# Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories 12: The End



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Here's how it works:

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

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

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

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

*Word Count*

The official word count for this (and only this) competition will be 1,500 words. There will be a 10% allowance in this limit, essentially giving you a 1350-1,650 word range with which to tell your tale. This is non-negotiable. This is an Expeditious Story competition, not an Epic Story nor an Infinitesimal Story competition. If you are going to go over or under the 1350-1,650 word limit, you need to rework your story. It is not fair to the other entrants if one does not abide by the rules. If you cannot, feel free to PM me with what you have and I'll give suggestions or ideas as to how to broaden or shorten your story.

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

Without further ado...

The theme for this month's competition is:

*The End*

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

The deadline for entries is Midnight US Eastern Standard Time (-5.00 hours for you UK folks)*Saturday, 24 December 2011*. Voting will be held from *25 December - 31 December* (convenient how it works out that way, is it not?)

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

Partipation - 5 reputation points, everyone will receive this
3rd place - 10 reputation points
2nd place - 20 reputation points
1st place - 30 reputation points

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

Without further nonsense from me, let the writing begin!

*Table of Contents*
Gothik - End Game

VulkansNodosaurus - Blossoming

Adrian - Ellie

Mossy Toes - Remembrance

Andygorn - Some Things are Lost, Others Borrowed, Others Eroded or Ripped Away


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

For starters, a shout out to Mossy Toes for proposing the (embarrassingly obvious, now that I think of it) current topic! I'm still accepting ideas for next year's run, which will ideally consist of topics that can flow together to give some authors who choose the capability of making extended storylines that can go from one month to the next (not a requirement of course, but it's fun to make stuff tie-in), yet still broad enough to keep the current trend of standalone stories as well.

Looking forward to seeing what you all throw at us! I know I've got a sinister idea in the making... now just to find the damn time to write it!


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

Oooooh yes. I was just suggesting something topical to the end of the year, but on consideration of what the theme might entail...

I'm about 60 words into my story so far, and I'm already in love with this month's theme.


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## gothik (May 29, 2010)

End Game

Word count: 1092


It started as a common a garden cold, one of those irritating things that when someone gets it, it passes onto someone else and then someone else and by the time the neighbours cat down the bottom of the street has it, its grown into man flu or something. 

By the end of the week it was an epidemic and was worse then the common cold as people were dying from it. Boffins said it was flu like virus that seemed resilient to normal medicine and therefore was able to mutate to something more deadly…they were right about that.

My shift at the local hospital was dealing with this sporadic outburst but then it was a harsh winter. The snows had come early and the winds had gusted colder then ever before and there were those who would make the sign of the Aquila and mutter about bad omens.

It was a common cold that was all…. but it never is as simple as that. 

The first inkling that something was not right was when one patient, an elderly man in his late seventies came in coughing, sneezing and hawking up blood. The doctors gave him some antibiotic for his chest infection, the nurses made him warm and comfortable. 

Despite his pallor he was joking with them and flirting outrageously saying that if he were forty years younger and all that, Jed and I were passing when we heard him tell a joke that would make a sister of battle blush to a young nurse. Jed sniggered a little and decided to get the old boy to tell him some more meanwhile I went off for some more coffee.

Somewhere between me getting my second hit of caff and the lights going out that was when the screaming started. Jed came barrelling into the canteen, holding his hand to his neck that was starting to look like a fresh cut chop on the butchers slab.

I dropped my mug and ran to help him as he slid to the floor, a couple of others with me. His neck looked like a wild dog had savaged it, I yelled for someone to tell me what had happened as I desperately tried to save my friends life. 

No one could tell me and as I looked into my friends’ eyes I saw them glaze over and knew that I had lost him. Sitting on my haunches I bowed my head in a silent prayer to the Emperor not sure if the old bastard had heard me.

All around me there were screams and I as I came back to my senses I wondered why the screaming should continue, Jed was dead there was no need for it really. Getting up I stumbled for the door and stared in open mouthed horror as the carnage that met my eyes was something out of my worst nightmare. 

Those that had died that day were up and walking and eating staff and other patients. One woman ran round the corner her eyes wide in terror when something dropped from the ceiling and ripped her face off. 

I ducked back behind the door and turned to see Jed sit up and look around then like a shark with his prey lulled into a false sense of security he grabbed one of the orderlies and bit them and continued eating.

The bile rose up from my throat and out onto the floor as the people in the canteen began to run out the room knocking tables and chairs flying. I found myself pushed along on the tide of terror but there was no escape from this nightmare. 

