# Boc's Short Story Stockpile



## Boc

Okay, in my never-ending quest to write 40K FanFic, I present to you the short stories that I've either completed or still have on the drawing block. Any comments regarding structure, content, etc. would be greatly appreciated and welcome (even if you're a dick!).

Enjoy, suckas.

*** Most recent change/addition ***
It is Better
Added 13 September 11​

*Imperial Guard*

Nothing Left - An Imperial Guard Short, Completed 1 June - Winner of the June 2010 "Read in a Rush" Competition on the Black Library Holthole (1100 words)

*Sons of Larilla* - An Imperial Guard Novel, Updated 9 July 2010 (Currently 2000 words)
*Book I*
Prologue and Part I
Part II

Innocence Lost - A Commissariat Short, Updated 18 May 2010

The Emperor Protects - Part I - Part II - A Larillan Armoured Short, Sequel to Sons of Larilla, Complete

The Plains of Herdias Prime - An Imperial Guard Short, HOES #6 _Contagion_

*Space Marines*

Awakening - A Space Marine Short, Completed 20 May 2010 - Winner of the May 2010 "Read in a Rush" Competition on the Black Library Bolthole (1000 words)

Lumen Imperatis - A Rainbow Warriors Short, Completed 3 July 2010 (1600 words)

Betrayal - A Horus Heresy Short, Completed 8 August 2010 (1100 words)


*Chaos Space Marines*

Submersion - An Alpha Legion Short, Prequel to Skull Reaper, Completed 22 March 2010 (2500 words)

Skull Reaper - A Venom Guard Novelette

The Birth of Decay - A Venom Guard Plague Marine Short, Completed 26 May 2010 (2400 words)

Are You Ready, Brother? - An Alpha Legion Short, HOES #3 _Betrayal_(1000 words)

Grey - A Venom Guard Short, HOES #2 _Thirst_ (1000 words)

It is Better - An Alpha Legion Short, HOES #8 _Mercy_ (1000 words)


*The Inquisition*

Fall from Grace - An Inquisitor's Journey, Interactive Storytelling - Check it out on the Heresy News Network and let me know what _you_ want to happen! (Currently 800 words)


*Chaos Daemons*
Vraks - The Unholy Book of Blood, on the Summoning of An'ggrath in the Vraks Campaign, Completed 8 July 2010 (1100 words)


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## Boc

Submersion

*
Late in M38
Somewhere in the Eye of Terror
*


Insanity. Pure, boundless insanity. His eyes were unfocused, staring blankly against the far wall. His mouth was open, tongue lolling inanely from it, thick strings of spittle running down his chin. Zanthon was a far from perfect example of a member of the Adeptus Astartes. A murderous thug, a thoughtless berserker.

Bravvick’s battle helm, a grotesque rendition of an emerald skull, intricately engraved with emblems of the hydra and jade droplets of venom, hid his contemptuous sneer. His disdain for the new-blood was well-known throughout his squad. Although recently elevated from the ranks of the Rancorous Scouts to replenish the loss of Faremis fifty years before, his instability and corruption were hardly a substitute for the self-control and calm efficiency of his predecessor and seed-father. _He is no Astartes._

Vibrations shook the drop pod. _Atmospheric entry._

“Two minutes to contact.”

A statement, not an exclamation, a sign of composure. Self-discipline. These were the tenets of a true warrior, a true son of Alpharius. Not the insane abandon of self, the submersion to the Ruinous Powers. That was the path of the fool, the insane, the weak. Bloodlust had its place, but it had to be tempered, controlled, and unleashed during combat to the greatest effect against the enemy. Mercilessness and violence of action were the standard amongst the Venom Guard, but only after careful manipulation and precise placement of assets. Maximum planning yields minimal errors. The tremors intensified as the drop pod passed from the thin upper atmosphere into the denser lower altitudes. 

A warning rune illuminated inside of Bravvick’s visor.

“One minute. Prepare yourselves, brothers,” he said. 

Confirmations flooded the squad’s vox channel, but the champion paid them little heed. With the exception of Zanthon, every member was a veteran of centuries of conflict and millennia of bloodshed. They knew precisely what was to be done, what powers were to be appeased, what mental preparations and rituals to conduct. They would be ready for the coming battle. If Zanthon was not, then he would die, his gene-seed would be extracted, and Bravvick would lose no sleep over the matter. Such was the fate of all weak-minded enough to prostrate themselves and whore themselves to the Chaos gods. They were to respected, yes, but never worshiped.

He quickly underwent his own pre-battle ritual. Prime bolt pistol, sliding the action slightly back to ensure a round was chambered, clamping it to his thigh and drawing his chainsword, clutching it between his thighs. Trigger personal locator beacon, checking that his squad’s indicators were all operational. Sub-vocalize activation for power fist, feeling the intense hum of the weapon as its energy field crackled into existence. The power fist ionized the air around him, lightning flashed between his clawed fingertips and danced up his forearms, sparking with barely contained ferocity. He felt the anticipation of the coming slaughter rising within him, of the enemies to be put down like animals in the Wrathful’s name, in the name of the Primarch. 

“My brothers,” he began. “For thousands of years we have travelled across the stars, in the name of the Legion, in the name of the Long War.” The squad remained immobile, expressionless masks worn by all, even those who wore no helmets. _Zanthon_. The…_Chaos Marine_ was rocking back and forth, mumbling to himself. _Foolish bastard._

He began again, glancing at each of his brothers and, though they gave no outward sign of acknowledgment, he knew every Marine was attentively listening to his every word, “Give no quarter, for you shall receive none. When you see the enemy, crush them utterly. As I do, so must you. I swear upon this,” he gestured his gauntleted hand to the emblem of the hydra, emblazoned upon his left pauldon, “and on this!” Raising his chainsword, he slammed it point down at the deck. “For the Wrathful, for Alpharius!

“Hydra Dominatus!” The drop pod smashed into the ground.

*********

A scene of unrelenting chaos surrounded the drop pod. Thousands of bodies pressed together in melee; humans, mutants, and Space Marines alike struggled in futility to move, let alone kill. The drop pod had plummeted into their midst, shattering bodies, casting a spray of gore and limbs over the toiling mass of flesh. The Wrathful’s instructions had been clear: _Get in, get what we came for, and get the hell out._ 

In this mess, Bravvick was more than happy to follow his lord’s instructions to the letter. His chainsword was at his thigh, his pistol and fist prepared to commit atrocities in the Wrathful’s name.

A quick left jab burst the chest cavity of a man, bright red jets of blood erupting from the destroyed heart. A crimson streak landed across Bravvick’s visor, obscuring his vision of the battlefield. 

“Graff! Get me a bearing on the shrine!” his voice echoed in the confines of his helmet. Ideally, they would have impacted only five hundred meters from their objective, but any good commander knew that the plan only lasted as far as the launch bay. “That was not a suggestion.”

He glimpsed in his auspex operator’s direction, seeing him rip through a three armed mutant, its intestines spilling through the gaping stomach wound. It tried in vain to clutch them in, collapsing to the ground, twitching. 

“Four hundred sixty three meters, north by northwest of here,” Graff replied.

_Not bad._ The machine spirits powering the directional boosters were only capable of performing slight course corrections on planet fall trajectories, but they had done the job well enough. They were close, but the swirl of combat between them would make reaching the shrine difficult at best. 

Time was of the essence. For each minute they remained locked in conflict surrounding the drop pods, more and more mutants would fill the void and eventually overwhelm the Chaos marines by sheer mass. It was time to move.

“Jib, Charritt, clear a path,” Bravvick ordered, his voice dropping to a growl, “_Burn them all._”

Howling crowds advanced into the clearing blasted out by the drop pod. The two Marines advanced, shoulder to shoulder, flamers held level before them. Burning promethium dripped from the primer torches, erupting into a wave of liquid fire. A hundred figures were swathed in flames; screaming marionettes, strings being pulled and twitched by an unseen, cruel god. Jib and Charritt pressed their advantage, their armoured feet crushing those still feebly clinging to life.

Absence, silence. Momentary calm in the eye of the storm, in the bedlam of slaughter. This planet was the key, the fulcrum upon which the future balanced. Ezekial had seen this, and the sorcerer had, as far as Bravvick knew, never been wrong. The parted masses began to close again, screaming incoherently, gurgling from slashed throats and savage tongues. Even in the madness of the clash, over the din of combat, something could be heard in the wind. Booming, reverberating laughter. It chilled the soul and pressured the mind. Bravvick could feel the presence of the warp spilling over into reality, the great powers of Chaos vying for domination. It twisted his stomach and brought bile into his throat. Fighting down the rising nausea, he swallowed it. The air itself was thick with aetheric energies, the smell of blood, fear, and sweat penetrated his rebreather's filters and burned his nostrils.

None of this mattered to him, impartiality towards the four terrible gods of Chaos was a tenet of the Venom Guard, not honoring any over the others. He could care less whose blood was spilled as long as it was in the best interest of his brethren, in the furthering of the Long War in the name of the Alpha Legion.

It was for the promotion of the Wrathful’s grand vision that he found himself battling through a swarm of insane heretics on a nameless world in the Eye of Terror, in search of an artifact of untold power. No description was given, only a location, and that the Space Marines would know when they found it. His squad was one of two dispatched to the surface, Brother-Sergeant Paelleoth having landed a scant hundred meters to their south. The race was on, for the glory of the company would be bestowed upon whichever squad made claim upon the relic. To the north lay the vestige, through the teeming crowd maddened by slaughter, incensed with murder.

Thousands of beings separated Bravvick from his prize. With a furious swipe of his power fist, the crowd momentarily parted before him in a shower of blood. 

“Brothers, draw your swords and push forwards. Slaughter everything you must, but time is of the essence. The Wrathful will not honour the empty-handed,” he bellowed. His vision still blocked by the streak of blood marring his visor, he tore his helmet off, magnetically clamping it to his belt. The air was thick with blood; he could breathe it, he could taste it.

Implacably, he pushed into the throng. All form was lost, all finesse forgotten. He blindly clubbed anything in his way. A human exploded in a cloud of viscera, showering his emerald breastplate with a scarlet mist of blood and gore. A screaming mutant, hunch-backed and bounding on four legs, shrieked at him from the right. Without a thought, he shot the beast in its head. Another burst of brains and bone scattering the ground, his armor. It was mindless, effortless, the flow of the kill, the dance of the butcher.

And still the laughter reverberated, carried by the wind, echoed by the roiling masses.

Bravvick found himself letting go of his carefully maintained control, pressing ever onward, endlessly hacking. The seconds stretched into years, the swings of his power fist and boom of his bolt pistol taking eons. Time stood still and sped by in an instant, all of the galaxy, the whole of the Eye of Terror, revolving around him. Bravvick was the focal point, the endless fury of the Gods. Not the Gods, the _God.

Intoxicating._

He collapsed a skull with a downward crash of his pistol. An eye burst from its socket, slowly flying in free fall. He watched it in its plunge, wheeling end over end trailing nerves. After an eternity, it hit the ground and bounced once…twice. It came to a rest against his right boot. A voice said something, but he could not concentrate enough to decipher its meaning. He could only advance and kill, strike and murder.

Another mutant charged at him, loping forwards lazily. Take aim, fire. Click. Empty. He was surprised, this never happened. He was a Champion, a near-peerless warrior whose focus was unwavering…unfaltering. Disgusted with himself, he threw the pistol to the ground. Bravvick answered the beast with a roar of his own, a cry of rage that tore through the flesh in his throat. He grabbed the charging beast and lifted it over his head.

The Champion ripped the beast in two, showering himself as it organs burst in a fountain of blood. He opened his mouth, drinking in the blood, taking the intestines in his teeth. He shook the body over him, splattering his face and armor. His shining emerald armor was plastered with gore, stained deep crimson. Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered the severed halves of the mutant to the ground.

Clarity, for a moment. A fleeting moment. Situational awareness returned, the focus of the operation. He stood scantly meters from the location of his prize, and he knew what he beheld was his to win. The rage rose within him overwhelmingly, a screaming beast begging for release, a pressure in his skull as though it was about to burst apart. And still, the laughter echoed. The name carried on the wind, soft yet thunderous with the extortion to annihilate. Again, he plunged under, overwhelmed by the desire, the need, the craving to exterminate. Submerged under the endless waves of anger and wrath, overwhelmed.

The Champion was not alone. Before him stood another, a contender to what was rightfully his. A challenger, mindless as he, adorned as he. Helmless, eyes awash with crimson, shot through with scarlet, prepared to claim what was not his. A word struggled to the forefront of the Champion’s mind: _Brother?_ No, _not_ a brother, a target, a skull awaiting addition to the Great Throne, the Pedestal of the Damned. His chainsword was in his hand, adamantite teeth whirling. His power fist crackled with power, the machine spirit within yearning, pleading.

Without a thought he charged forward, a powerful downward sweep of his sword angling towards his foe’s neck. The other deftly sidestepped, bringing his own chainaxe to bear, the two weapons meeting in a burst of sparks. Teeth ground together, breaking under the pressure of the deadlock. The two stared at one another, seeing nothing.

A snap of his boot slammed into his opponent’s knee, bringing him to the ground, unable to support his own weight with his shattered leg. The Champion seized the moment, wildly swinging his sword to be met once again by his vulnerable nemesis. His power fist, alive with energy, punched from the left. Slamming into the challenger, biting into armor, cleaving through bone. A fountain of blood, spilling forth, staining the ground. A scream of pain, of rage and hate echoed clearly. No other sounds tainted this moment, a tranquility only for them, an eddy in the swirl of _chaos_. This moment, the pivotal moment of which the Champion had been told.

The contender lay on his back, leaking blood and unable to stand. The victory was the Champion’s, could only be his and his alone. He would not share. His gauntlet raised, the chainsword ready. Falling down, severing the head, covered in blood. Arterial spray, the bright red of Astartes blood, erupted from the neck of the fallen. The head spiraled away, stopping almost serenely against it…against the prize.

The Champion clamped his deactivated sword to his hip as he stepped forward. Kneeling down, he retrieved the head, a look of hatred and madness frozen on its features, tears of blood staining its cheeks. The features were familiar, not those of one who he had fought by for thousands of years, but young, lost. Recognition struck him, sending a hollow pang through to his core. Consciousness, clarity. Bravvick struggled to the surface of his own mind, regaining control.

_Zanthon_. The face staring up at him, the severed skull glaring at him accusingly, vehemently. The eyes, petrified in hatred. He had done this, he had murdered his own. _BLOOD AND SKULLS._ It did not matter, Zanthon was a monster, without restraint and without composure. But he had done this, he had gone mad with blood lust, his thirst for _RIVERS OF GORE AND BONES BLEACHING IN THE SUN_ overcoming his self-discipline. The laughter boomed in his head, the familiar but new voice reverberating, demanding…

Bravvick stood and turned to face the battlefield. His squad was visible, a head above the horde, hacking and slashing with ferocious glee, thousands of butchered corpses surrounding them. Beyond were Paelleoth’s Marines, howling to the sky, faces dripping blood, eyes screaming madness, their sanity forfeited to gain favor in the eyes of _KHORNE_. The horizon was an endless landscape of destruction, a never-ending orgy of genocide in the name of the Brazen God.

The champion turned, kneeling at the altar of skulls upon a dais of bone. Their objective reached, he reverently placed the skull he had taken from one who, in the end, was truly his brother. With a scream to the Lord of Rage, he sunk down, deeper into his madness and leaped back into the carnage. _“BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!”_

And always, the laughter echoed.


----------



## Boc

The Birth of Decay

A pustule burst, rank ichor leaking out, leaving an ugly smear of pus in its wake. Flegmus grunted, rubbing a swollen finger over it. Immediately, a new infestation evolved in the open sore, bubbling outwards. The smell was horrendous, glorious. He allowed himself a rare pleasure, wafting the rotten aroma in, savoring it.

