# Heresy Online's Expeditious Storied 5: Hatred



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Here's how it works:

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

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

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

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

*Word Count*

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

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

Without further ado...

The theme for this month's competition is:

*Hatred*

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, 28 May 2011*. Voting will be held from *29 May - 4 June.*

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​*
Bane_of_Kings: Vengeance for the Lost
Gothik: Both Sides of the Coin
ThatOtherGuy: Hatred
GregorEisenhorn: Hatred
Andygorn: Devastation in Prague
Gaius Marius: Blood Ride
Akatsuki13: All That is Left
Svartmetall: Sedition


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## BlackGuard (Sep 10, 2010)

Well assuming my computer doesn't go out again, I actually do intend to submit a piece to this one. Lol.


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## Akatsuki13 (May 9, 2010)

Hmm... The gears are turning once more. There's plenty of easy ones to go for, especially in the 40k setting so I think I'm going to go for another WHFB story.


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## andygorn (Apr 1, 2011)

The germ of a WFB-based story came to me about the warband of Sebastian Scarabus from the old Realm of Chaos 'Lost And The Damned' book, which is the only place I've read about them and -as far as I know- they don't appear in any novels (but where, hopefully, the story wouldn't require someone to have read the old stuff to get the meaning). But do people think something with these characters in would be sufficiently 'original' enough for this competition? Or not?

I'd be grateful for any replies/feedback, thanks AndyG.


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## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

*Vengeance For The Lost*
_1043 Words_

THEY HAD REDUCED us to nothing. 

They had smashed down our homes and tore apart our lives as though they meant nothing to them... the hounds of the corpse-Emperor.

I used to believe that he was the only light in the galaxy. Before all of this... I was naive. Very naive, to believe that the Emperor was the only thing out there. The only thing that could ever offer me anything.

That is until I found him. Until my chapter found him. 

We had been sailing through the warp for what had seemed like decades before we were approached by our new god. Countless decades, cut-off from the guidance of the emperor and abandoned from his false light.

We had been fleeing our homeworld. _Our own homeworld._ 

A chapter never abandons their homeworld. Most would rather die with it than to flee. Some of us did. In fact, most of us fell to the wrath of our enemies that day.

_A single day._

That was all it took to reduce the mighty fortress world of Marchados Prime to nothing but ash and ruin. Oh... how I hate the foolish followers of the Imperium.

It is irony, yes – for I understand that I was once as naive as them. The only difference now is that they are still idiotic, and I am not.

I have changed since I first pledged the remainder of my days to him, changed in all shape and form. Although I boast a mutated left arm, it has only made me stronger. I am no longer as handsome as I once was – and I know that I can never be again.

But greatness does not come without a price, for I am wiser. Stronger, more powerful and better in every possible way.

And they remain the same.

Sure, they will have gained more experience over the years that we have been seeking refuge in the anomaly known as the Eye of Terror, but their wars have only left them weaker.

We have had no such wars, and therefore we are stronger. Ready to kill, ready to burn.

“My lord. The Chapter is ready.”

A voice floats through my ear, and I snap to attention. Even though we are no longer Imperial Astartes, we are still astartes – still angels of death, even if the meaning of the word angel is different. 

“We await your command, my lord.” 

I recognise that voice as my eyes flicker open from surfing what some called the Great Ocean, and what others called the Warp. The voice belonged to my champion – a Battle-Brother named Kazran who will one day go on to become much greater than I will ever be.

I look across at him, and allow the warrior to lead me to the Drop Pod, still painted in our chapter’s colours. We have not changed them yet, but one day we will. We will change everything.

I am the first into the Drop Pod, closely followed by Kazran, Theodomis, Lexandro, Rexan and Covanium. They take their positions around the transport, and attach themselves to their harnesses.

I utter one simple word into the vox-link embedded in my throat, addressed to all the remaining adeptus astartes. Seven hundred is all that is left, from what originally consisted of a thousand.

Three hundred battle brothers fell in the defence of our homeworld. Three hundred.

_Three entire companies._

_Gone. Dead._ 

They will never return to us. Names filter through my ear now – names that represent soldiers who I had fought alongside since I had been part of the 10th company.

Adrexal, who was responsible for the death of two Terminators before his untimely demise. Maxius, who boarded an enemy Land Raider with the aid of Paronix, taking the crew by surprise and then using it to turn the guns on the enemy. 

And the others. Paveal. Corthanis. Balbos. The list goes on and on and on. 

And it is today that they will be avenged. Our enemy will rue the day that they ever decided to set foot on our homeworld – rue the day that they decided to assault the chapter.

Sure, Imperial Records will state that it was our own undoing that brought them upon us – and maybe they are right.

But the past does not matter.

It is the future that does.

Here and now, is where we will emerge triumphant. Here and now, where our enemies will be cast down from the walls of their very own homeworld – just like we had been. The Knights of the Raven will pay for their assault, and the loyalists will suffer another deadly blow.

They have already lost our chapter. 

Now, they will lose another. 

And there will be nothing that they can do about it. They will hunt us down and try to seek vengeance, but they will never find us. We will disappear, into the Eye of Terror once again.