I found one of the security guards we employ for when it is weekend shift and we are dealing with the drunk tank brigade, or at least I found what was left of him, half his torso was ripped away in a hunger endured feast that left his insides all over the floor. 

I screwed my face up and took his gun, and some bullets, it took a few shots to realise that the only way to put them down was shoot them in the head. I managed to find a couple nurses and paramedics like myself and told them to find something they could use as weapons.

As one small spark of sanity in a sea of insanity we made our way towards the offices, with any luck we might be able to call in for re-enforcements but luck was not to be on our side. By the time we got to the offices there were only two of us left a nurse named Freya and me.

I locked the door and we barricaded it as best we could. We had locked ourselves in the security room and there we sat watching the horror before our eyes. The car park spilled over with people wanting to escape, wanting to get home to loved ones and awaits the arrival of the authorities, and Emperor blessed warriors. 

That was not about to happen, they were taken down by these – undead like attack dogs and Freya covered her mouth in shock as once fellow colleagues ripped people apart limb from limb and ate them alive. 

I stop to think about all the things I said I was going to do with the next day and myself today and tomorrow and realise that I might not get the chance. Freya and I are unable to tear our gazes from the security monitors and can only watch as patients are pulled from their beds, children are pulled from their mothers and fathers who in turn go down screaming for their dying child. 

Then a few moments later those same children are attacking anyone around them…its heartbreaking to watch and we know that we cannot stay in here forever but we can see no way out of here.

Suddenly there is an eerie silence for a moment or two, the screaming stops and the moans of the dying and pleas are gone. We think about leaving until we hear the groans and shuffles outside the door. 

Freya can’t take anymore and before I can stop her she grabs my gun, says a prayer to the Emperor and blows her brains out. 

The noises outside the door get louder as they hear the shot and they know I am in here. I pick the gun up and curse the day that damn virus came here…I put it to my head and pull the trigger…


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## Dicrel Seijin (Apr 2, 2011)

Considering all the "end" themes that had been suggested in the other thread, I've already had an idea bouncing around in my head. Now let's see if I can fit it in 1,100 words (I'm not kidding myself, I'll probably hit the limit). Though with this being the last week of school and final exams next week, I probably won't submit anything until the last week of the competition. We'll see.


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

Ah yes, that pesky word limit. I forsee myself running up against it too. I have my story idea--which I can see fitting--but also want to tack on an additional scene of anywhere from one to three hundred words more, and probably won't have space. Ah well. Ah well.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Mossy Toes said:


> Ah yes, that pesky word limit. I forsee myself running up against it too. I have my story idea--which I can see fitting--but also want to tack on an additional scene of anywhere from one to three hundred words more, and probably won't have space. Ah well. Ah well.


Well, you could always simply write the extra scene and post the modified version in a new thread. Or... I am tempted to expand the word limit for the end of the year competition... we'll see, I'll decide by tonight. If it is expanded, it would be 1350-1650 words (i.e. 1500 +/- 10%).

Let me know if you all would want that.


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## Serpion5 (Mar 19, 2010)

That`d be good. for an end of year special.


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## wrycanion (Nov 14, 2011)

The additional word count would likely play into my hands as well.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

I'd like Gothik's response in this as well, since she's the only one that has posted. You'd be able to either keep as is (and I would _strongly_ discourage anyone from giving it preferential/negative treatment for it being shorter) or if you'd like to expand on it to meet a 1500 word count. Thoughts?


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## gothik (May 29, 2010)

actually i might put another one up to meet the extended count and keep that one as is if thats ok boc


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Hello*

Hey, my hard drive crashed and I had to get it replaced so I'm way behind:-(

I think a 1,500 word limit would be great, but Absolutly no going over; no exceptions.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

'Tis done, this month's word limit is 1350-1650 words.


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

Well, here's to hoping I can squeeze something in! It's going to be a close one- I'm now in the heart of finals week and the day after I'm done that I'm going to be traveling for the holidays. The expanded word limit is both intriguing and somewhat unhelpful in this regard, but I'm up for it. 

If by some chance I do get a good chance to stuff something in here, you'll want to monitor this spot.


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

Blossoming
1546 words
VulkansNodosaurus
Heresy Online Expeditious Stories 12: The End​
Fulfillment is conclusion. In a conflict, two forces clash; and when one achieves superiority over the other, the battle ends and the lines of a new one are drawn. But that moment, that ephemereal time of domination and triumph- that is when the struggle and pain become worth it.