Overcoming his momentary self-indulgence, he acknowledged the other being occupying the small chamber, “You requested my presence, Blighted One?” He bowed as much as his corpulent frame would allow, his trim and muscular build long since replaced by a maggot infested mass of decay.

Horgal nodded lazily, as though noticing the plague marine for the first time. “Yes, I suppose I did.” His voice was a barely comprehensible gurgle, viscous fluids bubbling from his distended jowls with every word. “It has been brought to my attention that you want to conduct a mission into the realm of the Corpse God. Is this true?”

Flegmus nodded emphatically, droplets of ooze casting about with each movement. “Aye, Lord, this is true. The Lord of Decay has spoken to me.”

The champion of the warband regarded him, jaundiced eyes seeing into his soul. “If the Grandfather demands, so we must provide.” He leaned forward in his throne, pops from his putrefied flesh separating itself from the rotten dais echoing throughout the chamber. “Tell me, what do you require?”

Flegmus smiled, “Time, my Lord. All I need is time.”

*****

The boy ran through the forlorn streets, abandoned of any signs of life. A fungus had taken hold, rancid green tendrils seemed to reach for him as he passed. It drooped from vacant balconies, climbed once resplendent pillars. Those same pillars were now rotten, crumbling. Rubble littered the alleys and thoroughfares alike; the very foundations of the hive were decaying.

_Crunch._ The boy had stepped on a dead bird, cracking the brittle bones beneath his feet. The crushed body clung on, the fetid seepage from the plague ridden avian sticking eagerly to the bare skin. Tears streamed down his face, streaking grime caked on his cheeks.

He scanned hollow eyes down a darkened alley, saw no indication of activity, and turned down it. The lumiglobes had gone out,_ days?_, before. The boy could not tell for certain; the hive city had always been shrouded by perpetual smog, and the star hardly ever cast its light this far down. Time had no meaning, just an endless journey to nowhere.

A hanging vine brushed against his shoulder, polyps rupturing and spraying him with fetid ooze. There was nothing left, he had not been able to cry in almost as long as he could recall. He imagined that he had cried himself dry, and it had done him no good before. He _remembered_ crying, but none of what he had once wept about seemed important. _Nothing_ was important, just surviving.

He had to grow up, be like Papa, be a _man_. Frustration rose up within him, threatening to overwhelm him. He knew he was no man, just a small boy, lost and alone in the big city.

_Papa_. Leaping over a rancid, frothing stream, the boy thought back to his father. It had been a lifetime ago since he had seen the man, kneeling over his bed with his mother. He had been smiling, then, down at his son. It was morning, the boy remembered, and his parents had woken him as was their custom to prepare him for his day in the schola.

It had been morning, but the sun had not shined in through the windows. The morning had been dark, the sky had been sick. His father was smiling and his mother was beaming, lighting the dull morning with her love. Then it had all gone…_wrong._

He paused to catch his breath. Although he was thin and wiry, quite in shape for a boy of his age, he could not run forever in this polluted air. It hung heavy around him, weighed him down. He could _feel_ the moisture in the air, something that he had not felt, _befor_e. Before the morning without light, the last morning with his parents.

His lungs gulped greedily at the putrid air, filling themselves with airborne toxins that saturated the very atmosphere. He could feel them, fighting to get in, find an opening. He would not let them get in.

_Mama._ He remembered her face, crowned by her chestnut hair. It was a tainted memory, as the only thing he could remember was that day, the Last Day. The window in his room had been open, a warm sickly breeze penetrated it and permeated the house, filling it with a sweet, nauseating smell. His mother had looked towards the window, the dim green air tossing her hair gently in a breeze, as his father sometimes did with his fingers and they were getting all…_kissy._

Her face…he remembered her face with horrifying clarity. Just as the wind, the unholy and tainted gust, touched her soft skin, it transformed her. Her pale complexion darkened, dark veins pulsing along her skin, pumping some unseen contagion into her. She had broken out into sores, expanding like bubbles and finally rupturing. She had turned back to him, her eyes wide with horror.

The boy remembered crying, then. Tears had streamed down his face, back when he could still cry, at seeing his mother like that. Her face began pulsating as it…_ transformed_…

She had reached up, running her hand along her horrified features, only to have her fingers rot and fall off at the touch, leaving only brown nubs of decayed bones protruding from rapidly festering nubs. Her eyes widened as the orbs collapsed on themselves, oozing out of the sockets as a fungus spread, covering the undulating layer of skin.

He had torn his eyes from his mother, rotting from within, to his father. His back was arched at an unnatural angle, facing the ceiling and his mouth agape in a silent scream. Mold spewed from his lips, pumping gouts of spores into the air, an impossible amount… covering the room…

Leaning forward, the boy vomited. He hated thinking of that day, it had been hell. No, it had been _worse._ He had sworn to himself then to survive, at all costs. He had cast his thoughts to the heavens and beyond, swearing to anything that would just let him _live_, sparing him from the horrific fate of his parents.

The boy ran on, the phantoms of his own thoughts chasing him, gaining ground.

*****

Flegmus strode at the fore of his retinue, glorious warriors of the Grandfather. The street sucked at his every step, glorious decay and the corpses of the rotten dead littered the roadways. His pestilence had struck this world without mercy or limitation. Not a single human, animal, or _microbe_ had escaped its insatiable wrath.

“Blathius,” he instructed one of his henchmen, “gather the Fleshbearers, have them scour the streets. They know what to search for.” At this, one of his personal guard peeled off, marching to the mob of ghouls behind them.

Inhaling deeply, tasting the corruption in the air, Flegmus could not help but be pleased. The contagion had ripped this world to its very core, no living thing was untouched by the holy caress of Nurgle. His God was satisfied in his works, of this he was sure. Jellion Prime was a monument to the implacable and inevitable conquest by the forces of the Lord of All.

If he were human, or even Astartes, he might have felt hope then. Hope that his machinations had come to full fruition, and that this journey had not been for naught. This world served a purpose, for him, for the Death Guard, and for the Grandfather.

Now if only he could find it…

*****

Sleep was a rarity. It was not for lack of fatigue, his every muscle was sore, his bones weary. It was not for need of shelter; in a deserted city there was no shortage of refuge.

The nightmares were what kept him awake at night, or during what he thought was night.

Images of his parents, morbidly coming apart before him as he lay in bed, haunted his every moment. During his waking hours, he was able to fend off the memories, to distract and distance himself from them. 

They caught him while he slept.

Sleep was not an event he looked forward to, not anymore. Before, he had been tucked into bed by his parents, been given a kiss on his forehead by his mother before they turned off the lumiglobes. Now, he closed his eyes and he saw her, her flesh erupting in ruin.

Despite his apprehension, he hid now beneath a ground-car, its bulky form crashed into a wall even as its driver exploded in a burst of pus and fungi. A hand lay nearby, attached to a moss in the shape of a fallen person. A big person, by the looks of it.

He was hungry. A proper meal was impossible to come by, everything was tainted. Corruption covered everything; maggot infestations thrived in the food supplies and the grain stores. Nothing was left…nothing but…

_No_. He would _not_ do that. It was unthinkable, a low that, even in his debased state, he would not sink to.

A growl rumbled through him as his stomach twisted.

_So hungry._

Thinking of food had been a mistake. The knotting in his gut intensified, he knew starvation was close. He would die, and soon, if he did not eat. His eyes wandered again…to the hand.

Slowly, reluctantly, he reached out to it, grabbing a hold to the outstretched fingers. He pulled lightly but the hand would not budge. Another tug, harder this time, separated it from the sucking ooze it rested upon. Threads of rotting algae trailed below it, tendrils of decay grasping, seeking.

He whimpered, softly, as he brought the hand to his face. The smell of it was beyond nauseating, it was _foul_ past any description. Fighting back the urge to vomit, he opened his mouth, bringing the hand closer… closer…

He sunk his teeth into it, the soft flesh easily giving way to his incisors. Again, his stomach tried to rebel against him, but he set his will against it and began chewing, feeling the wet popping of the growths as they burst in his mouth.

For the first time in…_weeks?_ …the boy cried. But he kept eating, kept feasting upon the remains of the dead, because he had to live.

He was still immobile, curled in a ball, sobbing, when he heard it. A distinctive crunch, the sound of something heavy moving across the sea of corpses, echoed in the man-made canyon. Something was coming.

*****

“Lord, the auspex is detecting a single life-form in fifty meters,” one of his coterie gurgled, “underneath the wrecked ground-car.”

Flegmus pointed a bloated finger at the vehicle, “Move the car, time to retrieve the prize below.” Anticipation would have filled him, were he a human. As a servant of Nurgle, he merely smiled in what some may have interpreted as a jovial manner.

His two cohorts moved swiftly to the wreckage, hoisting it easily overhead and tossing it aside. Below it laid a boy, a human child, no more than ten years of age. He was filthy, curled in a foetal position, and _untouched_ by the plague that had so thoroughly ravished his world.

The Death Guard’s sickly smile widened as he approached the boy, revealing rows of jaundiced teeth, dripping with a rancid drool. The boy refused to look at the hulking Chaos Marine, tightening into his human ball. Flegmus laughed, a horrid bubbling rumble, and knelt at the boy’s side. “You,” he said, a slight whistle emitting from his fractured teeth, “how are you alive? How has my pestilence not smitten you like the rest of this pathetic world?”

The child still did not move, refusing to meet the pestilent gaze of the Traitor. Undeterred in his curiosity, in his hope, Flegmus poked a swollen digit into the boy’s shoulder, “I am talking to you, boy. How is it you have come to survive, when the very world around you decays into nothingness, into chaos?”

Finally, grudgingly the boy lifted his head, “I will _not_ die.” Having broken his silence, the boy continued, his voice gaining strength, “My mama and papa died, they got sick and fell apart.”

_Yes, the strength is in this one._ A self satisfied shutter ran through Flegmus’s body, splattering effluence around him. “Tell me more, boy. _Why are you alive?_”

“Because I made a promise!” Stronger even now, the boy’s voice shouted out, resonating through the abandoned streets, echoing hollowly. “I heard the voice, and it said it would keep me alive! I told him I would do anything!” Tears began flowing freely now down the boy’s face, the realisation of his own heinous acts coming to the fore.

Flegmus felt the flutter of excitement building in his chest, _I have found one._ “Who was it? Who was this voice that came to you? What was his name?”

The boy halted a moment, as though he was unsure as to how to answer. “He called himself the Grandfather.”

_Yessssss._ He had succeeded, at least once. That meant there would be more. Flegmus stretched his hand forward, taking the boy’s, “Come with me, young one. I serve your Grandfather as well. I shall grant you the opportunity to repay his generosity.”

*****

Staring into the twisted beauty of the Warp, Flegmus’s self-satisfaction did not fade. The world of Jellion Prime had died, and with it billions of people. All had fallen to his plague, his beautiful creation, his virus of utter perfection.

All but fifteen.

A world of over ten billion human beings, reduced to fifteen worthy souls. All fifteen had pledged themselves, either wittingly or otherwise, to the Grandfather, to the Lord of Decay. They sat now in the holding chamber, awaiting the beginning of their training, of their induction.

The Death Guard had its newest recruits.


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## Boc

SF,SH removed, send me a PM if you want to read/critique it.


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## Lopspoon

Incredible original work, almost inspires me to start an alpha legion army. 

Plus rep!


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## Boc

Innocence Lost

“You smell like a grox’s arse.” That, of course, was a lie. Rather, the target of his disgust was more reminiscent of an especially pungent mixture of stale urine and ammonia. The effect was, well, nauseating.

Nervously, the private shifted back and forth on his feet, clearly not having expected this to be the first words the man had said. “Sir, Colonel Peslan would like to see you in his quarters. He sent me here as an escort.” Still locked in a too-loose approximation of the position of attention, the newcomer continued his implacable glare. “…sir,” he feebly finished.

Shroud in a black greatcoat and eclipsed in shadows, the figure remained silent. The moment stretched on, awkwardly, as the pair stood at the foot of the shuttle's ramp.


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## Inquisitor Varrius

> the tracks along the vehicle finding purchase in the loose sound outside.


Should this be "loose sand outside?" Only thing that stood out grammar-wise.

Incidentally, is the IG bit the above quote comes from new? I haven't read it before, and it's (as always) great work.  Thanks for putting this back up on Heresy, and for starting some new writing!


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## Boc

Aye, the IG piece is something I've started in the past week or so, probably with the intent on making a SS for submission to BL.

I posted the structure of the Larillan Battle Groups last week once I'd weeded out how to make it work the way I wanted it, and am trying the unit out to determine how I want to characters to feel. Future works will likely have much more interaction between infantry and armoured soldiers, with the artillerymen just hanging out as a necessary addition.


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## Boc

Another update to SF,SH.


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## Inquisitor Varrius

> While the Colonel certainly did not seem to value the individual Guardsmen, he still did not seem to


...to what? 

I don't really know what else I can add. I'm happy to read this, but there isn't much I can contribute. Please keep the adventure coming!


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## Boc

As always, your catches are invaluable. I think that was where I got distracted by something shiny before picking up the story later. Fixed. Thanks, Inquisitor.


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## Boc

Brief update...should be a wee bit more coming later unless I get caught up by Spider Solitaire again.


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## Inquisitor Varrius

Well, I see no cut & paste errors, so I'd say you've earned some Spider Solitaire. 

...I have to say, reading the book piecemeal is very compelling. It's forcing me to try and guess what's next, rather than simply reading the whole book at once. I'm simultaneously annoyed that I'm waiting, but happy my brain gets to spend more time in your book's world. It lasts longer than simply speed-reading.


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## Boc

SFSH completed, 8 May.


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## Inquisitor Varrius

No problems I could see. 

...beyond gunning down a few thousand civilians. And that's why we have commissars. 

The writing's still great, even with the decidedly grim turn. As always, keep on writing.


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## Imbranu

Well i must say of all your work the short story Strike Hard, Strike Fast was awesome. What happens to the Commisar. Damn good... All your story are great reads keep working on it


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## Boc

Brief update to BoD. I'll be working on it for the next hour or two, so be prepared for more (my God, I'm actually writing, fek me!)

I am convinced that Inq. Varrius is my only reader, seeing that I work with Imbranu haha


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## Boc

Another little WIP added, entitled Innocence Lost.

Random question, are the damn links in the first post actually working?


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## Boc

As a slight explanation as to this short: there is a monthly competition which involves submitting short stories of approximately 1000 word length (+/- 100 words) and they must be based on a theme, to be worked into the short in whatever manner the writer sees fit.

This month's theme was "Fury." Now, after Submersion and my other looks into the mind of a berserker, the obvious solution of Fury = more Khornate nut-jobs didn't quite satisfy what I wanted to do.

Thus, the idea began to form for Awakening.

Awakening

Coldness.

That is what I feel, coldness and the feeling of antiquity.

_Ancient._

That is what they call me. I remember now, my name at least. The rest is lost in the gloom, in blackness.

I am surrounded by it, infused by it. The darkness seems to consume me, and I it. A darkness of unnatural depth, of impenetrable density.

I test my arms first, only to feel half-feelings, half-sensations. A swishing sound, I am immersed. I cannot move, but can only gain the sensation of _absence_. My limbs, my very body itself are nothing.

Senses begin to fill me, what I am, who I was.

I was a man, once. No, never a man, a _boy._ A boy, snatched away from his home, a lost, forlorn and forgotten place.

A boy, turned into a more-than-man. Yes, I remember. A reservoir of memories held precariously back by a dam finally finds a weakness, a seam in the rockcrete. A trickle at first, then a spray find their way. Images and recollections fly, appearing and then vanishing millions of times in a second.

A more-than-man, a _Space Marine._ I was an Astartes once, but no longer. _Brother Pharrus,_ yes. A battle-brother, then sergeant, then captain. 

