Even you barbarians acknowledge the difficulty in driving the Krurn from the Goldburnt Stars,” he replied. The wolf merely gave a bow of his head in admission, so Sotar continued. “I was there when we boarded their flagship,” he said; this drew an interested growl from the Wolf. “I lead the charge as my company took the lower landing decks.”

“And that is what you are proud of?” laughed the Wolf, “Killing a few mewling deckhands? A child could slay those pitiful worms.”

“Fool,” snapped Sotar in anger, “Do you know nothing? The lower landing decks were where their leaders hoped to flee from in secret if the battle turned against them. An entire squad of Executioners defended it.” At this the Wolf pricked up his ears. Sotar unclasped his left vambrace and tugged off his glove. “I lost my arm in hand to hand with the squad’s Hangman.” He raised the arm showing the gilded bionic that had been under his glove. “I still remember the fight blow for blow. I remember the stench as my sword slid between the chittinous plates on its belly and its lifeblood washed out.” Sotar’s hand fell to his side and he raised his khopesh. The sword had been snapped halfway along then blade where the Xenos monstrosity had stamped on it, and halfway down from the break to the hilt the blade was blackened and twisted where the Xenos’ blood had soaked it. Ever since Sotar had born it as a trophy, letting it hang proudly at his hip opposite the gilded replacement that he had afterwards used as his combat weapon.

Frustrated, he tossed the blade aside and glared at the Wolf. Growling, the beast clambered to his feet, left arm hanging limply and left leg dragging. The Astartes limped over to the Spireguard and looked down at him. Sotar glared up defiantly, while the Wolf looked down, staring him in the eye. After a few seconds the Wolf looked away.

“You speak truly I deem,” he chuckled, a hand resting on the butt of his bolt pistol. “Yes you are a warrior. I will grant you mercy.”

Sotar sighed in relief. He looked back up at the Wolf and paused.

“You said you’d give me mercy,” he protested as the Wolf levelled the pistol.

“I did, and I will,” replied the Wolf, cocking the weapon, “The Warrior’s Mercy.”

A single shot rang out, lost in the tumult of the battle around them. Without a second glance, the Wolf limped away, searching for hew prey.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Very nice, 9 stories in so far (and lots of catching up for me in terms of reading/commenting!) We've got a few more days yet left open, and I know there are some procrastinators out there, so get writing!

:victory:


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

*Akatsuki’s Mercy of a God*
When I started this, I admit I was a bit reluctant. I’ve never (as I’ve admitted before) been a huge fan of fantasy works, having never really been able to get into it. I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised. It started off necessarily slowly, and though I had no idea who Apophas was, you painted a clear picture of both his character and the nature of his punishment. I’ve now checked him on Lexicanum, and feel like (as unfamiliar as I am) you did him great justice. Excellent job!

*Andygorn’s Forbidden Knowledge*
Another very interesting tale, this one of the cruel, inhumanly calm and methodical workings of the mechanicus during experimentation/punishment of a hapless LT Geraint. I am kind of unclear as to what that punishment was (you hinted at a possible merging with a Penitent Engine). While ambiguity is occasionally good, I think that when coupled with the vagueness of the impact of Geraint’s demise at the closing, it leaves the reader with too much questions. Another couple of sentences at the end, some smidgen more of detail on his “No mercy for you!” promise, and I would’ve had more warm-n-fuzzies. Good story, though, and a very excellently portrayed Mechanicus perspective.

*Deathbringer’s Mercy*
This is quite possibly one of the best ass-beating sessions I’ve ever read. I felt bad for the guy with all the pummeling, torture, and general nastiness that was done to him, but at the same point, gotta live with the consequences, even in a mercy killing. The ending though, exquisitely twisted as well. It’s been too long since you’ve graced the FanFic forum, DB, and this just proves you need to come back.

*Bane_of_Kings’s Cell 42A*
An interesting story, and you do well to convey the sense of urgency that the Iron Fists are feeling with regards to questioning the daemon. The prospect of a daemon being… embarrassed, I suppose, was a good concept. Poor cuddly Nurgling… and of course, the ending hints that this could be a part of a larger story? Maybe something we can expect to see in the future? HMMMMM?

*Dinadan’s The Warrior’s Mercy*
I think this is the first piece I’ve read by you over here, and I must say it’s rather good! The dialogue between the Wulfen and the Spireguard was both believable and intriguing. And, since I hate the Space Wolves, I was definitely hoping that the ending would go the other way… but alas. You built up to the ending very well, and I did find myself a bit saddened when Sotar finally got what was coming to him. Space Wolf scum! Great story, and hopefully you’ll be back next month!


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## Dînadan (Mar 7, 2009)

Boc said:


> *Dinadan’s The Warrior’s Mercy*
> I think this is the first piece I’ve read by you over here, and I must say it’s rather good! The dialogue between the Wulfen and the Spireguard was both believable and intriguing. And, since I hate the Space Wolves, I was definitely hoping that the ending would go the other way… but alas. You built up to the ending very well, and I did find myself a bit saddened when Sotar finally got what was coming to him. Space Wolf scum! Great story, and hopefully you’ll be back next month!