But some conflicts, Autarch Steiroel knew, would never be worth it.

He stood now in his magificent control room. As his eyes glazed over the tapestries and sculptures that adorned the bridge, he recognized their beauty once more. The Eldar commander had been so focused on war that now, when he finally let his appreciation out, it was magnified thousandfold.

"Autarch? The Council wishes to talk to you."

Steiroel shrugged. "I wonder if they regret their foolishness? We will need to continue the war for Xartassax soon- the landers are already being prepared. Perhaps the Seer Council will bow down and apologize. I wouldn't count on it, but why else would they contact us at such a time?"

The moment was a decisive one. Despite the seers' promises, an unrestrained force of mon-keigh cultists was burning and looting the Exodite world of Xartassax at the very moment. But their forces had already been defeated in several key engagements, and the planet's native defenders had isolated the servants of the Great Enemy in their base camp- for now. The Eldar had to strike quickly. For instance, right after this discussion was finished.

The image of Farseer Sremmeh appeared on the view-screen.

"Autarch," he said without further deliberation, "we were mistaken. An overwhelming opposing force has landed on Xartassax. You can defeat it, but you are needed elsewhere. I repeat, retreat."

Steiroel scowled.

"And leave these innocents to their fate?" he near-screamed, no longer fighting to contain his anger by the wisdom of his Path.

"Yes! Ulthwe itself is in danger. Your casualties in taking Xartassax will be as great as the number of lives you save. I repeat-"

Steiroel smashed the screen.

"We depart. Now." he proclaimed to a stunned bridge.

Further preparations were quick, but the Autarch- was he still an Autarch, really?- ignored them. He walked towards the landers instead, desperately trying to contain his temper with the promise of coming victory.

It worked. The command of a Warhost was his, and he would need to use it well.

He entered the same lander as he had during the first, disastrous descent to Xartassax. Its other occupants consisted of a Dark Reaper Squad; Tagolles, the Exarch, Ekallae and Irpatoln. They had watched, together, the flames that covered Xartassax, the desperate battle to protect the lander, devoid of much strategy, the draconic rescue, the demolition of the first group of mon-keigh, the audience with the Greater Council of Xartassax, the clashes circumscribing the Exodite world, and finally this return to the ships before the final battle.

Now, they were watching the obsidian hull of the Voidline Wheel and the other ships in Steiroel's fleet recede into the distance, fading to the uniform black of the infinite sky.

"Have you taken the Path of the Outcast now?" Tagolles asked.

Steiroel was silent; he still didn't know for certain what he had done. He knew only that it had been necessary.

The lander fell into the burning atmosphere of Xartassax- scalding to a less well-designed craft, to something made by an inferior race. But within Eldar handiwork, Steiroel felt completely secure.

No, he didn't feel secure. He was secure, and logically aware of it; but any feelings were bent toward the upcoming war.

The lander hurtled down, and then it was hurtling no more. The Eldar came to rest on solid ground. Tagolles opened the hatch again, but this time there was no gunfire, no sound of agony and death. Instead, a silver-black grove stood in front of the lander, and as Tagolles exited, a landscape of amazing hues was revealed to Steiroel. He could smell foul incense in the distance, likely from one of the traitors' campsites; but they were there, and he was here, and it was... perfect.

"The Exodites are able," Ekallae commented.

"That they are," Irpatoln replied, "but we must fight to protect their ability."

Craftworlds were full of great things, and so were Eldar ships; but something in the glory of a incomprehensibly large silica-metal sphere spinning around an even greater ball of hydrogen could not be replicated by sentient hands.

The Squad ceased the talk of beauty quickly, though, as they fanned out towards the stench of smoke. It was insidious, something more than mere flames; the taint of the Great Enemy, the unforseeable, was inherent to it, seeping through the system of Xartassax. The Warhost was purging that unstable system, freeing it of its corruption.

It was corruption uninvited by any Eldar hand: the Exodites were pure, purer than the Eldar of the Craftworlds. They had seen, not psychically but with logic, the future dusk of the Eldar Empire and fleed ahead of time. Logic was a massive tool, a blade to pierce madness; this was what had always been taught by the Craftworlds, and Steiroel agreed with it. He had not rebelled against Ulthwe.

Only the seers.

"Enemy approaching."

Tagolles' voice swerved Steiroel's mind back into the present and the forest in which he now found himself. Chiding himself for getting distracted, yet making sure not to sink into self-hatred, the Autarch took his cannon and fired at a rushing mon-keigh. The human fell back, even as the shot pierced two of his companions. Ekallae and Irpatoln finished off the rest of the troupe; Tagolles hadn't even lifted his weapon.