My brothers had called me Pharrus the Furious. It was but a jest, but it was true. I knew nothing but hatred and rage, never satisfied until the utter annihilation of the foe.

I remember now, even as I see my exploits, my feats in the flesh in crushing my enemies in the name of the Emperor.

I twitch, a not-smile attempting to form. I cannot smile, never again. I remember now, yes. My code, my _life_.

_Burn the heretic._ I see a cathedral of the Ecclesiarchy, bastardized and tainted with the warped symbols of Chaos, overflowing with traitors. I let loose with my flamer and watch as the building transforms into a blazing inferno.

_Kill the alien._ I see my squad cutting through a throng of Orks, chainswords hacking limbs and torsos, their filthy blood spurting in great arcs. We mow down a squad of Eldar Banshees with bolter fire, bursting their fragile bodies apart.

_Purge the mutant._ I see my company stalking through a village, hunting down without mercy a family of rogue psykers. We found them, crushing them without mercy. Fifteen of my men died that day. I remember.

All of this ended at the hands of a Defiler. I died, I was incinerated. I remember feeling my armour melt, the ceremite flowing down in molten rivulets, solidifying and welding me to the ground. I remember the anguish of my skin flaying from my bones, the _pain_ and release of death. Of everything I remember, I remember dying. 

And was reborn. I remember now, death and life. I was never truly a man, and am no longer a Space Marine. I am something else.

_Dreadnought._ This is what I am. The rage, righteousness, and will to survive of Mankind. I am Man, Astartes, and Mechanicus melded together. I am something more, a product of all that is greater than any one.

“Venerable?” A voice echoes in my confines.

I open my eyes, seeing not with the destroyed and vacant sockets on my flesh-face, but with the enhanced optics of my armour. Everything around me is portrayed directly into my brain, vividly depicting texture, composition, weak points. Nothing was overlooked.

A not-man stared at me. Possibly once human, now transcended into something else. _Tech-priest_, my memories kept flooding in, the dam broken.

I speak, not with the smooth flap of skin and scar tissue where my mouth once was, but booming from vox casters. “Why have you woken me, priest?” Not my voice, once deep and noble, but a mechanical, emotionless bleat, almost a bellow.

“Lord, the Chapter needs you. Chapter Master Vallius requires your presence in the coming attack. Further details will be fed to you via noosphere. Your drop pod is prepared.” The man-machine, _Mechanicus_, spoke not with words, but in a blurt of code, of ones and zeros deciphered and translated before implanting themselves directly into my brain.

I walk, not with the twisted stumps that were once my flesh-legs, but with massive, piston-driven machinery. Plodding and ponderous, I depart from the room. The Chapter Master has called me, and I will answer.

I prepare for the purpose of my awakening.

The drop pod shudders as thrusters ignite, slowing its descent. The moment nears; the need of my Chapter will be met. Smashing into the ground, the doors hiss downwards.

I am unleashed.

“I have come to destroy you!” I bellow the words and they cut across the battlefield. My almost-comrades of the Angels of Fire cheer as I advance at their forefront, my cannon whirring and my fist crackling. I _have_ come, and I _will_ destroy.

No longer a Man, no longer a Space Marine, I am cold, calculating, a product of the Mechanicus. I feel no emotion. I know that I should, but I do not.

No elation at having awakened, no satisfaction in executing my duties to the Emperor, in extinguishing the enemies of Mankind. No apprehension as I enter battle, as my assault cannon rotates, spitting out tens of thousands of rounds. No contentment as the despicable orks split like melons, exploding from the inside, shattering into quivering chunks of flesh.

I was once the Furious, zealously crushing the enemy on hundreds of planets the span of the Ultima Segmentum.

Now I am cold, emotionless. I prosecute the enemies of the Chapter simply because that is why I exist. I am justice incarnate, death to any who stand against the Right of the Imperium. I am detached, aloof, for I am dead.

Fury is for the living.


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## Boc

And (Dear me!) Birth of Decay has finally been completed. Dear god...I still need to do revision on it, as it was just basically a flood of "hrm this will work..." 

I was also debating something to throw out to my readers...

Do you prefer having everything thrown into one thread (like it is now) or have me post a new story in a new thread each time I work on one? Thankya for feedback


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## Inquisitor Varrius

I'm back!



> Flegmus strode at the fore of his retinue, glorious warriors of the Grandfather. The street sucked at his every step, glorious decay and the corpses of the rotten dead littered the roadways. His pestilence had struck this world without mercy or limitation. Not a single human, animal, or microbe had escaped its insatiable wrath.
> 
> “Blathius,” he instructed one of his henchmen, “gather the Fleshbearers, have them scour the streets. They know what to search for.” At this, one of his personal guard peeled off, marching to the mob of ghouls behind them.
> 
> Inhaling deeply, tasting the corruption in the air, Flegmus could not help but be pleased. The contagion had ripped this world to its very core, no living thing was untouched by the holy caress of Nurgle. His God was satisfied in his works, of this he was sure. Jellion Prime was a monument to the implacable and inevitable conquest by the forces of the Lord of All.
> 
> If he were human, or even Astartes, he might have felt hope then. Hope that his machinations had come to full fruition, and that this journey had not been for naught. This world served a purpose, for him, for the Death Guard, and for the Grandfather.
> 
> Now if only he could find it…


This paragraph appears twice in a row. Copy error I think.

I really do like BoD, it's very well done. Same for Awakening. In answer to you questions, the links do work, and I kind of like the big composite writing like this.

As always, great work!


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## Boc

This story is another entry for the 900-1100 word short competition, and the theme this month is "atonement." I've got a few other ideas up my sleeves, so we'll see how those play out. Enjoy 



Nothing Left



“What the _hell_ is going on?” Colonel Chafen demanded, “Where are my boys?”

His query went unanswered, his words hanging in the air. All eyes in the room were cast upon the pict viewer, all mouths agape. The Veskassian 28th Light had disappeared five minutes before, the column of men charging into the awaiting maws of the city before them. Wide, gaping streets had swallowed them whole; no flashes of explosions had hinted to close quarters fighting, no vox signals had revealed their very _existence._

Until now.

His regiment of nearly ten thousand men had vanished as a fiery mushroom cloud rose from the centre of the settlement. Even in the situation room thirty kilometres away, the blast had been colossal. Tremors had rattled the Leviathan, scattering men and toppling equipment in its unrelenting fury.

“Dammit, I will have you all _skinned_ if I do not get a status report!” He could feel his ire rising with the panic that had already built. Luckily, the threat shocked the staff officers into action, sending men running back to their vacant stations. Were it not for the strain in the shouts across the room, it may have seemed to be business as normal.

“Sir,” a lieutenant called from his console, “Valkyries report that they’ll be doing a flyover in two minutes, call sign Gryphon Six Five.”

Chafen knew, deep down, that the reconnaissance was unnecessary. The blast had been tremendous, an atomic weapon of untold power. Already, the millions of tonnes of dirt and debris that had been cast into the atmosphere were wafting downwards, inexorably giving in to the will of gravity. Irradiated dust particles descended in tainted clouds, obscuring the view of the city with their poisonous haze. 

No man could have survived the detonation, not unprotected and on foot. His outrage began to fade, the heat of his temper cooled. Despair filled the gap it left, as he felt his soul and spirits plummet. His stomach seemed to pull downward, his entire gut was sinking.

His men, his beloved regiment, was gone. No, not gone, _obliterated_. Clearing his throat, he spoke again, “Thank you, lieutenant.” The sound was barely a whisper, the voice of a man who has lost the only thing he ever held dear.

_This is my doing._ The thought abruptly burst into his mind. _I could have prevented this._

“Birds are on station now, sir,” reported the lieutenant, interrupting Chafen’s reverie.

His attention was once again on the pict-screen hanging on the wall. The sudden bustle ceased as the Valkyrie’s optics attempted to penetrate the miasma. Switching to a thermal view, the image suddenly cleared into a decipherable picture, interrupted by specks of white hot dust.

The vista it revealed was utterly devastated. Buildings were shattered and burning, husks of what they had been. Twisted debris littered the streets. Scantly recognizable ground-cars protruded from buildings, where they had been hurled in the shockwave. Lumi-posts were melted and slagged, lining the thoroughfares like beacons guiding the aircraft to disaster.

What he wanted to see, yearned to see, was absent. The only movements were the flames and their shadows, dancing in the wind.

“Two Eight Base, this is Gryphon Six Five,” the pilot’s voice crackled from the vox-unit, “auspex readings are negative for life signs.” He paused, knowing the implications of his next word, “they’re all gone, sir.”

Nodding slowly, Chafen closed his eyes. “Send my regards to the pilot. I will be in my chambers,” he croaked from his parched throat.

With that, he turned and left, leaving the other officers behind. _This is my fault, this is my fault._ The thought kept repeating in his mind, a broken pict-reel stuck on the same image.

He knew it was true; the Lord General himself had recommended an orbital strike to annihilate the Chaos forces barricaded in the town. But hubris, damned _hubris_, had led Chafen to insist on a ground assault.

_“My Lord, the Twenty Eighth can take it, send us in,” he had said. There was no finer light regiment in the entire Imperial Guard battle group. He was fiercely proud of his men, his_ boys. _There was no fortification too secure, no enemy too equipped to resist the Twenty Eighth. “My boys will cleanse the heretic scum.”

The Lord General had lifted an eyebrow at this, “Colonel, of this I have no doubt. However, our intelligence in the area is bollocks at best. Are you ready to gamble your regiment on that?”

Confidence had filled him, “Sir, if anyone can crack that hellhole open, it’s us.”

“Very well then, be prepared to attack at dawn.”_

The memory plagued him until he reached his private quarters. Upon entering, he sat down at his desk and stared into nothingness, unable to shake the truth: he had knowingly sent his men to their deaths. There had been no chance, no possibility of fighting back against a weapon like that. He should have listened to the Lord General, should have swallowed his pride and his boys would still be alive.

A soft chime sounded at his door.

“Enter,” he called. _What now..._

The portal hissed open to reveal a courier. “Dispatch from the Lord General, sir,” the young man said. He marched to the desk and saluted smartly before placing a large yellow envelope onto its surface. Without waiting for an acknowledgment, the messenger about-faced and departed.

Chafen sighed wearily and grabbed for the package, surprised at its weight. Grabbing his combat knife, he cut the top of it open and reached inside. His fingers closed around something cylindrical and cold.

He removed the object from the envelope. An autopistol. A small note was tied around the grip. The sinking feeling in his gut intensified as his heartbeat hammered in his ears. He unfolded the note and read it.

_You have failed your men. You have failed me. Atonement is in order._

On the bottom of the scrap was the mark of the Lord General.

Realisation swept over him. He had committed a mortal sin through his pride, and cost the God-Emperor thousands of his sons. Unworthy of the Emperor’s light and grace, there was only one thing left for him to do. He had to offer penance... with his regiment destroyed, his career in ruins, there was but one thing left to offer. 

_Boys_, he thought, _I’m sorry._ He closed his eyes and smiled sadly as a single tear slowly ran down his face.

The barrel was cool against his temple, soothing and placating his despair.

“God-Emperor, forgive me.”

The shot echoed throughout the chamber.


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## Snowy

Wow, that was some reading, Nothing Left was a bit heavy though, I thought that the person at the door was going to be the Commander and was going to blow his brains out, good work Boc


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## Boc

Thankya, glad you enjoyed


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## deathbringer

Some of this stuff i s absolutely fantastic, you have a real flair for description sir. This has been shown in your RIAR entries and well honestly i hope your submitting to Bl

"Nothing left" in particular, which i hadnt read is absolutely fantastic. love how it reads, felt the generals emotions were well portrayed but it could be done better, didn't quite feel the overwhelming grief or the numbness. The last line however was beautifully done

A really great collection of writings, have a dollop of rep


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## Boc

Thanks a ton for the comments, DB, much appreciated. As far as the emotions during the final portion of "Nothing Left," I really got kicked in the nuts by the word limit. Once JD starts putting together the anthology, I'll probably expand upon the scene in Chafen's office.

Incidentally, I just finished my novel submission last night, so pending having a few folks checking it over (as I'm incredibly biased when it comes to correcting my own mistakes) it should be sent off in the next week.

Also, as an aside to my readers, expect a slight lapse in new material, as I'm heading back to the states for the first time in several months and I doubt my wife will let me sit idly by and write (although I'll be able to update Fall from Grace once I get some help!). New stuff will be coming out in the end of the month and throughout the foreseeable future after that.

-Cheers!


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## deathbringer

Yeah I've been pimping up radical a bit for the anthology and completely understand that the word limit is a real kick to the nuts at times

Enjoy the states and most definitely looking forward to reading more


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## Inquisitor Varrius

Bah! I've been gone too long. :biggrin:

The word limit's a shame, but you pulled it off well. I agree with DB that it could be better, but parts of it are terrific. 



> _You have failed your men. You have failed me. Atonement is in order._


I was going to make this my sig... I don't know why, but I really like it, same with the last line.


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## Cowboykiller

*Well Done Boc*

Ok, so I finally read your work... and I have to admit it's well done. Sorry it took me so long to get to it.


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## Boc

Shameless bump.

Nothing Left also came away with a landslide win in the Read in a Rush competition on Black Library Bolthole, so that's 2 months in a row (needless to say, I'm fairly pumped.)

I do, however, have something in the works that will probably be completed by Wednesday.


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## Boc

This short resulted from yet another competition on the Bolthole. An initial joke on AD-B resulted in a competition to tell a Rainbow Warriors story in roughly 1500 words. Despite the temptation to write a parody, I wound up completing (albeit, very rushed) the following story. To be completely honest, I'm not quite as satisfied with this as I have been with my other shorts. I may expand upon this in the future, filling in where I've had to breeze over due to word limit restraints. Who knows...

Questions, commentary, and corrections are more than welcome. Enjoy!

Lumen Imperatis​
*Prism
744.M41*

“It is truly a beautiful night,” he said, his words meant for none but the wind and the heavens. Brother-Sergeant Vermillion leaned onto the balustrade, looking up at the evening sky. Magnificent arcs of light danced through the air, multicoloured bands playing across the sparsely clouded horizon. Every wavelength of the visible spectrum, and many beyond, pirouetted through the heavens in a graceful ballet. Cycling through the optics on his battle helm, he saw that the rainbows of light dominated each setting.

‘Indeed it is,’ a gruff yet soft voice said from behind him.

The intrusion startled him. He had not heard an approach, nor had his armour detected motion from behind him. Abruptly spinning around, he immediately recognized the speaker.

‘Aye Lord, a rare night.’

Brother-Captain Varagol, helm held in the crook of his arm, smiled, the expression spreading like a fissure through bedrock. ‘One that both you and I are fortunate enough to witness.’ He mirrored Vermillion’s stance, grasping onto the railing and casting his eyes upwards. ‘I am one of the few that the Emperor has blessed in such propensity to have seen it twice.’

Vermillion watched his captain as the man became lost in thought, his mind reaching back over centuries of battles and memories. Although the balcony was dim, the Marine could see the whimsical expression on the captain’s face as he gazed at the dancing lights, the Lumen Imperatis.

‘It is quite a sight to behold, Lord,’ he said.

To Vermillion’s surprise, Varagol released a frustrated sigh. ‘You should have seen it in the last occurrence, five hundred years ago,’ he said. Waving his hand towards to array of colours, he sadly remarked, ‘With the industrialization of the southern continent, airborne toxins and pollutants have sullied the splendour of the Lumen. Then it was crisp, sharp. Now... as exquisite as it is, the Lights appear tainted.’