Thanks, glad you liked it  I have posted a couple of stories on here before (albiet not in the Expedious Story comp), but that was a while ago, so they're probbably burried in the depths of the forum by now :laugh:


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## deathbringer (Feb 19, 2009)

cheers for the very flattering comments boc 
it is good to be back and active on the threads

are we all allowed to analyse these tales or is it a right exclusively placed upon yourself ?

feedback is how we all improved

i also just wanted to commend adrian for one of the most beautifully twisted tales, i've ever read
the ending was a sublime and perfectly worked conclusion with the plot twist so well worked, it was an absolute delight to read


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

By no means do I have a feedback monopoly haha, any and all comments from writers and readers alike are always greatly appreciated by those who took the time and effort to cook up some damn good stories.


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## gothik (May 29, 2010)

deathbringer said:


> i also just wanted to commend adrian for one of the most beautifully twisted tales, i've ever read
> the ending was a sublime and perfectly worked conclusion with the plot twist so well worked, it was an absolute delight to read


i certainly won't look at a self portrait of anyone in the same way again :shok::clapping:


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## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

Boc said:


> *Bane_of_Kings’s Cell 42A*
> An interesting story, and you do well to convey the sense of urgency that the Iron Fists are feeling with regards to questioning the daemon. The prospect of a daemon being… embarrassed, I suppose, was a good concept. Poor cuddly Nurgling… and of course, the ending hints that this could be a part of a larger story? Maybe something we can expect to see in the future? HMMMMM?


That was the general idea. Expect to see a lot of Iron Fist centred shorts in the upcoming few HOES before I get working on a full-blown fanfic though.


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Thanks guys*

The American Indians believed that if someone took their picture, their soul would be stolen from them. Thanks for the comments. I have read most of these stories at least two times and some of them three times in an effort to be able to vote well. The stories are all great and I'm shaking a little with nervious excitement to find out who wins. Good luck everyone. :shok:


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## andygorn (Apr 1, 2011)

Boc said:


> *Andygorn’s Forbidden Knowledge*
> Another very interesting tale, this one of the cruel, inhumanly calm and methodical workings of the mechanicus during experimentation/punishment of a hapless LT Geraint. I am kind of unclear as to what that punishment was (you hinted at a possible merging with a Penitent Engine). While ambiguity is occasionally good, I think that when coupled with the vagueness of the impact of Geraint’s demise at the closing, it leaves the reader with too much questions. Another couple of sentences at the end, some smidgen more of detail on his “No mercy for you!” promise, and I would’ve had more warm-n-fuzzies. Good story, though, and a very excellently portrayed Mechanicus perspective.


 
Thanks to Boc (and anyone else) for reading my story.

By way of explanation, the way I thought of his punishment was kind of like 'division of labour and industrial processes taken to the extreme':

He would have been captured by other Mechanicus 'units' (slave flagellants, servitors, or whoever).

Then he goes to these 2 AdMech's who are there to interrogate (if necessary) but mainly to supervise the administration of drugs and steroids to the prisoner and make sure that this side of things goes well.

Then the prisoners go somewhere else to be turned into whatever the forge/factories need at the time.

However, what use they are put to is decided by other 'units' / AdMech prediction-logic engines / techno-savants elsewhere in the system, so each part of the stage doesn't actually know what will happen next:

They don't _need_ to know to perform their roles and it would give them too much knowledge (which the AdMech guard very jealously)...each stage just needs to obey their own programming, without regard to anything else in the process (and not to question about these).

So it may mean that physically strong and promising combatants who could have been identified at one stage might only be turned into food (instead of using their skills and attributes), or the physically weaker specimens get pumped full of steroids to turn them into killing machines, but the human element/decision-making doesn't even enter the AdMech cortices.
I think that this is one of the 'inherent failing' themes in the 40K universe: things _could_ be done better + easier + quicker, but stuff like rigid adherence to dogma/faith, intolerance, being insular and stagnation keep this from ever happening. 

I realise I'm always leaving stories open, maybe with 'a few more questions than answers'. However, my stories don't really come from me, they come from outside of me and I just try to put them down into something readable as they reveal themselves.
It's like getting a 'vision' where you only get a piece of a larger puzzle, but not the whole picture or what it fits into.

If there's gaps, I don't think it's particularly that I'm deliberately being vague or not taking time to explain them...it's just what reveals itself to me, so there's never very much 'deliberate writing' on my behalf.

I'm not sure if this explains it very well, but that's pretty much the best way I can put it.

Once again, great stories all!
AndyGorn.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

*13.15 hours remaining in the submission window!*

Let's go procrastinators, get it done!


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

Hopefully I'm not late....