The Dark Reapers moved forth. Steiroel did not follow them. Instead, he snaked back through the forest, meeting Wapemm, an Exodite leader.

"The disaun are coming."

"They will be useful."

As Steiroel said that, a massive disaun's thunderous steps resounded far to the Outcast-Autarch's right. They were musical, in a sense, though the creature likely had no idea what music was.

More shooting was heard ahead.

"We are needed."

They ran. Steiroel's heavy weapon was resisting, but that was beside the point.

"The battle started eariler than I expected. Move your warriors to the left, join them with the disaun. I will go with you: the sounds of battle seem to be echoing from there."

He wanted to join the battle, but wasn't yet sure he was ready. Without readiness, there could be no success; but without confidence, his doom would be assured. Thus, the Eldar emerged into the clearing that housed the mon-keigh's camp, moments after the shooting had started.

The sight immediately clarified the cause. The divergence from plan had been caused by another disaun, its crew killed, being mounted by the cultists. Even now they were trying to brand its neck, while eldar snipers were attempting to slay the crew without harming the beast.

"Banshees, Scorpions, Spears, to me!"

The three levels of Warriors swung in, while Steiroel made a dash for the dreadnought. The reptile turned, its unending neck pivoting towards its future savior.

"Kill the despoilers!" Wapemm yelled, and Steiroel could not deny the sentiment.

Steiroel leaped onto the beast's neck in one movement, his wings correcting any mistake his body could have made. The Banshees and Scorpions crushed the ladder onto the tortured behemoth, simultaneously climbing it to get a fore-spot at the devastation. The cultists fought back, though, and irreplaceable losses were being suffered.

"Fire Dragons!"

A cloud of flame enveloped the back of the beast. It was a soft kind, too weak to kill the Eldar inside their armor or injure the disaun. It was quite hot enough, though, to mutilate the mon-keigh. The branders had long run away, jumping off the disaun's back rather than facing Steiroel. Only one stood uninjured; in pink-black armor, the perverted and twisted Space Marine jeered at Steiroel. He had a foot firmly embedded in the disaun's back.

"Good-bye," he proclaimed in some Gothic dialect or another.

Steiroel answered by shooting him in the stomach. The reaper launcher enclouded the superhuman, but he merely laughed. Taking off his helmet, he revealed a perfect face- an Eldar face.

"One of you xenos left this on the ground, and as I'd lost my own..."

"Fire Dragons," Steiroel responded.

As the crippled Space Marine collapsed, as the firestorm cleared, the Autarch gazed at the battlefield. It did not yet firmly belong to the Eldar- the disaun's disturbance had confused many. But his plans were undamaged, and the Warhost's forces were still positioned perfectly.


"Finish them!" Steiroel screamed, and rode the disaun into the cult's heart.

* * *

On an unforgotten, aphotic sphere of bone and iron, at the edge of total ruin, two Farseers gazed at Steiroel's victory.

"He could have been a great help."

The other shrugged. "He will be, Cejeran. He will be."

Fulfillment is conclusion. In a conflict, two forces clash; and when one achieves superiority over the other, the battle ends and the lines of a new one are drawn. But that moment, that ephemereal time of domination and triumph- that is when the struggle and pain become worth it.

And the true worth of any clash is not known until long after it ends.


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Ellie*

Ellie


She wept. The tears rolled down her face and fell to the marble floor. The home was quiet enough for the sound of the tears to be as thunder on a rainy day and the close confines of the room only served to echo the sound into reverberating screams of despair and hopelessness.

The little girl wept. The wet sound of her sniffling only compounded the emotion of her longing; the long gasps of air being inhaled through her moist lips as she tried to keep from wailing aloud was heart wrenching.

Slowly she stepped through the darkened hall, each step hidden by the echo of the last. The tears came freely from her swollen eyes, but she did not seem to notice. The little girl’s name was Ellie and she was seven, but that did not matter any longer. 

What was a name when there was no longer anyone to remember it? What was an age when only emptiness and solitude celebrated the passing of the remembrance of her birth? Her nightgown shifted like mist in the breeze that swirled in from an open window some thirty feet away and was almost ghostly in the way it flowed around her.

Ellie was afraid; but more than that, she was lonely. The smooth paneled walls, rich with murals and elaborate pictures of gardens, landscapes and family supported a ceiling, textured with ancient oak and gold leaf. 