The two stood in silence for a moment while Vermillion contemplated the captain’s words. He had never before seen the Lumen Imperatis, as Prism’s magnetic field shifted into the necessary position to illuminate the night sky only twice a millennium. Coupled with the predictable solar winds emitted by the system’s star, the atmosphere of Prism erupted in a panoply of colour to coincide directly with The Enlightenment.

‘But you do not care for the rambling reminiscences of a geriatric,’ Captain Varagol gently interrupted his reverie with a wink. ‘I will see you at The Enlightenment, Brother Vermillion.’ With that, the warrior turned and entered the Fortress of Light, his golden cloak trailing behind him.

Vermillion returned his gaze to the heavens, enraptured by the vision. As an Astartes, his lot in life was to fight and die in the name of the Emperor. He felt his normally grim features split in a smile. _Just because I am a warrior does not mean I cannot enjoy the splendour of the Emperor’s domain._

*****

Nearly one thousand warriors snapped crisply to attention, their ordered ranks immaculate and unwavering. Deep azure gleamed in the refracted light streaming in the Cathedral of Illumination. The massive chamber rested atop the Fortress of Light, the pinnacle of the fortress monastery of the Rainbow Warriors. The chamber itself was a gargantuan diamond, hollowed out and converted into an impenetrable bastion from which the Chapter operated.

Brother Vermillion was locked in place amidst his assembled brethren, frozen before the mighty warriors standing before them. At the front of the chamber rested a massive dais, formed from crystals so finely cut and clear that the stage appeared to be invisible. Upon this glorious platform, beneath waving, multi-coloured banners depicting the glorious deeds of the Chapter stood the Chapter Master and his retinue.

Each time Vermillion was in the presence of Master Levis, he was overwhelmed with the power and wisdom that radiated from the ancient Astartes. His thousand-year tenure as the Master of the Rainbow Warriors had blessed the Chapter with untold of success and expansion. His prowess both as a military genius and provincial governor were depicted with honours above him.

Master Levis stepped ahead of his retinue and removed his ornate battle helm. His bronzed face was criss-crossed with the scars from a millennium of never-ending warfare. When he spoke, his voice was as rocks rumbling down a slope.
‘Sons of Guilliman, warriors of the Emperor, Rainbow Warriors, welcome home!’ Unaided by amplification, his words still echoed in the assembly hall. ‘It has been five hundred years since we have all been gathered in reverence before the beauty of our homeworld in celebration to the Emperor and our Primarch.’

At that, Levis turned and retrieved a massive, cobalt mace from High Chaplain Dematrius. Multicoloured script and engravings ran along its entire three-metre length, incredibly rare gems sparkled from its hilt. It was exquisite, a weapon older than the Chapter itself, the relic worth more than the lives of an entire company, of entire planets in the Rainbow Warriors’ dominion. Seeing it, revealing its power to the assembled might of the Chapter, was the purpose of The Enlightening. Vermillion felt chills travel up his body; an excitement like lightning filled his limbs.

The Chaplain stepped back, returning to his station amongst the row of Librarians as Levis brandished the weapon. On cue, Vermillion removed his helmet, placing it in the crook of his arm. One thousand assembled warriors did so simultaneously, a display in martial perfection.

‘Behold, the Warhammer of Guilliman!’ Cheers erupted from the Space Marines as they beheld the relic. The Enlightenment had begun.

Vermillion could not help but stare; it was all he could do from keeping his jaw drop open in absolute wonder at the artefact before him, awe filled him, a warmth of joy that he had not realized he could feel...

The side entrance beside the stage hissed open, revealing a single human serf. Clearly terrified, the man rushed to the stage, directly to the Chapter Master.

When he spoke, his voice was barely a squeak, ‘M-m-my Lord, I have a message.’

Levis turned, a look of surprise evident on his face. He snarled, ‘Human, you dare interrupt The Enlightenment?’ Towering over the quivering man, he continued, ‘Your life is forfeit if you have intruded without good cause.’

Without looking into the Astartes towering over him, the man stammered, ‘Sire, an unidentified fleet approaches the planet!’

Behind Chapter Master Levis, the Librarian Primus abruptly leant forward and vomited. The venerable warrior, along with his entire coterie, collapsed, barely managing to stay on their knees. Those Astartes closest to the dais rushed to aid the Librarians, ushering the afflicted Marines out of the chamber.

_A fleet?_ Vermillion was astounded. The only members of the Rainbow Warriors absent were those crewing the Chapter’s fleet orbiting the planet. Coupled with the astropathic relay posts scattered throughout the system, Prism was proof against _friendly _vessels arriving unannounced.

Master Levis’s voice cut across the chamber, ‘How many ships?’ His tone had lost its irritation to be replaced with clipped precision.

The serf, staring up at the towering Marine, whispered, ‘_Thousands_, Lord.’

Levis’s eyes narrowed into slits. Once again he regarded his Chapter, the Marines of the Rainbow Warriors. ‘My brothers, the enemy has seen fit to disrupt our holy celebration,’ he bellowed. ‘Our time of reflection is at an end. Our home is defiled, our Primarch dishonoured. The enemy has brought the fight to our very doorsteps.’ He paused, hefting the Warhammer of Guilliman over his shoulder. ‘We will answer this insolence with the holy wrath the Emperor has graced us with.’ Holding the relic high above his head, he roared, ‘To arms, my brothers! The Rainbow Warriors march to war!’

*****

Vermillion stood behind Captain Varagol, maintaining a respectful silence while the Chapter leadership gathered in the war room. All eyes were focused on the pict-screens, all ears on the now-silent vox transceivers.

 The battle in space had been over in minutes. The enemy fleet had struck at once and without mercy. Despite the might of the Rainbow Warriors’ vessels, they had been overwhelmed with the single-minded and unrelenting assault of the as-yet unidentified enemy. Even now, the shattered remains of the once-noble strike cruisers rained upon Prism, their fiery deaths blemishing the Lumen Imperatis.

Aided by a helmeted Astartes, the Librarian Primus entered. The frailty and vulnerability of the psyker, no, the _entire _Librarius, unnerved Vermillion. Only one enemy had the power to affect them like this..._chaos_.

Breathless, the Primus spoke, ‘Master Levis, the astropathic choir is in distress. All of them have become afflicted, and fully half have died. Something is affecting the warp, twisting it and breaking those sensitive to it.’ His voice wavered as he spoke, barely stronger than a whisper. As terrible as he appeared, he sounded worse. ‘The Librarius are supplementing their powers to broadcast the warning out farther, but I am afraid that they will all die in the attempt.

‘I am sorry to say, my lord, but we are cut off from the Imperium. Unless our distress call is heard in time, we will be unable to repulse the enemy.’

Silence fell in the room, a smothering blanket. Vermillion, in the first time since he could remember, felt something deep within him. An unfamiliar sensation, _dread_. The Rainbow Warriors were on their own, on the fringe of the galaxy. There would be no aid, no respite, no _legacy_ for the Chapter.

The unstable image on the pict screen zoomed in and froze for a moment on the Lumen Imperatis. The sickly green hue along its fringes had swollen into something else, something vast and without number.

An hour later, the first mycetic spores impacted on Prism.


----------



## Boc

This is most certainly a work in progress. Unlike my last work in progress, however, I've actually got an outline done, so this will actually go somewhere... as of now, this will be constructed as an episodic narrative.

Any comments/critique/really anything would be greatly appreciated.

Sons of Larilla​


++Incoming transmission, sequence designated 1115039351A09

++Clearance Cordovan Primus Six Eight Gamma, Larillan Seventy-Second Expeditionary. Transition in-system completed 210.853.M41, fleet will be arriving at Larilla on 214.853. Recent losses in the Dalmian Crusade have necessitated a refit for the First Armoured. Requesting landing craft to be standing by to transport personnel and material to the surface for immediate refit and repair.

++Code confirmed. Larillan Flight Control acknowledges receipt of correspondence 1115039351A09. Lord General Gigatti acknowledges receipt of message, Code Cordovan Primus Alpha Alpha One One. Transports, facilities, and personnel are standing by to receive fleet. Query: LG demands update on additional manoeuvre and support elements.

++Armoured assets, super-heavy: four; losses thirty-three percent. Armoured assets, main battle and variants: eighty-three; losses sixty-seven percent. Infantry assets: zero. One Zero Two Infantry casualties one hundred percent. Artillery assets: zero. Three Two Artillery casualties one hundred percent. Organic landing craft assets: sixteen. Casualties sixty-three percent. Will require combination with regiments currently on planet before departure, as well as re-founding of First Armoured.

++Eff See acknowledges. Recruitment command acknowledges. Schola recruits are standing by and ready for equipment and crew distribution. One Nine Artillery standing by and ready, currently reporting one hundred percent on personnel and equipment. Six Four Infantry standing by, press gangs gathering numbers now, will be ready within planetfall plus three days, vehicular assets and equipment one hundred percent. Lord General Assembly requires debriefing on actions taken in Dalmian Crusade to update strategium and required force projections.

++Seven Two Expeditionary acknowledges and will comply. In the Emperor’s Holy Name, for Larilla. Colonel Holletto out.

++Praise Him. Eff See out.

Book I

Refounding


I​
She was dying.

He was under no illusion to the contrary. She was withering away before him, and there was nothing he could do save her. The helplessness was crippling; he refused to eat, to drink, to even move from her side. The Sister Hospitaller responsible for her care had urged him on several occasions to get out, to take some time away. He could not, not now, not when..._no_, he refused to think of it.

Gazing longingly at her, he could not help but feel... regret. _Honey, I’m so sorry_. She had been so beautiful, so vibrant.

Antony Enzo leaned forward, taking her hand in his. She was so light, so cold. He could hardly bare to look at her, it made the circumstances of her hospitalization too real. He tried remember her skin as it had been, warm soft and bronzed. Now, her entire body was pale, veins traversing her limbs in purple streaks. Gently placing her hand beside her, he saw dehydrated flakes waft to the linens.

He reached out and brushed the flakes away. More skin separated, revealing cracked and raw muscle below. Her condition was accelerating, her body incapable of accepting moisture. He was surprised at how cool she was; chill to the touch, the only indications that she lived were the slight rise of her chest and the pinging of the machinery attached to her. _Marianna... _

Enzo rubbed his cheeks, feeling the thick stubble that had grown over the past week. A week, that was it. Seven days ago she had stood on her toes, flashed her gorgeous smile, and kissed him on the cheek before shuttling to the Districta Industrium. Just as she had done every morning for the past six years.

_Six years._ They had shared six wonderful years, each day a comforting normality amongst the chaos of hive life. His stress from work, the foremen, all of it melted away as the snows before the spring sun when he returned to their hab and seen her smile. Her smile that he would never see again. Her eyes, the colour of the deepest oceans, would alight when he crossed through the threshold. She would run to him, throwing her arms around his neck as though it had been years, not hours, since they had parted.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._ The persistent tolls tore him back to the present. No longer was she effervescent, but... lifeless, a _husk_. Revulsion filled him as he thought of the word. _I loved her, no, I_ still _love her_. Her condition had no part of his feelings, did not negate the nuptial vows he had made to her before the Emperor. Somewhere, deep in her comatose mind, was the woman with whom he had spent the last six years. She lay there, dormant and waiting. She was still there, still alive, and he would be damned if he left her side while she suffered in silent agony.

Sighing, Enzo leaned back into the cheap plastic chair which creaked in protest. He would remain here, locked inside of this cell with his beloved, for as long as it took. Marianna was, if nothing else, a determined woman who lived her life with an almost carefree abandon. That she could be brought so low... _those bastards._

His melancholy quickly evaporated before the wrath of his blazing fury. He would find the men responsible, find them and kill them, just as surely as they had murdered Marianna. Unable to contain the rage building within him, he dug his fingers into the cheap wood of the armrests; the pain of his nails distracting him from his internal inferno, cooled his anger.

By no means did he consider himself an immoral man. Quite the contrary, he attended services regularly and believed fervently in the divinity of Him on Earth. He had sat through sermons about showing mercy to his fellow Man, that none but the Emperor were perfect and should not be treated as such. A fairly conservative sect of the Imperial Faith, his was one that placed great value on the life of the individual man, for in His eyes, all loyal sons were worthy of His Grace.

But, as he sat alone in the pallid treatment, fixated on the only being in the galaxy that truly _mattered_, he knew in his heart that, in honour of his love, he could not sit idly while those responsible were still walking, breathing, laughing, _loving_.

‘I’ll kill every last one of those bastards,’ he said, verbalizing a new set of vows to his wife. 'By the Golden Throne of Him-on-Earth, I swear it.' She responded only with silence.



Link to Part II


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## Imbranu

It just seems to short too me. I realize that 1500 words is not enough to get into so much detail but defnitley still awesome like all your works. Looking forward to maybe 2 or 3 chapters on this one to see what happens...


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## Boc

A day, one and a half new pieces, and the only reader was one of my soldiers who had no choice in the matter 

DA, I feel your pain!


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## Boc

Part I of Sons of Larilla completed. Part II should be up in the next few days.


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## Boc

And I got distracted by this month's 1000 word writing competition. I tried to do something really different, yet still adhere to the theme of 'Victory.' Somehow I wound up with an intent to write something in the same manner as the Bible... which is, I know, pretty weird/messed up. Depending on how the reception is for this piece, I may need to write another.

Vraks

_Recovered from the carcass of a slave of the Ruinous Powers on the western outskirts of Armageddon Prime. Tome was confiscated by Inquisitor Paellian of the Ordo Hereticus. Most of the ancient text was too severely damaged from exposure to determine the contents. An extract from the Third Book in the tome, the Book of Blood, is the only decipherable portion. Below lies the account, detailing the events following the summoning of a Greater Daemon from the Warp during the Vraks Campaign. 
Recommendation: immediate suppression._

Book of Blood

The Summoning of An’ggrath

Chapter 13​
1. And on that day, An’ggrath the Unbound was finally summoned from His domain and dominion in the warp. A great cheering and outpouring of Bloodlust was ignited by His presence as His acolytes rejoiced.

2. The Great Bloodthirster was deeply displeased, having been torn away from His endless Slaughter and Reaping of souls from the Warp. He unleashed His Unholy Wrath in his displeasure at being awakened. And He did slay His worshippers in great multitudes, reaping vast quantities of Blood from their number, killing them with abandon. 

3. Millions of His Faithful were Butchered in His Fury, millions of Skulls added to the Great Throne for the splendour of His Master. Planets burned and stars went dark from with His Anger.

4. The six months of Bloodfrenzy ended. The great servant of the Lord of Rage, finally satisfied, rested. His Master’s irritation at losing His most loyal and fervent Bloodthirster and Guardian of the Skull Throne was quenched.

5. At that time, the Great and Terrible An’ggrath, the Most Favoured of KHORNE, the Deathbringer, walked amongst mortals.

6. His minions had gathered themselves in a great multitude upon the Mount Sanguis, and He did teach them of the Truth of His ways, the Path of Blood.

7. He spoke, and His voice was terrible and thunderous, echoing from the mountainsides so that all upon the planet could hear His Message.

8. ‘In the last days shall He be known. His glory, majesty, splendour, and power unleashed on the galaxy. The unbeliever shall be Destroyed, the doubter Annihilated.

9. Only then will the worlds of Man be able, nay, worthy, for His arrival.’

10. His words caused great distress amongst His followers. They cried out to Him as one, begging for His wisdom. ‘Why, Lord! Why must we wait for this day, this Unholy and Blessed Day?’

11. An’ggrath looked upon them, his gathered Students of Carnage, and saw promise. A promise in their lust, their desire to follow His God. He did bless them again with His voice, ‘Why, you ask? Why must He wait, atop His glorious Throne, inactive and idle? Why must He be starved of the satisfaction of the Slaughter, the beauty of the Butcher, relying on others to do His bidding?

12. 'To test the Faith of the Worthy, the dedication of those willing to cast aside their false bonds, to break free from the deprivation of humanity. To become truly free and liberated from their, from your, shackles.’