*VulkansNodosaurus

Heresy Online Expeditious Stories 8: Mercy

Black and Gray*

918 words​
Its black feet lifted up to the ground, exiting the tunnel. The mechanical joints stretched as it prepared for takeoff. Then, in a moment, it was afloat.

The cryptek had ordered it to exterminate the flesh-balls to the north, stranded in the tundra bastion. It could not do that alone, so three other Tomb Spyders had been called to it. Together, they would break the weak walls that stood in their way.

Blackcenter led, and Doomknower and Endtoucher followed. It went behind them, at the back vertex of the rhombus. The defenses- pathetic, gray and white, almost collapsing already- rose ahead.

This was a small place, holding perhaps a few dozen enemies. Fifteen of those stood on the walls now, shooting the approaching machines. It ignored the assault: the shots were too weak to even stretch its armor.

It knew the real battle was to the south, in the endless deserts and mountains. There, the crawlers had crafted actual defenses. There, their pathetic “life” could endure for some time yet.

Yet for all of that, it did not mind being here.

Cannon blasts rang, and the wall split wide open. Death would come.

Blackcenter was pummeled by falling rocks. It responded, of course, by destroying the matter. Tiny fingers in the leader’s legs crushed pieces of rock, small gauss guns erasing others from existence. It brought satisfaction to Blackcenter- not pleasure, for that was an emotion of the flesh, but satisfaction.

The cryptek said it was an error in Blackcenter’s mind- that over the millions of years spent in statis, the boundary between blood-flesh and water-rock had decayed to nothingness. It believed the cryptek, not because that was ingrained in its engrams- there, only loyalty was placed- but because it had witnessed Blackcenter’s destruction of objects like the wall.

A cannon from the fort’s center hit Endtoucher. The silverstripe collapsed to the ground before struggling up to its feet again. Endtoucher would not be able to fly until repaired, but in the end it hoped Endtoucher would be fixed. They had the most interesting mind-contacts.

Blackcenter continued smashing apart the wall; Doomknower joined it in blasting away the cannon. The defenders’ last resort exploded, its operators scrambling away. Doomknower stared with some interest: Doomknower was always interested, both in endings and beginnings.

It ignored the explosion and headed to the wall. One of the smaller flesh-chunks aimed his gun at it, managing a near-impossible shot. One of its legs flew off.

It continued.

The right front and middle legs slammed into the foe in full force, smashing the shooter off his foothold. They hovered above, about to deliver the finishing blow.

Then, a link-message came from the cryptek.

“Statement: future: master arrives. Order: present: negative- you kill flesh-beings. Order: present: you copy to squad.”

The second part passed by its brain without affecting it. The master’s master was coming.

Some life called it the Nightbringer, a god of death. There was no way to oppose it or defeat it. It ended existence of those who still had it, and encouraged the not-existence of those who had that.

The master was coming here.

The master would devour the living, adding their energy to its own. It imagined the master taking this flesh-being and sucking the very life out of it, turning any trace of the defiance and precision that had characterized this young one in life into black stripes of its power.

The second part of the order had slipped by. In an unconscious way, perhaps that section had influenced the scenario that had appeared in its circuits, but the scenario had not pleased it. Thus, it pushed forward.

Small claws extended from its legs, and it turned to face its foe. In the back of its many-eyed head, a transmitter copied the cryptek’s message to Doomknower, who was obliterating the few that had fled the cannon’s end, and Blackcenter, who was finally done with the wall and moving to join the main battle. Endtoucher, too, received the news, though the silverstripe was now crawling away from the massacre.

In the front of its head, though, an entirely different focus emerged. Claws stuck down, and the boy found his head pierced by an infinitely sharp claw. His blood and life spilled out, forever denied to the Nightbringer. His death was quick, unlike what the Nightbringer would have given him.

To some, this would have been an act of mercy. To it, it was a matter of ignoring orders.

Too late, the second portion of the command swam up, finally registering in its central wiring. Yet those orders had already been disobeyed, broken by deathlust. It thought about bearing the mistake in eternal shame, but then it decided it didn’t care.

Deathlust. That would be a good name for it.

It named itself, automatically inscribing the hieroglyphs into the back of its skull. It did not forward the middle portion of the command to the other Spyders- only its new name. Then, Deathlust selected a new target and fired its particle projector.

The flesh disintegrated under the machines’ onslaught. The defenders could save themselves no longer, and one by one they collapsed. Some ran, but Deathlust knew they would be ended soon, if not by the masters then by the cold. Others met the bodies and legs of the Tomb Spyders. Despair gripped all of them- they knew they could no longer win.

The human defenders of Gare Fort could only plead for mercy.

Unknowingly, the Tomb Spyders gave it.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

*Vulkansnodosaurus's Black and Gray*
An interesting piece, you pulled off the Necron mentality (I think) well. Very logic based thought processes, analytical, and unemotional. A couple of fun plays-on-words, translating what in essence is a living machine's "feelings" into something that humans can understand were done well. All in all, a solid piece, with the hapless Guardsmen yet again on the wrong end of mercy :laugh:


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