Ellie walked slowly through the shadows, past darkened rooms that were once alive with activity and laughter but now were empty and dust filled. She neither looked right or left but moved straight ahead toward the open window. The curtains were blowing inward in the stiff breeze, stretching toward the girl like spirited hands seeking the souls of the lost. 

Ellie walked between them and looked out upon an ancient courtyard where the fountains that once flowed with rippling water now sat dry and empty, leaves possessing the fountain’s depths, moist with rain. 

The darkness of the night along with the damp breeze that drafted in and around her added to Ellie’s disquiet and caused her to tremble, but she stood there looking outward watching and listening for someone, anyone to come and bring her hope again. 

Looking up she saw the low clouds only slightly, but she could tell they were swirling and gray, full of sadness and weeping their grief upon the forgotten mansion.

The wind shifted and caused the rain to drift into the home and collect upon Ellie’s face and mix with her hot tears. Ellie’s gown became wet and heavy and rainwater collected around her feet, but still she stood there unmoving, weeping and remembering. 

‘Ellie, come away from the window and warm yourself by the fire. You will catch a chill standing there.’ her mother said in a soothing voice. Ellie turned and walked through the family room, and approached the fireplace. The orange flames danced and swirled while the embers cracked and popped. The heat of the blaze warmed her flesh and soothed the chillness from her joints. 

Ellie smiled. Her mother sat upon her chair rocking gently back and forth while her dad played an instrument and sang a quiet tune that set Ellie’s heart to stirring emotion. In the corner her brother played with his toys and in the kitchen the staff was preparing supper. 

Outside the birds were singing and the sound of workmen attending to their tasks could be heard. Ellie began to sing with her father while her mother sewed a rip in some clothing her brother had worn. 

The setting sun brought color to the walls and danced off of the crystal goblets and dishes set upon the table. Company would be here soon and supper would be served. There was to be a calibration, excitement was in the air. Ellie was turning seven today, the party would be fun.

Winter winds blew the window open and the curtains began to dance with the breeze. Ellie wrapped her arms around herself, but the cold had become too much for her, she shivered and her teeth chattered in response.

Her father set the instrument down and walked over to the window, but he did not close it, instead he turned to see the front door opening and everything went black. 

Ellie opened her eyes and blinked away her tears, but still she did not move away from the window. She stood there watching the lightning flashing all around while she watched the grounds for any signs of life. 

Ellie’s bare feet shifted in the cold rainwater and she wiggled her toes in the small pool forming around them. The window stood wide open like her eyes, unable or unwilling to close. From deep within, the agony of loneliness began to rise and Ellie began to tremble from the pain and no longer from the cold. 

Struggling to keep quiet she bit her lips. Her teeth tore into them and she could feel the discomfort, but still she refrained from letting the grief spill out. Memories of distant things flooded her mind as she struggled with her hurt. 

Sunlight bit into her flesh on the hot summer day. It burnt slightly but the breeze soothed the heat as she laughed and played with her little brother in the front yard. The fountain jutted forth great streams of water from the mouths of cherubs and crashed down into the pool below. 

Ellie and her brother laughed and played in the cool water until the voice of her mother broke through the moment, ‘Children, come inside. It’s getting dark and soon the cold will set in. You will catch a chill if you don’t hurry.’

The children continued to laugh and play as they made their way inside the mansion. There their mother waited for them with towels in hand and a smile on her face. The smell of her mother’s perfume caught in the air and Ellie took it in. Her mother was beautiful and she loved her so.

The darkness came and with it the cool winds began to blow, but the heat from the fireplace ebbed into the living room and warmed their bodies and took the chill from the air. Their mother began to sing a lullaby as she put the children to bed; her voice soothing and full of comforting life. 

Ellie closed her eyes and everything went black. 

In the darkness Ellie stood alone waiting for someone to come. She did not know how long it had been, but it seemed to her young mind that a long time had passed since she had last seen her little brother or father or heard the softness of her mother’s voice.

The storm clouds seemed to only grow darker and the rains fall harder, as Ellie stood in between the flowing curtains, watching and waiting for something she did not seem to remember anymore. 

How long had it been since last she had seen the light of day. The night had been long and the sun refused to shine. Ellie was tired but she did not know why. She was crying but she could not remember what had caused her pain.

The rains fell in watery sheets and slammed against the side of the mansion’s walls. Ellie closed her eyes as the rain continued to fall upon her face. Something pulled at her will, gently stirring some long forgotten memory. 