13. Again, His servants were distraught at His words. They wept great tears of Blood which dropped upon the soil, already saturated with Lifeblood of the fallen to appease His displeasure. With one voice, raised in supplication to His Might and the Power He promised, they shouted, ‘How may we become worthy? How may we, weak as we are, gain the favour of KHORNE?’ A great moan shook the countryside, sending tremors through the rock. ‘How may we become His Champions?’

14. An’ggrath laughed, the laughter of ultimate Power and Wisdom, of aeons of Murder and bloodshed. ‘How may you become worthy, you ask? What must you do to gain His favour, His blessings? His demands are pure, his desires simple. A never ending ocean of Blood, spilt in His name. What must you possess in order to become His Champion?’ He asked of His followers.

15. The eagerness of the multitude was released in an hour of Bloodshed, so much did they desire His answer. Men fell upon Men, Astartes upon Astartes, Mutant upon Mutant. The valley below the Great Mount filled with the Skulls of the Fallen, cast down to please their Lord.

16. The Deathbringer was pleased by the dedication of His minions, their desire to serve KHORNE. In that moment, He was contented by the Bloodshed, and again spoke. And when He did, all became still, as the living listened intently to His Unholy Word.

17. ‘The strength of character to commit Genocide, to Murder those deserving of His Unholy Wrath. 

18. 'The fortitude of mind to accomplish what must be done to appease Him.

19. 'The purpose and will to never relent, to never show weakness.

20. 'But, my Children, there is one thing that, above all, the Great Butcher asks of you.’ 

21. He paused in His Unholy Sermon. Those gathered were so distressed by His silence that they were again overcome in their Bloodlust. Thousands more fell in their desire for His Wisdom. During the Slaughter, all throats still capable of sound called to their master, ‘What, Lord? What does he demand?’

22. The Deaths of His servants amused Him, and He laughed again. The mountains of Bone crumbled before His tremendous mirth. He spoke to them again, and His words brought respite from the butchery. ‘Most of all, my Disciples, He demands Victory. Victory over Death, Victory in Blood. Blood in Victory. 

23. 'Victory without Blood is pitiable, despicable before His eyes. Victory without Blood is weakness, to be culled and destroyed. Victory without Blood is defeat.

24. 'Victory is Blood. Blood is Victory. His thirst is insatiable, but must be satisfied. 

25. 'The Imperium of Man is replete with blood. Sordid with weakness. Cast off your vows to your False God, free yourself of the Bonds of Humanity. With this, Blood will be yours. With this, Victory will be yours. Crusade against Man, Crusade in His Unholy Name, and He will bestow you with His Blessings!’

26. And the Daemon took flight on his great wings, roaring a cry of unending hate and rage.

27. The multitude, caught up in His fervour, took flight. They did take their Wrath and Hatred to the Imperium of Man, and Crusaded against the Corpse God. Billions died for KHORNE, their Skulls added to His Throne, trillions of litres of Blood filled His oceans. They found their Victory, Victory in their own Blood and that of Men.

28. His followers fell in their great numbers, drenching the planets with their Blood.

29. Ang’rrath was pleased in His followers, as their Deaths fuelled the powers of His Master. His Bloodthirsters and Bloodletters Reaped countless lives for their God.

30. And upon His Throne of Skulls, KHORNE laughed.


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## Boc

Sons of Larilla, Book I
II​
‘Major, are you _seriously_ saying that I have to lead the recruitment actions on the surface?’ The voice demanded. ‘I am hardly being used to the fullest of my potential to gather gutter trash.’

No, ‘Sir, may I have a moment of your time?’ or ‘Sir, may I bring up with you an issue regarding planet-side assignments?’ None of that rank formality. 

_The insufferable little shit_. He wanted to slap him, to knock the smug self-entitled expression that he _knew_ would be on the man’s face. But no, that would be uncouth, unprofessional, and, most of all, it would make him appear weak. While he was of at least equal social standing with the vast majority of the men in the First Armoured, a sudden and unbecoming lapse in self-control would be damning to both his reputation and standing.

Major Gio Anton took a deep breath, willing himself not to spin on the incredibly bothersome officer behind him and backhand him like a commoner. He turned, slowly and controlled, and forced a well practised half-sneer.

‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant, you said something?’ he asked, pleased with the level of condescension he managed to convey. The uppity junior officer, despite returning from intensive action, still assumed his social status meant something in the Guard. _Unfortunately, so does everyone else._ Regardless, Anton took pleasure in any occasion that allowed him to laud his rank over their perceived self-importance. ‘You’re going to have to speak up; I couldn’t hear you over the sound of my not caring.’

His response elicited an immediate reaction from the lieutenant. A shudder ran through the man’s wiry body, from his spit-shined black boots, up his immaculately pressed scarlet jumpsuit, all the way to the pimpled, thin face that Anton wanted nothing more than to punch off its shoulders. Prick.

‘I beg your _pardon_, sir?’ His nasal tone had actually managed to up a few pitches. Rather than assuming the position of attention before his superior, the lieutenant placed his hands on his hips and locked a single leg out. It was all he could do to stifle his snicker.

‘I said, _Lieutenant_, that I don’t give a grox’s arse about your sensitivities or where _you_ think your talents would be best utilized,’ he half-shouted. The junior officer’s tone had been the last straw; Anton was busy and had far better things to do than listen to the whining of an officer hardly out of puberty. ‘You’ve been in the Guard long enough that you _should_, ideally, have the common sense to do _what_ the hell you’re told, _when_ the hell you’re told it.’

He scowled, snarling, ‘So, if I could make a _recommendation_ to you, and you can be damn sure that I will, you should remember your place in the galaxy, and that, as far as you are concerned, your battalion commander’s word is the fekking _law_.’ Ah, how he loved releasing his frustration. He crossed his arms and continued his rant. ‘And in case you’re too damn stupid to realize it, that would be _me_.’

Anton now had the lieutenant’s undivided attention. Fortunately, his training had taken over and his heels clicked together as he came to attention. His pale eyes had widened to the size of bolter rounds, _Got you, fekhead_.

‘Y-yes, sir. I didn’t mean to-‘

_Oh no the hell you don’t get a say._ ‘The proper fekking response is “No excuses, sir.” Even a damn private knows that.’ If flamers were attached to Anton’s eyes, the prissy man would have been a quivering mound of crispy-fried man-kabob in seconds. ‘So, if you were a smart man, and the damn rank on your collar indicates that at least _someone_ thinks you are, you should probably about face, and march your sissy arse to the hangar and get your men ready, otherwise I’ll have you dig some piss trenches with your hands while they’re being used.’

The man was frozen in place, completely startled. Anton took a moment to savour the lieutenant’s discomfort. He was a favourite of Colonel Holletto, one of the supposed ‘up and comers’ within the newer officers in the First. Anton knew full well he could get his arse chewed for at least an hour over this, but it was well worth it. Anything to put some of these kids down a notch.

Cocking an eyebrow, Anton asked, ‘Did I stutter, Lieutenant?’

Still visibly shaken, the junior officer stamped his right foot and saluted smartly. ‘No, sir! Moving, sir!’ He spun quickly on his heel and marched away.

As he stared at the lieutenant’s hasty retreat, Anton heard an ill-subdued snicker behind him. He turned and saw Captain Marcelo Rao leaning against the bulkhead, a toothy grin splitting his tanned face, which began to transform into a bright purple as he struggled to contain his laughter.

Anton’s angry grimace melted, replaced by a hearty grin at his executive officer. At that, Rao lost his composure, bending over double as hysterical laughter racked his body. The major waited patiently, as the fit generally subsided, and Rao slumped against the wall.

‘So, Marc, how much of that did you see?’ Anton asked.

‘Pretty much all of it, sir,’ he said, wiping tears from his eyes. ‘You do realize that the Old Man’s going to have your balls in a vice for this, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that you’re going to have to apologise.’

‘Yep.’

‘And you’re pretty much completely fekked.’

‘Aye, but it was worth it.’ Noticing that Rao was carrying a data slate under an arm, he sighed. ‘What’ve you got for me, Marc?’

The captain held the data slate out to Anton, who took it. Scrolling down the screen, he groaned, ‘Troop dispositions, equipment maintenance readiness, ammunition resupply, personnel refit... Throne, I’m already busy enough.’

His executive officer shrugged apologetically, ‘I just got it from Regimental HQ, sir, passing along the buck.’ He winked at the major, ‘Besides, sir, you know I’m terrible with paperwork.’

Snorting, Anton nodded. ‘Now that is the truth. You’re just lucky you aren’t too terribly aggravating so I keep you around,’ he said, deadpan. ‘Otherwise I’d probably just have to push you out an open airlock.’ 

Captain Rao adopted an expression of mock indignation. ‘Sir, I am _hurt_.’ He snapped a salute, saying, ‘If you need me sir, I’ll be in my quarters sobbing uncontrollably.’

‘I'm already over it,' he said, smiling. 'Dismissed, Marc. Get some rest.’ Anton looked over the arduous task listing on the slate. ‘You’re going to need it.’


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## dark angel

What can I say Boc? You are a masterpiece incarnate  Gio Anton, is to put it simple, me :laugh: nah seriously, I loved it mate. Keep up the good work, I cannot wait to see more!


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## Boc

This is another 1000-worder for the monthly competition over on the Bolthole.

I must say, I wish this one had turned out better, but RL has been relatively time-consuming as of late and I only finished it 30 minutes early.

The theme for this entry was 'Judgment.'

Betrayal​
Thousands of tonnes of rubble, of shattered stone, pressed upon him from all sides, suffocating him. He was pinned, incapable of the slightest of movements. The weight was incredible, a pressure that he had never known, but it paled in comparison to the rage and frustration that he felt burning within him.

_Betrayal._

That word kept him breathing, that knowledge fuelled his will to live. Any lesser being would doubtlessly have perished beneath the deluge of rubble that had fallen around him and become his tomb. Any lesser being would have given up days ago, without food or water, giving his body up to the galaxy. Any lesser being would have submitted to the... _darkness._

He was no lesser being, no normal human. He was an Astartes, the son of a legacy that had seen Mankind’s implacable advance across the stars, the very will of the Emperor given form. Never in his prolonged had he felt despair, and he refused to give in to its plaguing whispers now.

A rune inside of his shattered helm flickered dimly; his armour’s power source was nearly dead. Straining his damaged and concussed mind, he recalled the meaning of the symbol. 

His life support systems were failing. Soon, his armour would no longer be able to recycle his bodily by-products and he would asphyxiate. While his superhuman physiology would prolong this process, it would still be a drawn out and painful death.

He snarled at the though. Pain, he could deal with the pain. It had been his constant companion for hundreds of years of constant battle. No, the pain was not what sorely tempted his thoughts, and pulled him irrevocably towards the precipice of despair.

An ignominious death, trapped beneath a ruined building, unable to move or fight, this terrified him.

‘This can_not_ be,’ he stated, casting his words into the galaxy. A glimmer of hope, faith in the Lectitio Divinitatus, sparked into a flame.

Frustration overcame his anguish. His limbs, cool and stiff with rigor mortis, filled with an inner fire that he thought he had lost. Hatred of his... _brothers_ conquered his turmoil.

He curled his gauntleted fingers into a fist, crushing the stone to dust. He had been betrayed by his brothers, been judged by them and found unworthy of their cause. They had cast him aside, thrown his life away, and then sought to exterminate him, to hunt him like a dog.

‘_This cannot be!_ he spat. Stones creaked as the wind across dry bones as his armour’s devastated servos strained against his tomb.

They had hunted him and his comrades, to the last man they had hunted them.

He clenched his eyes and _pushed_. Tears streamed down his face while his muscles strained to the tearing point. The throbbing ache that had become his constant companion was replaced by a sharp, intense pang. But still he pushed.

_Traitors!_ The bastards, he had fought with them, bled with them, been _loyal_ to them. He could see their faces now, clearly, each of them taunting him, laughing at his feeble attempts at escape.

‘_You have been judged and found wanting! Your pathetic life is at an end, you fool! Follow your False Emperor to your doom!’_ He could see them as clearly as if they were standing before him now.

Exhaustion started rearing its ugly head again, threatening to prematurely end his struggle for freedom.

_Who are _they_ to judge me?_ Traitors and whoresons, oathbreakers who turned their backs on all they had ever known. On what they had sworn and died to protect and preserve. On the purpose of their _existence _.

The tremors intensified. He could hear it now... _is it really happening?_ Rocks against rocks, _movement_. Although there had been several earthquakes and tectonic disturbances since his entombment, all had been minor. This was something completely different.

Straining his hearing, focusing on the individual sounds, he could hear more boulders tumbling down into a rock slide.

‘My Emperor!’ he cried, his voice hoarse with exertion, ‘I give myself to you! If you can hear me, your loyal Son,’ he called, struggling against the unrelenting crush of the rubble, ‘move these rocks! Free me from this prison! I will bring your,’ he halted in his pleas, unsure of the word to use, hesitant to give it voice, ‘Holy Judgment to those who have defied you!’ His roar faded to a whisper, all effort focused on moving the rocks encasing him. ‘To those who have _betrayed_ you!’

His last reserves of strength, fuelled by his final combat stimulants, exploded outwards in a release of energy. Without warning, the overwhelming weight vanished and he found himself standing knee deep in the rubble.

Around him, stretched as far as his occulobes could ascertain, was a vista of utter devastation. Once proud towers, shining and elegant in their grace, lie crushed and strewn about the landscape. While the fighting here had been apocalyptic, on a scale he had not seen since Ullanor, there were no bodies. No sign of the immense betrayal that had been revealed on these streets.

His fists tightened, as he thought of the... _how long has it been? Weeks? Months?_ He did not even know anymore, none of it mattered.

All that mattered was vengeance.

He fell to his knees and ripped off his helmet. Casting a longing look into the heavens, charred black with the fires of the death of the Choral City, he gently touched his pauldron..

‘My Emperor, your Traitorous Sons have turned their backs on you and renounced you,’ he said, ‘There are none present to witness my words, to hold me to my Oath.’ He paused, closing his eyes against the intense glare of the sun through the soot-filled skies. ‘I have no weapons to swear upon, as I have lost them in the shame of my defeat.

‘I am broken, but not beaten. Although my fellows have administered their judgment upon me, I know that I have not been found wanting in your eyes. I swear to you, from this moment, from this rock, that I will not rest until I have brought these traitors, your trusted sons, to justice. I will administer your judgment upon them, without mercy and without respite.’

He stopped speaking and struggled to his feet with a groan as his broken bones ground against one another. He cast his eyes again around the desolation.

‘Now how in the hells do I get off of this rock?’ It would not be easy, but he had been given a second chance. A chance that Garviel Loken would not squander.


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## dark angel

Boc, my friend, if Black Library do his return even a quarter as good as that, I will be happy  awesome work mate, keep it up and have some rep to show my appreciation!


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## Boc

This short story was my entry into the 2010 Fiction Competition here on Heresy Online. It had, however, originally been a 5,900 word story rather than the 5,000 word version that is currently posted in order to meet the competition's requirements. After having read through both versions, I found the first to be a much more compelling story overall, and thought you all may feel the same way. So, I hope you all enjoy the 'writer's cut' of _The Emperor Protects_, and as always, C&C are welcome!

The Emperor Protects​
*An Account of the Dalmian Crusade*


The silence was deafening.

They had been sitting, waiting, for over six days now. Not once had they dismounted from the Chimera. Not to use the bathroom, not to eat, not to sleep. The smell, the very air itself, was suffocating; a rancid aroma that gagged the throat and stung the eyes. Waste fermented in the stifling heat. Impenetrable darkness swallowed the man, making it all but impossible for him to see the rest of the squad crammed in the back of the track. Someone hacked a cough, followed closely by the wet splatter of phlegm being spat upon the floor.