‘Mommy?’ she called. The mansion was dark and she was alone, but she could hear her now. She followed the sound of the voice through the darkened halls, water dripping from her hair and cloths. 

She looked back to the open window where only moments ago the storm was raging, but now the sun was shining and the sounds of workmen could be heard. The chirping and singing of birds brought joy to Ellie’s heart and she wanted to go back, but the sound of her mother’s voice was calling.

Ellie turned from the window and looked into the darkness of the regal hall. It was dusty and lifeless and lonely, but from somewhere in its soulless depths the voice she had almost forgotten beckoned her on. 

Step by fearful step she pushed on into the darkness until finally she came to a solitary room. Memories flashed through Ellie’s mind as she walked to the bed that had once been hers. Along the wall were the dolls that she used to play with, but they were old now, covered in filth and wasted almost too much for her to recognize.

From the shadows her mother called, but she no longer sounded the same. She sounded old and tired and as lonely as Ellie had been. In a rocking chair the old woman sat. She held something in her hands and sang a lullaby. Ellie moved close to her old mother, shocked at what had become of her.

Ellie was crying again as she listened to her mother’s voice. The words that were coming from her shattered soul were tormented and wracked with pain. Grief flowed from her lips as she gripped the image tightly in her gnarled, wrinkled hands. 

Ellie looked down into her mother’s hands and saw her own face held there, smiling with light in her eyes. 

‘Mommy?’ Ellie whispered. Ellie closed her eyes and everything went black.

1,560 words.


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Real good.*

I like the way that you continued this story. I like the way it is adding up, but I was unclear on how the tainted Space Marine died. Last thing I knew he took his helmet off, said something; our hero responds by calling in the F. D's, and the battle ends.

A fun read non-the-less. The grammar and spelling were done very well, story was easy to read and I look forward to reading more in contests to come. :so_happy:2 thumbs up.


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

*Remembrance*
1648 words


_The Thudd artillery guns roared again, laying down their barrage as the Vostroyans advanced. Lights flashed in the corner of Corporal Vonsky’s eyes and he turned-_

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

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

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

_Vonsky…_

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

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

_Vonsky…_

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

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

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

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

_Vonsky, where are you?_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Vonsky, where have you been?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That it could devour with savage glee.


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## andygorn (Apr 1, 2011)

*“Somethings are lost, others borrowed, others eroded or ripped away”*
(1647 words not including title)

Cyan lightning creases the violet sky, highlighting the few remaining combatants and the corpses of dozens of the fallen from both sides, but the years of exhausting search had paid off: Velouris had finally been run to ground and was now at their mercy.

Formerly Commander Tsallerian...now Archlord Velouris of The Emperor’s Children... whirls away from the gnawing chainblade of Dorren’s comrade. It is a motion quicker than any mortal man should be able to accomplish; a blessing from his dark mistress.

Pirouetting around the strike, Velouris’ power-rapier lashes out, decapitating his would-be slayer in a fountain of luscious gore. However, the manoeuvre carries him straight onto another’s inert forceblade, piercing his chest and exiting through his powerpack.

*“Now it ends, fiend..! You have cost my Imperium...and my Chapter...too much to be allowed to exist a moment longer!”* Dorren howls into Velouris’ blade-scarred face.

His foe’s sole response is a single belly-laugh and Dorren is instantly enveloped by streaming rays of incandescent colours, numbing his senses, whirling and distorting the space around them.

With no time to activate his defences, Dorren’s strength virtually evaporates beneath the unexpected assault and it takes all of his willpower to try to press the weapon’s activation rune and end Velouris’ threat once and for all.


*****
Was that, perhaps, a vision? Something more..? No, *something worse*...

The _drip-drip-drip_ of liquid rouses him from unconsciousness and his eyes spy a broken tube jutting from a wall, splashing a pale blue substance onto the corroded steel grating of the room’s floor.

Although he can discern the edges of three walls, each attempt to turn his head to see any more -including inspecting his own body for injuries- is accompanied by a distant snort of pain.
Deadened senses slowly returning to cognisance, further testing and movements reveal that the noises are his own.

Attempting to open his mind is even worse: needles of pain stab into his eyes and ears, greeting each of his attempts to conjure even the smallest of hexes.
Finally relenting, an irritating itch at the back of his mind tells him that he is captured by a null-helmet, completely absorbing his psychic talents.

Harsh sodium-yellow lights flicker intermittently:
Stabbed through skulls or slowly fading inside tubes in wall sconces,they illuminate several further alcoves amongst the absurdly spiked iron walls, as well as four large cylinders, their contents as yet hidden from view.

However, as much as Dorren might have preferred otherwise, the lithe form of Archlord Velouris stands patiently to one side, awaiting his arousal from sleep.

*“Brother Garten: Second Company banner-bearer to Captain Koreth; showed bravery to the end, six hours twelve minutes."

“Brother Hentreth: not so long out of the Scout companies, I understand? Ferocious vehemence at the start, then tailed off towards the end. Only four hours six minutes.

“Apothecary Astoran: I think his knowledge of anatomy served him in good stead, as he understood which parts of himself to shut down to lessen the nerve-agony; nine hours fifty eight minutes...I had hoped for him to break the ten hour record...ah well.

“Lastly, we come to Company Champion Xeris: I had hoped for much more from that one, to be honest. I’d have thought he would hold out longer than the rest. Yet, perhaps one of your Chapter’s famous death-oaths took him? Anyway, not much of an achievement at five hours twenty two minutes.“*

Raging against his bonds as the last of his fallen bodyguards was read out, Dorren throws himself against his bonds. Despite the hooks in his back tearing at his skin, enough of them hold tight to restrain him.

However, again, he wondered why his limbs were not responding as they should.
If he was still affected by a general anaesthetic to keep him sedated, surely his mind would have been befuddled as well, instead of remaining alert and aware?

The flick of a switch illuminates an ornate weapon stand of crude black iron and soft purple leather.
He instantly recognises his wargear, tantalisingly out of reach, but his hearts sink heavily within his chest, for he knows they face a defiled future; their holy virtues awaiting the tainted warpcraft of Velouris’ thrall Dark-Magi.

Rearding the welcomingly familiar forms of his blade and combi-bolter, he also suddenly recognises Xeris’ tattoos of loyalty inscribed into the surface of what he thought was leather.

Although he has nothing in his stomach to vomit forth, he still dry-retches into the stale dank air as he tries not to imagine what has happened to his comrades, even though his eyes cannot deny the truth of their fates.

Velouris’ ever-present laughter is the perfect juxtaposition to the abominations he had committed over many centuries.

*“Ah, I see the rage in your eyes...soon to be harnessed to the yoke of Khorne, but primarily in thrall under my leash.
"You long to tear free and rip open my throat with your bare hands.
"Or, perhaps, to gouge out my eyes with your thumbs just like I did to Xeris?
"Sadly, that will be imposible now.”*

Turning theatrically, the tormentor indicates two of the now-illuminated cylinders.
Dorren can only watch in horror as his own heraldry of three serrated azure blades upon a golden field are displayed...the dangling shoulder pads still contain the remnants of his arms.

*“It would be extremely ingracious of me but –as you are my guest- if you insisted, I suppose I would also have to display your legs, too..?”*

Dorren’s head falls forwards in resignation: few amongst his hard-pressed Chapter even knew of their mission to hunt down Velouris and end his madness.

He felt shame at the loss of the battle, but -instead of thinking of rescue- he knew that there would be no-one coming to finish their duty and put an end to their prey:
The years of careful study and warpcraft which had led them to The Archlord’s base had been for naught and the Slaanesh-lover would be back into the warp to spread his poisons elsewhere...perhaps for the rest of time.

The pull of a lever and cogs groan and hiss as a section of wall slides back with a scream of tortured metal and a deluge of rust.

The occupant of the room beyond is a twenty foot tall, slab-sided abomination of tattered flesh and roughly-beaten metal.

Hunched forwards like the player of a Terran game from ancient times, it’s hammer-fist and huge-barrelled flamers jut forwards eagerly to welcome his end.

Behind the inches-thick armour, bloodstained pistons and sharply-toothed grimy gears speak about lifetimes of slaughter; millennia spent in thrall to the Dark Gods.

Recognising the Dreadnought in an instant, Dorren had memorised the reasons for the majority of those stains from annals in the Chapter’s Librarium, for this was Veouris’ closest attendant in over a hundred campaigns.

Frustrated by his dismemberment, at the complete mercy of the predator he had thought to tear down, Dorren’s ragged voice now betrays the deep cracks of his slowly fragmenting willpower.