Antony Enzo grimaced. _Fek this fekking planet._ Incredible boredom, the utter inability for physical activity ground down on him. Nothing messed with a Guardsman’s mind more than imminent action. A quick reaction force, that’s what the colonel had said. The regiment had to be ready to roll out within two minutes and, rather than trusting the competency of his men, had them standby until the order was given. Apparently six days of wallowing in your own crap was worth saving the extra thirty seconds for a man to cinch his trousers up, but he was a private, who was he to judge? _Right._

Six fekking days. _Seriously?_ Slightly unnecessary. During the extensive briefings on the plan of attack, contingency plans of attack, and fekking _alternate_ contingency plans, the brass had made it infinitely clear that the assault would not commence until a week after zero hour. Luckily, the possibility of “early initiation” was still significant enough to warrant nearly two thousand men having to sit in their excretions. Lighting his wrist chronometer, his frown deepened. _One hundred forty five hours._ Make that _seven_ days. _Damn it._

Larillan Battle Group One Sixty-Four Nineteen had made planet fall three months before. The Planetary Defense Force had screamed a plea for aid to the stars, as another system of the Dalmian Cluster was besieged by the forces of Chaos. Across the globe, heretic insurgencies had overwhelmed the ill-equipped and poorly drilled PDF troopers, and the Larillans had answered the call. _That’s where we come in: purge the heretic._ The combined arms battle group, along with other supporting Guard elements, had been systematically clearing each of the towns clustered along the western seaboard, either completely exterminating the tainted population or liberating the embattled and oppressed loyalists.

The ground shook with a tremendous blast, the first report of an opening barrage by the Larillan Nineteenth. More shots followed, massive shockwaves shuddering through the Chimera. The Basilisks had opened fire, potent Earthshaker shells being propelled towards the target to unleash their ungodly destructive power.

Static burst into life through the vox casters in the rear, the voice of the Colonel crackling, “Sons of Larilla, Operation Swift Fury is a go, commence movement to Objective Six Four Beta.” His stern voice overflowed with confidence even through the distortion, absolute surety dripping from every word. The Larillan never faltered, never halted, never accepted defeat. Advancing with reckless fury, they would strike fast and without mercy.

Enzo smirked in the darkness, _at least that’s what the colonel would say._ The grunts, the poor bastard infantrymen who had been stuck in the back of the Chimeras for over a week, would stumble out of the rear hatch. Stiff legs and sore back, limping from their thighs chaffing from fatigues soaked with excretion. _Without mercy indeed,_ he mused, _the fekking smell will kill the heretics before our lasguns will._ It was not that he felt no pride in serving with the Imperial Guard, far from it in fact. He loved it; the excitement, the training and the camaraderie were all something he had never experienced as a smelter in one of Larilla’s many processing plants. But the _suck,_ at times it was overwhelming.

A whine filled the vehicle, the massive turbines of the Chimera slowly grinding into activity after its prolonged inactivity, a predator finally pouncing on its prey. Another laughable metaphor brainwashed into him during Indoctrination. _Ah, the memories._

“This is Secundus Alpha One, acknowledged,” the crew chief barked. “Let’s go, fekheads, time to rock and roll!”

Without warning, the rear lumiglobes illuminated the dismounted soldiers with a dull red glow. Although the hazard lights were dim, having sat in darkness for seven days had opened his pupils, and the sudden shock of luminosity was blinding. Tears ran down his cheeks from his clenched shut eyes.

“Throne, a heads-up would be nice,” he muttered.

Lurching, the Chimera finally moved, the tracks along the vehicle finding purchase in the loose sand outside. A rumble rose from outside, as the dozens of tanks and transports of the battle group spurred into motion, an inexorable tide of men and armour. Rattling shook the vehicle as it progressed, a shaking which quaked him to his very core, massive vibrations that made his teeth chatter and his stomach queasy.

The Basilisks barked again, their deadly payloads launching into the sky.

While he hated the suck, he loved the rush. Heart fluttering, head swimming, _this is it._ The blasts, the rumble, all of it gave him meaning. He loved the Emperor, and he loved his job. Wallowing in his own crap, though? Not so much.

“All right numb-nuts, you know the drill!” Sergeant Fiorenza bellowed beside him, vying with the roar of the turbines and the treads for aural superiority. “We get to the objective, Embeetees’ll be blowing the whole place to hell!” Of that Enzo had no doubt; the crews manning the main battle tanks from the First were not known for their discretion. “Kill anything that moves! First platoon’s got the streets, we’ve got the buildings. Enzo, take point with your team, I’ll be right behind you. We clear everything down the road, make sure if anything is alive when we get there it’s not when we leave.”

The track bucked as it sped over a hill, bouncing the men in the rear around like rag dolls. The sludge of urine and feces slapped against Enzo’s boots, the sudden disturbance releasing an incredible stench, filling the airtight vehicle with nauseous odors. Leaning forward, Private Cirazza retched violently onto the floor, splashing vomit onto the sergeant’s trousers.

“Are you fekking kidding me? You seriously just puked on my damn pants,” Fiorenza pulled his pant leg tight, trying to see the bile. “Granted, I’m already neck deep in me own s***, but I don’t need none of yours!” He slapped Cirazza’s head into the wall, his helmet clanging against the hull. “Arse.”

Dust began billowing into the Chimera, the clouds billowing from the advancing armoured column being inhaled greedily by the vehicle’s air circulation unit. Normally, the breeze would be welcome in the sweltering heat, but the airborne particles seemed to cling to the smell. Breathing the rancid particulates in created an incredibly unpleasant taste to accompany the stench. Enzo saw the Guardsman sitting in front of him smacking his lips, trying in vain to get rid of the flavor of crap, piss, and dust.

Enzo’s thumbs-up sign was mirrored with a rude gesture, the middle finger on the man’s right hand extended, silently saying _fek off. Ah, the suck._

Sergeant Fiorenza was still swearing at the sick private, slapping him and punching him ineffectually, the restraints from his seat’s harness preventing him from doing any real harm.

Finally breaking off from his furious, albeit futile, assault, Fiorenza continued his last minute briefing, “Throne, where was I?” The dust mixed with his own sweat had formed a cake of mud on his face, which cracked as he frowned. “Oh, right. Enzo, you’re my las sponge! Cover the left side of the road on point, my team will trail ten meters back. Same road layout as Six Four Alpha, streets all converge to the chapel.” The vehicle rocked again, tossing the men side to side in their shock-seats. “Dammit, learn to drive up there! Fekheads!”

He turned his perpetual scowl back to his squad, “We’ll be hitting from the northwest, just head towards the buildings and even you dolts will get it right! Intel from the Lord General says this cesspit is crawling with loonies, so get ready for a fight.” The sergeant cocked his head, listening to his company-command frequency vox-piece. “The lieutenant says we’re five minutes out. C’mon, you bastards, strike fast!”

“Strike hard!”

*****

The rumbling advance of the vehicle slowed, the racket of the treads replaced by ground-shaking explosions. Demolishers from the First Armoured and the Bombards from the Nineteenth had begun their volleys in earnest. Enzo allowed himself a quick smile, remembering the incredible destructive capabilities those weapons were unleashing.

His mind wandered back to the previous assault, a near-flawless execution of armoured power hammering the traitors into oblivion. It had been his first taste of battle, both exhilarating and utterly terrifying. Never before had he felt so alive, so close to death or damnation at every corner.

Slowly, the constant thunder of artillery began to lighten, the order to lift fire had been given as the armoured fists had passed the minimum safe range. While the Colonel certainly did not value the individual Guardsman, he still did not seem too keen on the idea of blowing them to pieces with their own Earthshakers. 

With an abrupt jerk, the Chimera stopped in its tracks.

“Drop ramp!” Sergeant Fiorenza was already standing, having swiftly unbuckled his restraints. “Lock and load! Move your arses! Go go go!” To emphasize his point, he racketed his lasgun, and pointed towards the egress point of the track. Clumsily freeing himself from his seat, Enzo stood, shouldering his lasgun and checking the charge. _Full up_. 

He noted with disgust the sudden moisture seeping through his sleeve underneath his carapace armour. Foolishly, he had rested the stock of his weapon in the puddle of filth surrounding his feet. _Talk about bad luck._ The other Guardsmen followed suit, performing last minute prayers to the spirits of their weapons and pleas to the Emperor, hoping that this fight would not be their last.

With a screech of metal on metal, the ramp swiftly dropped, slamming into the thin dust in a puff of smoke. A slice of pale moonlight illuminated the floor of the Chimera, casting shadows off the clumps of feces and vomit spotting the floor. _Fekking. Gross._

“For Larilla! For the Emperor!” As one, the squad ducked their heads and ran towards the exit of the vehicle, each side peeling off to find cover in the buildings flanking the road.

Enzo felt the stiffness in his legs, the week of inactivity paying its toll. Smoke billowed past him from a hundred fires as he awkwardly stumbled along, praying to the Emperor for the blood to flow to his legs. He felt something in his knee pop and a stab of pain shot down his calf. Risking a glance back towards his platoon’s Chimeras, he grinned at the sight of awesome power.

Two Leman Russ main battle tanks rumbled swiftly through the roiling smoke, their arrival marking the closure of the gap between the armoured and infantry columns. Knowing what was to come, Enzo had to fight the urge to watch. Both fired simultaneously, sending a cloud of shrapnel and shattered wood flying past the running men. Keeping his head down, Enzo felt pellets of broken rock pinging off his helmet. A third tank appeared between its sisters, lowering its massive main cannon, letting loose with a hellish blast.

Flattening himself to the ground, shrapnel flew over his head. Someone was screaming, not having reacted quickly enough to the explosion. He risked raising his helmet for a look, catching a glimpse of one of his squadmates on the ground, writhing in agony. His leg had been severed below the knee and lay meters away; the stump squirted blood in irregular spurts into an expanding puddle below him.

Enzo’s ears were ringing, an almost mind-numbing peal which dulled everything else. Finding his way to his hands and knees, he recovered his lasgun, which he had lost in his panicked dive. Glancing around, he caught sight of his squad leader, the grizzled veteran on his feet and waving the men towards the heart of the village.

Sergeant Fiorenza was shouting, barely discernible over the consistent tone echoing in Enzo’s head. He could barely make out the words over the din, “Let’s go fekheads, the best first aid is to kill the enemy! Forget his sorry arse and advance! Forward!” Without looking back, the man charged ahead and disappeared into the smoke.

Finally gathering both his bearing and his wits, Enzo followed suit. The ten other members of the squad joined him, hugging the side of the neat row of buildings. The three Leman Russ battle tanks pressed on, pacing alongside the beleaguered Guardsmen. Heavy bolters roared endlessly, decimating any possible firing points along the multi-level hab units stretching down the road.

Maintaining his quick yet cautious pace, Enzo’s eyes darted from alleys to rooftops. No sign of movement, _yet._ If this town was anything like the last, it would not stay that way for long. His pulse hammered in his ears as the insistent ringing faded. His dozens of kilograms of gear weighed him down, stifled his breathing. Fiorenza was halted at a four way intersection, kneeling against the near wall. The sergeant beckoned him over, an impatient scowl marring his features.

Running in a crouch, Enzo caught up to the man.

Fiorenza’s scowl deepened, “Enzo I swear you aren’t worth the boots you’re wearing. I told you to take point.” His gaze travelled up to the column of guardsmen swiftly closing on their position, armoured phantasms floating in the mist. “First team, on Enzo. Clear the linear danger area,” meaning the intersection itself, “Make sure no cultist heavy weapons teams are taking advantage of a good choke point, no point getting killed yet.”

Glancing backwards, Enzo quickly counted his men as they knelt along the walls. He was one short. “Sarge, we’re down one.”

“Congratulations, I’ll let your mum know you can count. Get the fek moving! Third squad is coming up on our left, be ready to push out.” He checked the charge on his lasgun, a habit borne from years of experience. Enzo did the same; as much as he disliked the sergeant, the Emperor would not smile on those who went to battle unprepared.

He shifted on his knees as the tanks abruptly stopped, awaiting for the rest of the dismounts to catch up. More men became visible as they sprinted towards the opposite wall. Still more advanced down the middle of the street, spread in a squad line, lasguns held at their hips.

Their vox-unit crackled, “Fiorenza, we’re in position. Ready to move on your signal.” Third squad was ready to keep pushing towards the center of town, kneeling in a line.

Using a method his mother had taught him as a child, Enzo took three calming breaths in an effort to gain back physical control. His stomach was not cooperating, it felt as though it was about to jump out of his throat. His heart beat rapidly, he could feel the blood coursing through his veins, throbbing behind his eyes. Inching slowly, lasgun held to his shoulder, he peeked past the corner.

Nothing, only the dancing shadows cast from the flickering, burning structures. His lungs suddenly burnt, he’d been holding his breath. “All clear, Sarge.” He stepped into the abandoned streets, half expecting a hidden shooter to send a las round through his head. “Jippetti, cover me!” He took off running, crossing the street rapidly, clattering to a stop against the opposite side.

_Fek this fek this fek this_. Something moved ahead, a spectre twitched. “Doorway right! Ten meters ahead,” he called back. The whispering at the corner now seemed silly as the tanks rumbled to life, letting loose another trio of blasts to rocket down the street. A three story building, marvelous with its marble façade, burst like a melon.

“Holy Throne! Back the fek off!” Damned tankers were getting too close, endangering the infantry advancing unprotected on foot. _Well, on the bright side I don’t have to clear the building.
_
Sprinting forward, he saw to his dismay another threshold just past the first. _Fek._ “First team, clear right! On me!” Cirazza ran in a crouch ahead of him, squaring himself to the door and bracing his shotgun to his shoulder. Jippetti pressed his chest to Enzo’s back, squeezing his shoulder to signal that the team was ready.
_
“Go!”_

Immediately the shotgun blared, blowing the simple doorknob clear out of the door. Cirazza kicked the door, swinging it loosely on its hinges. Enzo pressed in, slamming the door open against the wall and hugging his body against it. The room was wide, perhaps ten meters. “Long room! Window left! Door front three meters!” Instinctively, he called out every detail he possibly could, preparing the men behind him for their lightning entry.

He leaned back against the door, ensuring that anyone behind it was trapped and incapable of raising a weapon to fire. “Low table left, chair corner!”

Jippetti was on his heels, peeling to the right upon entering to avoid congesting up the doorway, the “fatal funnel.” Following his team leader’s example, he was also shouting out anything he saw, “Bookshelf right! No contact!”

Asin and Illyian were last, curling left and right, scanning the room for any side of cultists. It was deserted. Cirazza remained outside, training his shotgun through the portal in case fek-all happened and the enemy tried to escape.

Enzo waited a moment, taking a few steadying heartbeats before continuing the battle drill. “Status! One up!” Each man was required to call out, according to the order that he had entered the room, to aid the team leader in situational awareness. If one of the member’s missed his call, well then, something was awry, to say the least.

“Two up!” _Jippetti, good._

“Three up!” _Asin._

“Four up!” _ Illyian._

“Five up!” _Cirazza from outside._

_Six? Damn, Camacho._ He had been the man to lose his leg, now likely dead from blood loss alone in the burning streets. _Bad way to go._

“Room clear, stack left on the door!” The men filed around the room, forming a line again on the left side of the portal. _This is going to be a long night._

*****


----------



## Boc

Luckily, the tanks had seen fit to blow most of the buildings to oblivion, saving the dismounted Guardsmen gallons of sweat and hours of labour. Oddly, though, the town had, up until now, been completely deserted.