However, he either does not realise it, or no longer cares, unthinkingly becoming the pawn Velouris has awaited for so many years:

*“Your Lieutenant, Abraxis? You mean to set that...thing...on me when I am in this condition? I welcome it, for you grant me the quickest of deaths!”*

As ever, the delicacy of Velouris’ lilting voice belies the barbarity of his inner beast:

*“After almost 6,000 years of loyalty, Abraxis finally outlived his usefulness. Most of him was swilled away down some drain or other as he sacrificed himself for a more worthy pilot, although I doubt he saw it that way himself...*

*“However, spare no thoughts of pity for him, or for your band of failed assassins. Our usual supplies of the nutrient paste which sustains you ran out over 3 months ago, so they all still serve...after a fashion...”*

Beaten down by repeated humiliations and his prodigious courage finally overcome by the horrors, Dorren vomits gobbets of red-flecked bile, coating the floor in his stomach’s lining. Some of it splashes Velouris’ boots and then all Dorren can see is his captor’s smile, millimetres away.

*"You wish for death? An end to all of this torment?”* Velouris questioned, a playful note entering his voice once more.

*“Yet I shall be gracious and will not grant it...a close ally such as yourself needs to be kept where I can see you.
"One day, you may see the error of your ways and worship Her as much as I do.
"Or perhaps witness the error of our ways and turn upon me.
“Excepting annihilation from enemy ordnance, the latter is the only way in which you will escape the former, but you will make war upon any enemy of my choosing until that time comes.
“Of course, those foes include your former comrades...an outpost of whom this cruiser now approaches.”[/I]*

The slow-acting cancer-like realisation seeps into Dorren’s consciousness:
Tsallerian had always been renowned for his attention to detail, but –instead of flinging him into insanity like the Librarian had hoped- the transformation into Velouris had merely sharpened every warped facet of that being into the keenest of edges.

Such secrets would not be being divulged unless Dorren has already consumed sufficient of the Dreadnought’s former pilot (and his own comrades) to achieve the effects Velouris desired; regardless of what his own mind wanted.

Half of his brain fell into meditation-mode and he could almost feel the toxins and dishonour coursing through his veins, subverting his loyalty with each degree.

Helplessly watching Velouris exiting the chamber...even though the mere concept was blasphemy against all that he knew...the only realisation that Epistolary Dorren’s degraded half-body could summon was to pray for the end, regardless of whichever direction it came from.

The knowledge of his forthcoming role in his comrades’ doom envenomed his entire being, yet there was no hope remaining.

The end...now desired...would never come.


_[EDIT: By way of explanation, I would imagine that the "somethings lost" would be the battle and Dorren's quarry; the "somethings borrowed" would be his foodstuffs and the "somethings eroded or ripped away" would be his honour & loyalty.
A little simplistic perhaps? I'm not sure, but hopefully evocative. Comments/criticisms/etc always welcome, because I am always trying to improve and they are stories for yourselves, after all. Andygorn]._


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

Mossy Toes, you have a brilliant mind. :shok:


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Hi*

andygorn, you get better with each story you write.


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

Nice stories from everyone!

Adrian, on my story: the Space Marine had been protected from the first firestorm by his armor. Then he took his helmet off to boast of his invulnerability. Thus, his head got burned the second time around.


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*okay*



VulkansNodosaurus said:


> Nice stories from everyone!
> 
> Adrian, on my story: the Space Marine had been protected from the first firestorm by his armor. Then he took his helmet off to boast of his invulnerability. Thus, his head got burned the second time around.


So the guy was a real hot-head huh. lol. :ireful2: Heeeees on fire! :biggrin: Man that really burns me up. :crazy: The dude was a real flamer. :taunt: Hot love'n. :laugh: He'll keep the torch lit. :rofl: They really lit up his life.  The fires of his love keep getting hotter and hotter. 

Oh, the pain. My fat belly is jiggling with raw humor.


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## wrycanion (Nov 14, 2011)

Adrian said:


> So the guy was a real hot-head huh. lol. :ireful2: Heeeees on fire! :biggrin: Man that really burns me up. :crazy: The dude was a real flamer. :taunt: Hot love'n. :laugh: He'll keep the torch lit. :rofl: They really lit up his life.  The fires of his love keep getting hotter and hotter.
> 
> Oh, the pain. My fat belly is jiggling with raw humor.


:laugh:I have a _burning_ desire to have you flogged.:laugh:


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Hello*

Merry Chrismas. You all do not know how much you have helped me through some hard times, but thanks a lot for the feedback, CC and kind words over the last year. 

Good luck in the voting, - Adrian.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Merry Christmas, all!

This concludes the entry portion for this competition, the voting thread will be up shortly. 

*Reminder:* You don't need to have written a story to vote for the others!


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