As the attack plan had dictated, Enzo and his squad had converged on the center of the town, painstakingly clearing each alley, hut and mansion. The few homes that they had searched had been well-maintained; no rotting food still sitting on the table, no garments strewn about rooms, and no blood spattering the walls. It was as though the entire population had disappeared after thoroughly _cleaning_ their homes. _Fekking weird._

Sergeant Fiorenza had been, as always, a slave driver, pressing his men to work quickly and efficiently. _Strike fast, strike hard_. They had been the first to arrive in the center of town, kneeling in the shadows cast by the rubble of a once glorious mansion. They had waited no more than an hour when the other elements began to congregate outside of the last structure in the village.

The chapel was aglow, a grandiose edifice of granite, crafted over a span of hundreds of years by the cares of the once-pious citizenry. It was beautiful, in a way, the gothic magnificence of the architecture a shadow of the cathedrals back home. The last building in town to be cleared, it was also the den of the heretics within. Although no sounds emanated from the structure, shadows were dancing along the stained glass windows aligning the sides. They were here, they _had_ to be.

Hatred filled him, a desire for retribution not only for their heinous act of turning their backs on the light of the Emperor, but for defiling the purity of their own place of worship. It was unthinkable to even imagine how a human being could fall so low.

Guardsmen rushed in from all directions, dismounted infantrymen beginning their preparations for a massed assault and the battle tanks preparing to obliterate the building from the face of the planet. Orders had apparently not yet been given as to whether the Colonel wanted to clear the church or demolish it.

Sergeant Fiorenza gathered his men around him in a circle and knelt to the ground. “Okay fekkers, this here,” he withdrew his combat knife and scratched the outline of the chapel into the dirt, “is the church. The main entrance is here.” Etching a notch into the outline, he indicated the thick doors gracing the façade. “We won’t be using that one, too obvious and as much as you’re all more or less useless, I’m far too pretty to die.” Private Asin snickered, only to be backhanded by the sergeant. “That’s the Emperor’s honest truth, arse.”

“Men of Larilla, assemble around the _Swift Strike!_” Vox casters shrieked Commissar Hinzer’s voice over the courtyard, piercing through the thrum of activity.

Fiorenza stood up, kicking dirt over the sketch he had drawn. “Right, boys, you heard the man. Get your arses over there!”

Enzo hurried over to the ancient Conqueror, having been commandeered by the battalion commander for the purposes of the mission. His Baneblade would have never made it through the narrow streets. For the sake of minimizing collateral damage to the town’s infrastructure, the _Death Strike_ remained behind the front lines, in the care of the battle group’s support personnel. _Well the armour and artillery kind of defeated the purpose on that one._ The town had still been blown to hell, but, as the sergeant says, _it is what it is._

Major Anton stood on the front slope of the tank, arm casually slung over the main cannon tube. Enzo liked the man considerably; his easy manner and approachability had made him a favourite amongst the men. He talked to them like they were people, not cannon fodder. A refreshing change, especially for a tanker. His constant half-smile had won him more battles than any of the hard-bitten bastards that filled the ranks of the First.

Hinzer stood beside him, deep black greatcoat billowing behind him in the breeze. His icy grey eyes were hidden under the shadow cast by the brim of his commissarial cap. The man seemed perpetually wrapped in shadows, his inner intensity and pure force of will managing to snub out any light around him. The man was, if nothing else, _professional_. He stood, one hand curled in a fist and the other holding his bolt pistol, across the tank from the major.

They were a study in contrasts, the easy-going officer and the cold-hearted commissar.

“Men of Larilla, your Emperor has called upon you today for a harrowing task,” Hinzer spoke first, his zealous voice echoing from the shattered buildings and the stone chapel. “Today you must face your darkest fears yet again,” his tone was steady, completely unwavering, unerringly confident, “You must cast aside these trepidations and conquer them before they can conquer you. Steel your hearts, and you shall not be found wanting in His eyes. Whatever comes, know this: you are the dogged warriors of the Emperor, and you will not fail!”

Despite their dislike for the man, he could turn a rousing speech. There was no applause, but Enzo could see several heads nodding with approval. Without so much as a smile, the commissar leaned across the cannon, passing the hand-held vox caster to the major.

“Boys, seems like we’ve made a mess!” Anton grinned as he spoke, eliciting a cheer from the assembled Guardsmen. “It’s been a clean sweep so far, but don’t let it fool you,” he paused a moment, lowering his voice and taking on a somber tone, “These heathen bastards have holed up here, of that I’m certain. Don’t let the fact that it’s been easy so far get you sitting on your trigger fingers.” 

He held up a piece of parchment for theatrical effect, there was no way anyone could see the print scribbled upon it. “Heretics have overrun this village, have thrown aside their vows of fealty to the Emperor of Mankind. We have cleared it thus far, and now we are left with one final task,” another pause for dramatic effect before sharing the final decision, the plan of attack, “And while I know the First would do a lovely job of leveling this pretty little church,” a roaring cheer built up from the men of the Sixty Fourth, “Our footslogging brothers get the pleasure!”

Thrusting his clenched fist into the air, he shouted, “Men of Larilla, strike fast!”

“Strike hard!” The response shook the ground.

*****

Enzo stood across from Cirazza, the younger man bracing his shotgun against his shoulder. They were waiting, again, for the command; six hundred guardsmen were arrayed around the building, ready to breach the doors and the windows in a furious show of the Emperor’s vengeful fury. His heart was beating again, the anticipation filled him along with the terror.

The deserted town had done only fueled his trepidations; the fear of the unknown was overwhelming. Anything could lay within the chapel, and each of those varied possibilities ran through Enzo’s mind, each more terrifying than the last.

Standing behind him, chest pressed against his back, Sergeant Fiorenza listened intently to his vox bead. As soon as he squeezed Enzo’s shoulder, he would signal Cirazza to shoot the lock off the- _Oh s*** he squeezed._

“Go!” He braced himself as Cirazza squared himself to the door and blasted the handle with a single, deafening shot. “Go go go!” He veered to the right, smashing through the now loosely-swinging door. His lasgun was immediately in his shoulder, held at the ready.

Pan left, then right, clear…_Holy Throne._

The smell was the first thing that hit him, not the sickly sweet taint of Chaos, the odor of decay and corruption, but of _incense._ There was the odor of hundreds of humans in close proximity, the stink of sweat and of fear, but not the now-familiar reek of the followers of the Dark Powers.

The threshold opened directly to an upper gantry, dozens of other Guardsmen were pouring through the doors and shattered windows lining the walkway. Below them were hundreds of pews, all arrayed before the pulpit at the fore of the enormous room. Torches lit at the end of each row cast flickering shadows along what was beneath.

The entire population was there. Men, women, and children, all kneeling in prayer, chanting as one. At the pulpit was the town’s priest, bellowing a sermon to his assembled congregation.

“Fan out! Fan the fek out!” Veering to the right, he ran to the balustrade and took up a firing position. _God-Emperor, there’s hundreds of them._ They did nothing; no one looked up, no one so much as moved. They just kept kneeling there.

“It is written, in those last days, that He will visit his Holy Wrath upon the Faithless, the Alien, and the Mutant!” The priest roared from his dais into his amplifier, his words echoing through the chamber.

Looking around, Enzo saw that the rest of the Guardsmen were as transfixed as he. Hundreds of them lined the upper tier and more poured in with each passing second. They were frozen, unsure as what to do.

“And He will take the Faithful into His embrace! Hold them to His bosom while He rains destruction upon His enemies!” _ Fek he just keeps going._ The preacher had not yet even glanced at the soldiers filling the chamber.

Enzo recognized the sermon. These were not the words of a heretic, of one who had been lost to the insanities of the Ruinous Powers, these were the words from the Lectitio Devinitatus. _These people are not heretics. Fek._

“Sarge, these people,” Enzo stammered.

“I know.” For once, Fiorenza’s voice was soft, the hard edge was gone.

The stream of Guardsmen slowed to a trickle as Commissar Hinzer and Major Anton strode through the primary entrance. Anton’s expression was one of pure shock; he too had expected a nest of decadence, not the pious in sincere supplication to the God Emperor.

Enzo watched as Hinzer racketed his bolt pistol, the fire of fanaticism bright in his eyes. He nodded deferentially to the major, knowing his role was not in command. “Major?”

Anton was visibly taken aback for a moment, staring at the scene in complete disbelief. “Intel, they said that, what the _fek_ is going on?”

Finally, the preacher took notice of the Sixty-Fourth’s arrival. “Men of the Emperor’s Sword, we lay ourselves before you in judgment in these, the Final Days.” He stepped down from his platform, striding down the central aisle with a stiff but confident gait. The major and the commissar simply stared, Anton in fascination and Hinzer in contempt.

Hinzer snapped his attention back to the stunned major, “Your men await your decision, _Major._”

Cirazza whispered into Enzo’s ear, “What the fek is going on?”

Jumping a bit at the sudden intrusion, Enzo scowled, “Someone fekked up, that’s what.” Looking back at the assembled worshippers had still not moved, all were genuflecting towards the dais and the bronze aquila hanging above it. “This must be the wrong town or something, I don’t know.”

“Shut your damn yappers,” hissed Fiorenza. The old bastard had found his rancour again. “I’m sure we’ll be back to blasting chaos loons before you know it, just shut up.”

“Roger, Sarge.”

Turning his attention back to the rear of the chapel, he saw Major Anton talking furiously onto the vox. “Six Four Primus, this is One One, sitrep to follow, break.” The man was flustered, his voice high, “dismounts have secured the chapel, however there seems to be a discrepancy, break.” He visibly was taking deep breaths between the breaks in his transmission, gaining composure to keep his voice steady and professional.

“There are no cultists here, intel was wrong,” he rubbed his eyes with his free hand, “I say again, the people here are_ not_ tainted.”

The vox caster’s external speakers were not on, making Enzo incapable of eavesdropping on the other end of the conversation. He felt his heartbeat quicken, this is unreal.

“Sir, with all due respect,” the major’s voice was raised now, indignation filling his every word, “I don’t _care _what the analysts fekking say, I’m _staring_ at them. This,” he was cut off as the priest, bowing before him, grabbed onto his hand, pressing it against his craggy cheek. “Sir, I can’t do that.”

“And His faithful children will look to their saviors, and feel great gladness, for they have passed through the eye of the needle and been found worthy,” the priest’s voice was quiet yet managed to fill the entire chamber with its power. “We thank you, Champions of the Emperor, Guardians of man—”

His words were cut short as a single gunshot blew the man’s head apart, spattering brain matter and skull fragments over the major and the commissar. The latter held his smoking bolt pistol out, having just executed judgment over the old man. A wisp of smoke wafted through the air, mingling in with the haze of the burning incense.

Enzo felt a leaden weight sinking in his stomach. Revulsion filled him, _this isn’t happening. We’re here to destroy the uprising and protect the people._

“Major,” Hinzer’s voice was cold, barely a whisper, “the Colonel has given his order.”

_No no no._ His service in the Guard was something in which he took great pride. He _protected_ the innocent. _Not this. Throne, no. Please, no._

The echoing report of the weapon was replaced by a new sound, the moaning of the people. They knew what was about to happen, what their final judgment had been.

Anton turned to the Commissar, laspistol in hand. “Commissar Hinzer, what in the hell have you done?” Blood dripped down his face as he gestured towards the villagers, “These are _not_ heretics. They are loyal!”

_No no no_. Collateral damage, the accidental deaths of civilians during military operations was one thing, but this was outright _murder. _

Hinzer slowly shook his head, “Major, the Colonel has _clearly_ instructed you to continue with the cleansing of Six Four Beta.” He cast his gaze about the assembled Guardsmen and parishioners, before turning his icy stare back to Anton. “There is no interpretation of the matter, _issue the order._”

Anton holstered his sidearm, defiance filling his eyes. “I will not.”

“Very well,” voice calm, the commissar casually lifted his bolt pistol and shot the major in the head.

Horrified, Enzo could do nothing but watch as the torso slowly toppled, spurting bright arterial blood onto the polished wooden floor. The corpse twitched uncontrollably, spraying blood onto the commissar’s shining black boots. _Throne no!_

“Men of Larilla! Your Emperor has called upon you!” Commissar Hinzer’s voice trembled with zeal, overflowed with fervor. “You shall not be found wanting! Execute these heretics!” His bolt pistol was held in the air, no one doubted what the man would do if they, too, did not obey. “These are your orders!”

_This is murder, this is wrong._ Agony filled Enzo, he was torn between his duty to the Emperor and his fear of retribution. The pit in his stomach was blossoming into a black hole, its gravitational pull inexorably drawing in his conscience, his righteousness. _His purity._

An echoing discharge of the bolt pistol ended another hesitant Guardsman’s life.

A woman broke ranks from the rest of the worshippers, falling to her knees and crawling towards one of the soldiers. Dressed in rags, her pitiful figure looked up, pleading to the man for deliverance. Instead, as a natural reflex, he pulled the trigger. 

The lasfire began in earnest, as years of training ingrained into their very souls took control, firing in response to their fellows in a disciplined volley.

The moan was replaced now, by screams. Enzo squeezed his eyes shut, wincing at the never-ending flashes of red. _The screaming…_

Without knowing how, he realized that his trigger well was depressed, his weapon bursting in fully automatic fire into the helpless mass below. _Oh God Emperor no._ The wailing, the terror, infiltrated him, burrowed into him. Despair gripped his heart, but he could not let go of the firing stud. _What am I doing?_

The volleys of lasfire seemed to last an eternity; an endless chorus of spattering fire in atonal symphony with the agonized cries as the Sixty Fourth poured shot after shot of energy into the thronging mass of flesh and fear.

As abruptly as it had started, the firing stopped as lasguns ran dry.

Enzo’s finger was still pressed down, painfully so, on the trigger. He could not will his eyes open, _would not._ The screaming was gone. He felt tears streaming down his face, the tears of a damned man, of a murderer. _What have I done?_

The silence was deafening.


----------



## Boc

This short was my entry for HOES #3, _Betrayal_.

Are You Ready, Brother?​
‘Are you ready, brother?’ a voice softly asked.

Uninvited and unexpected, the sudden question shattered Bravvick’s brooding reverie. His mind swam back to the moment as his eyes focused on the warrior seated ahead of him. Despite the identical appearance of the Astartes’ seated along the rows of the Stormbirds passenger bay, Bravvick could pick out the helmeted figure of Eudeves, crammed between Zors and Paelleoth.

‘Bravvick?’ Eudeves asked.

Inside his own helmet, the Space Marine sighed and closed his eyes. ‘Yes, Brother,’ he responded over the private vox channel his squadmate had contacted him through.

‘Are you ready?’ Eudeves repeated.

_Am I ready?_ Can _I be ready_? A sudden onslaught of emotion assailed him, a tidal wave of nauseating guilt intermingled with confusion and… _fear_. ‘There is no preparation for this,’ he said softly. ‘Nothing could prepare us for what is to come.’

As if in sympathy for his inner turmoil, the landing craft shuddered as it broke the atmosphere. The hundred of his brothers aboard shook about in their restraining harnesses like ragdolls, as the inelegant craft fought against the shear of the wind and the sudden resistance of the air.

‘We have a clear plan,’ his comrade stated, ‘all has been laid before us, and the only deed that remains is its execution.’

_If only it were so simple._ ‘I am afraid I do not see things quite as black and white as you.’ He paused, fighting down the bile that threatened to surface. ‘Do you not realize the magnitude of what is to come? The implications for the future?’ How could he be so foolish? Could he not see, not understand?

Eudeves was silent for a moment, possibly lost in his own thoughts, possibly ignoring Bravvick’s imploration on the matter. The moment stretched on, lost in the pulsating vibrations overwhelming the cabin.

Finally, Eudeves responded, ‘The ends justify the means.’ His voice was soft, and Bravvick knew that at least some understanding of the import of their actions had finally materialized. ‘We must do as our Primarch has taught us.’

Shaking his head, Bravvick sighed again. ‘I only wish it were so easy, Brother Eudeves.’

A new voice cut through their conversation, the stern voice of their Brother Sergeant, ‘Are you ready, brothers?’ he asked. Bravvick sub-vocalized his affirmation and fell silent. ‘Prepare yourselves then, we will be on the ground in two minutes. Check and confirm basic combat loads: ammo loads, det loads, ration loads,’ their Sergeant paused a moment. ‘Steel yourselves, my Brothers,’ he said, ‘for what we do today shall forever resonate across the stars. Remember that, remember why we are here, and you will have the fortitude to go on.’ 

Closer to the aft of the Stormbird, the solitary figure of Sergeant Ulises stood as he addressed his warriors. ‘If you find yourself doubting, look to your left and your right. Your Brothers will be there, and they will be strong. Do as your Brothers, and you shall do your duty.’ Ulises cocked his head for a moment, ‘Ninety seconds,’ he called out, ‘you _are _ready, my Brothers.’

The rest of the flight passed in a blur of checks and rechecks as Bravvick verified bolter round counts, frag and krak grenade availability, chainsword operability, and a myriad of other small details to ensure that he was ready to jump out and fight if the need arose.

It did not. The Stormbird landed softly, and the trembling dulled to a background roar as the engines cut off and the egress ramp lowered. As one, the Marines stood and faced to the rear, their bolters held at port arms across their chests in pristine parade manner.

Cutting himself off from his emotions, Bravvick stared at the back of the head of the Marine in front of him, simply falling in to the flow of the detachment as they jogged out the back of the landing craft.

Immediately, a new rush of activity and sound assailed his senses as a scene of utter cacophony greeted him. _Thousands _of Astartes ran back and forth, hauling anything from field-ready defensive emplacements to crates of ammunition. Running in line behind his Brothers, he did see a pattern to the chaos, as every Astartes was set about fortifying the plateau upon which the drop site was situated.

But more so than the activity, he could feel the _hatred_. The warriors around him reeked of bitterness, of anger. Although not cursed with the wych-sight, the complete antipathy that radiated from many of the assembled Marines was staggering. Each command barked, each functions-check of weapon systems was tainted with the underlying enmity that filled every corner of the drop zone.

‘Eighth Company, on the Colours!’ Ulises called out to his men over the vox.

Immediately, the formation shifted left towards the fluttering emerald Standard. It was wedged directly in the middle of the massive defensive line, shadowed by rapidly-constructed ramparts that stretched for a kilometer in either direction. The Marines rapidly fanned out, assuming a firing line behind the Aegis barriers.

Then Bravvick heard it. The sounds of distant battle, screams of hate and betrayal, of Titans and Marines butchering one another by the thousand.

Slowly, the sounds died out as more and more Space Marines fell into their positions along the defensive line. Bravvick waited, his hearts in his throat. _Am I ready? Can I do this?_ Never before had he known doubt, and now it threatened to crush him under its immeasurable burden. He could not believe it had come to this, it had all gone wrong. Everything he had spent the last hundred years fighting for was, no, _had _disintegrated. Squinting, he could just make out figures on the horizon, drawing nearer by the second through the cordite haze as they ran towards the drop zone.

‘Are you ready, Brothers!’ Again those damned words, the question of loyalty and of belief. ‘Are you ready?’ Ulises called out yet again.

_I am not...I can not..._

He looked to his left at Eudeves, who stood immobile, resolute. He looked to his right at Brother-Sergeant Ulises, who met his gaze and nodded. Bravvick swallowed his revulsion and primed his bolter.

In the distance, a single burning flare shot into the heavens.

The Raven Guard and Salamanders drew nearer, equal parts exhaustion and relief evident across their noble features as they sought haven and resupply from the fierce battle on the Urgall Plateau.

_‘FIRE!’_


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## Boc

This piece was my entry for HOES #2, _Thirst._

Grey​
The world is grey.

Grey, _dull_. It has been..._years... how many?_...since I have felt truly alive. I crave... _sensation._

However, my desires are denied to me. My cravings continue unsatisfied. I am trapped in my own inadequate body, trapped by my inability to act upon my urges, my uncontrollable urges.

Once, I was free, unshackled by these fools, these _pawns_. I roamed the stars, enslaving thousands, _millions_, showing them the meaning of true release.

I feel a stirring within me, a desire, indescribable in its intensity. Yet still, without the ability to act upon it, my thirst continues unabated, in this grey world.

Frustration seizes me, hatred flows through my veins. For the millionth time, I struggle at my bonds, at the chains holding me to the stone wall of this dungeon, in captivity like a dog. For the millionth time, I listen intently, desperate to hear a groan in the steel, a weakness in the links.

The cuffs dig into my skin, scraping away the layers of coagulated blood and scarcely healed flesh. The pain courses through my body, and my arousal at the sensation heightens.

I scream. I scream until my throat is raw, and I hawk bloody phlegm onto the dusty rocks below me. I shudder again in utter ecstasy, at the pleasure of the pain, without one there cannot be another, and I remember.

I remember the time... before, when I was free. Free to satisfy my thirst, my thirst for pain, pleasure, _death_. To one that has not experienced it as I, it is indescribable. Without it, without the shrieks of pain competing with my cries of abandonment, life has no meaning. To a being such as I, a chosen son of Slaanesh, an immortal, existence is futile and purposeless.

The warp take the bastards for apprehending me. The Angels of Fire Space Marines had been awaiting my arrival and ambushed me immediately upon my reversion to realspace from the aether. Their Librarians have tried to break me, to learn the whereabouts of my brethren. I have not caved, as their torture is the only pleasure in this grey place. My mission incomplete, there will only be shame awaiting my return to my brethren upon the _Theta_. The Venom Guard will be displeased with my failure... _unless_...

I must bring my masters a prize. A prize that will provide for the future of the Venom Guard.

Again, I scream with exertion as I pull at my bonds, and listen. Heavy drops of my blood spatter in the dust, against the walls. I ignore the bolts of ecstasy that shudder through my body, and pull.

A creak. _A creak_. Yes, a creak. The steel has finally come to its breaking point, and is losing its integrity.

I scream again, not the frustrated and impotent cries of the captured, but the roar of the possessed. I pray to my master for strength, I cry litanies to His unholy Name.

_He answers!_ Power flows through my arms and I pull harder yet... harder... _harder! Crack!_ The chains snap, shattering my manacles and lacerating my arms. My body quivers at the flare of pain... _exquisite._

I bring my wrists to my mouth, running my long tongue along the blood pouring from my wounds. The coppery taste, it has been far too long since I have satisfied my thirst with it...

Another creak, different this time, shatters my moment of triumph. A scarlet and gold helm appears from behind the massive entry; the sentry has been alerted by the noise.

I cry out again, a scream of undying hatred, unyielding lust, and dive for the head. The figure is quick, bursting the door open in an attempt to throw me back.

It is too late. I have my enemy’s head grasped in my hands. He struggles, throwing blow after blow into my naked torso. A rib snaps, and I am unable to suppress my cry of ecstasy at the sensation.

With a mighty tug, I pull the warrior to his knees, and twist his head violently. With a loud snap, I shatter the Angel’s neck and the body becomes limp.

Rapidly, I strip the warrior of his armour, and don it myself. The spirit within fights at first, but it is weakened by the sudden demise of its master. I remove the helm and again pray to my God, and feel the brush of the warp as the armour’s spirit is subdued and enslaved to my will and it bonds with my carapace. Sensations flood through me, not the pleasure of pain of the infliction of it, but the heightened awareness only fully attained through the Astartes-armour bond.

I kneel down beside the limp form of the warrior, gently laying my helm beside him. I see he still yet lives, and an unbound fury lights his eyes. His hatred runs deep, almost as deep as my own.

‘Fear not, young one,’ I whisper into the paralyzed Space Marine’s ear, ‘your sacrifice will be remembered. Your death will bring new life to my Company, and your life will fuel the fires of Chaos as they burn your Imperium to the ground.’

His eyes flare with his impotent rage and I laugh as I bend down over him.

I am no apothecary. I do not have the proper devices to extract the Marine’s precious geneseed. I bare my mouth, unhinging my jaw and savagely bite into the prostrate Angel’s bare neck. I treasure the gurgle of blood as it pumps furiously through his severed arteries, spraying my face and the walls with a crimson mist.

I pull the geneseed out, still trailing membranes and tissue, and tuck it away into my pirated gear.

The outpost I am imprisoned upon is small, they will not know I have escaped.

My hearts flutter at the thought of the coming slaughter as I engage the fallen Marine’s chainsword.

I will escape. I will drink again the pleasures of existence, satisfy my thirst. I will bring my Master the loyalist geneseed to replenish our ranks. I tremble with the thought of the coming slaughter.

I don my helm and smile.

The world is grey, but it will not be so for long.


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## Bane_of_Kings

Awesome stories, Boc, have some rep .


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## Boc

My entry for HOES #6: Contagion.

The Fields of Herdias Prime
Word Count: 1099 including title

He fekking _hated_ the trenches.

Then again, each world seemed like a shithole just a little bit worse than the last. _The grass is greener on the other side of my arse,_ he mused. 

Shaking off the rain collecting on his matte black helm, Derik Vigo grimaced. The humidity, the heat, and the mud were the great triumvirate of Herdias Prime, and he doubted he would be done with it any time soon. The cultists on the other side of No Man’s Land seemed more than happy to sit out the long coming months of the rainy season in their bunkers while the Guardsmen of the Larillan 41st wallowed in filth.

As if reading his glum mood, Cranson chuckled beside him. Glancing over, Derik noticed his squadmate watching him from the autocannon’s mount. ‘Well look at the bright side mate,’ Cranson said, ‘it could be raining the drips!’

Derik sniggered; Cranson, the never-ending optimist, had contracted a venereal disease the last time he had visited the whores on ‘furlough.’ Despite the man’s discomfort while urinating, he still found the whole episode hilarious, and brought attention to it whenever he could.

‘Just keep it in your pants, Cranson,’ he responded, ‘I have no need to have your crotch-contagion spreading, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the commissar would consider you spreading it treason.’ Derik sighted back down his sniper scope, trying to find any movement in the deluge. ‘”Corrupting the holy masses of the Emperor’s Guard,” he’d say. “hampering the ’

‘True, true,’ his friend replied, ‘he’s just jealous I’ve gotten tail.’

Derik resisted bait and kept focusing on No Man’s Land. Truth be told, as much as he liked Cranson’s amiable banter, sometimes he just wanted the man to shut the _hell_ up. It was hotter than a whorehouse on discount days, _and Cranson’d know_, the mud was deep enough to suck the boots from his feet each time he tried to move, and the meteorological team with the 41st reported no end to the rainstorms in the near future.

The damned rainstorms were the reason he was stuck in the trench in the first place. The sodden terrain was too soft for high amounts of armoured traffic, and the tanks and artillery pieces from the rest of the battlegroup had been deemed more important than the 41st’s troop transports. Therefore, Derik and the other four thousand riflemen had to spend a solid week digging trenches. He scowled and stretched his still-sore fingers, feeling the raw skin rub painfully against his flak gloves.

_Well, too late for that synth-skin now,_ he thought. The skin was at least starting to heal, and despite his complete inability to keep the torn blisters dry, at least the pain had receded to a constant ache radiating up his arms instead of the biting stabs it had been.

‘Enjoying the rain, fekkers?’ a voice said behind them. Derik turned to see the Sergeant-of-the-Guard, Lenitto, leaning bareheaded in the shoddily-constructed wooden fighting position. ‘Just making sure you weren’t grabbing a bit o’ shuteye, la-’ He abruptly cut off as a fit of vicious coughing seized his body.

‘Get in uniform before you try calling us out, eh?’ Cranson called back, ‘And announce yourself ahead of time, I can’t hear shite in this rain.’

Sergeant Lenitto could not respond, his body just kept convulsing with coughs. ‘So-_cough_-rry _cough_ don’t kn-_cough_-ow wh-_cough_-at the fek...’ his words died off as he collapsed against the frame of the entryway, clenching his throat.

‘Is he fekking choking?’ Cranson’s voice had risen noticeably, ‘Keep watching, I’ll help him.’ Cranson rushed over to kneel by the hacking sergeant, tossing his kit carelessly to the ground.

Derik tried to focus on No Man’s Land, but there was something about Lenitto’s coughing that made him queasy. It was not the same dry hack or wet wheeze that normally accompanied the ague. He heard the man retching behind him, the heaves and solid splashes into the puddles distinctive over the rain. He felt a wave of nausea rush over him, raising the hairs on his neck. The incessant hacking continued, and he could hear it being echoed down the line.

Glancing back, he saw the sergeant sprawled face down in the mud, a bloody, black ichor spreading from his head. Cranson grasped futilely at his throat from his knees, reaching out to Derik for help. On the man’s pale skin, Derik could see a black stain creeping, corrupting.

He was frozen, not with fear, but with disgust. These men were plagued, and he knew he could do nothing for them. Helplessness welled in his chest as Cranson’s outstretched hand began trembling. The dark rot ate through the fingers, and each fell in a grotesque splash in the water. The taint spread in the water, rancid tendrils shooting out in all directions feeling for a new host.

Pushing himself back into the corner of the fighting position, Derik could do nothing but watch in utter horror as the seeking fingers of decay spread towards him, searching for an opening in his uniform. It found a seam, and he felt his leg ignite. Something was burning him from the inside, a fiery agony that he had never known exploded up his leg as his body consumed itself.

‘God Emperor, preserve us!’ he cried, ripping his flak jacket off and exposing his chest to the rain. The blackness was spreading, filling his veins with decay. So focused was he, staring in abject horror at the stain that he did not notice Cranson collapse limply in the trench, with his rotting stump still stretched to his friend, nor that his boots had fallen freely from feet that had rotted to mush, nor did he see the massive, bloated armoured figure approach his position and gaze inside. He could feel nothing below his waist, only a burn and the sweet odour of his own festering flesh as his chest cavity collapsed.

_Voices..._ ‘Nothing here, Lord,’ a metallic, gurgling voice said from behind him. He tried to turn and look, but his spine had long since liquefied, and his head swung freely from his neck. As his head lolled back and forth and his brain was consumed, he thought he saw the outline of an angel of death.

*****​
‘All are dead,’ Nosfer reported, ‘None resisted.’

Flegmus nodded, unsurprised. These hosts were too mature to adapt to survive the Cleansing. No new souls would be garnered in the Grandfather’s army this day. ‘To the next world, then,’ his voice bubbled, thick with mucus. ‘The Wrathful demands more.’


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## ThatOtherGuy

your rocking my socks with these stories. Keep em up!


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## Boc

Cheers, TOG, thankya!

And ahead is my entry for HOES #8: Mercy.

*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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## Black Steel Feathers

Thiese are amazingly well-written short; if I heard they were in an anthology or thst you'd written a BL book, I would definately buy it. Have some rep! (It's only fair, I believe you gave me some for Blood Always Tells.)


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## Boc

Hrm... it seems my writing has fallen to the wayside. As part shameless bump and part vow to myself and the community, I'll be picking up the pace of my writing again, as I (HOPE) that my work schedule has calmed down a bit. Being gone for 5 of the past 12 months (when not even deployed) has significantly put a damper on my creativity/motivation to write, but I'll get kicking again soon.

Look for updates to the Sons of Larilla storyline, a rework and lengthening of the Rainbow Warriors short Lumen Imperialis, as well as assorted HOES entries, coming soon!


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## Boc

Well... I figured I'm allowed a bump occasionally even if I haven't written squat


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## ThatOtherGuy

took the time to read some of em. Really good mate.


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## Mossy Toes

Whoa, there. Just write a quick 1k word HOES or RiaR story and repost it here, don't bump with nothing. The former is classy, pretty simple, and cool; the latter is gawky and just plain lazy. 

Speaking of which, my own story collection thread is a month or so out of date. Perhaps I should update it, too...


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