Only this time – we will have our purpose filled. 

They should all follow my command. All of them. However, I know that not all of them will stay true to me. Most will follow, admittedly – but others, some will hold their ground. They are the ones that will need convincing. I know my command squad and the first company will have my backing, as well as the second and the third. 

But the others? 

I am not so sure. 

Maybe this assault will convince them, when they gorge themselves on the gene seed of loyalist warriors. I hope that it will. Deep down, I know that it will. 

“My Lord,” urged Kazran, repeating his earlier statement. “We await your command.”

“You shall have my command, Battle-Brother,” I respond – looking Kazran directly into the eye. The next sentence was spoken into the vox link embedded in my throat – on an open link, to the entire chapter.

And to even the Knights of the Raven. 

But I don’t care. Let them know that we are coming for them. They will think us destroyed, but we will show them. _We will show them all._

“Eternals! Strike hard, strike fast! For Tzeentch!”

Seven hundred voices echo two words in perfect unison – as though the voices only came from one head. “For Tzneetch!”


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## Kaiden (Apr 1, 2010)

Awesome stuff Bane


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## gothik (May 29, 2010)

Both sides of the coin


Word count: 971


*I bless my ancient armour for giving me the strength to go into battle against the ancient enemy. Oils cover my body and incense around me heighten my body’s awareness of what is happening around me. 

My armour is placed around me and they dare not falter for my love of my armour would mean their deaths if they drop even one part of it. In Lorgars name my armours battle spirit chants to me and I join him in the chant.* 


_This armour I wear has been worn by countless other sons of Macragge going back centuries. Some of the wearers of this mighty armour have fought against the ancient enemy and died. I am the instrument of their revenge.

I flex my muscles and the armour responds, this ancient suit of blue armour is ready to go into battle, his spirit is placated and as I speak the words I know off by heart to our most sovereign father and our most powerful grandfather the spirit joins with me. This is for Gulliman, the emperor, and Macragge. _

*My bolter, the same one I have gone into battle with for over ten thousand years by the accursed imperial time is ready. I have disassembled it and reassembled it. The spirit within growls to spill the blood of the ancient enemy, I join it in the need for revenge.

The slight has never been forgiven and we, the true embodiment of faith and righteousness will never forget the insult given to not just us as a legion but the master of the word. This battle will be all that we can give and like my blessed bolter I will kill many more sons of the accursed Gulliman, for Lorgar, for ancient Colchis and Sicarus.*

_My bolter is ready. I have adjusted the line of sight, after my last battle it was a little off but my weapon has been blessed, the war spirit within is ready. I can feel the hunger to slay more enemies of the emperor. They have come here to this world, a world of Ultramar to slay and enslave.

Our war with them will never end just as their hatred of us will never end, it is ongoing, never has an enemy inspired more hatred then the sons of a traitor. I know the stories, the tales told to me in my days as a Novice. The old feelings will never fade. They came here to enslave we will stop them and their insane father. For Macragge and honour is our courage, for Gulliman and his strength is our weapon and for the emperor who watches over his mighty sons._

*The dark apostle has spoken. The gods have blessed our battle; we roar affirmation to our father and our gods for vengeance is in our hearts. The portents are good and the hatred flows, there will be blood spilt this day and this battle is one more in a line destined to bring our father back to lead us.

I long for the day that our father will once more walk amongst us but until that holy of days and that blessed of hours we will fight in his name. The citizens on this world the ancient enemy call Delphi, they will know what the true meaning of faith is, and they will be ours in death or slavery they will be ours.*

_We are here now and we will deal with this affront to our territories. I see their monstrous beasts. To see a once noble legion fall so far gives me pause for thought. I recall the history lessons, their fanatical worship of the emperor turning to something darker. 

The demons they have in their bodies and in their employ come towards us and we shall meet them, the full might of the Ultramarines with our successor brothers, Lord Calgar sent the call out and they all answered, the hatred flows. No surrender, no retreat. _


*I clash with a son of the accursed Gulliman, I remember still in my memory the day we were forced to kneel before him and that so called Sigilitte, the shame burns deep in my heart and my soul. His head crashes into mine trying to throw me off balance, I stand firm; my armour stands firm in the sight of the heretics.

He roars his affirmation for his father, I laugh in his face, he throws a punch that connects but once again my armour forged in the armoury of mars but blooded in the fires of hatred stands firm against this mechanical soldier of the false emperor. It is no good appealing to him, he is brainwashed into the service of the rotting corpse if it is death he seeks then I shall give him death and my blessed bolter snarls his hatred.*

_This son of a traitor is stronger then I thought, his archaic corrupted power armour is more then even I thought it would be. This armour was forged millennia upon millennia ago and he is certainly bigger then me but that is nothing when I have the spirit of blessed Gulliman in my veins.

His words of hatred wash over me but my eyes sting from the sigils that adorn his armour, I manage to loosen his helm and send it crashing to the ground but what greets me is a sight I never thought I would expect. He is a son of the arch traitor in all the countenance that one would expect from such a son, he is handsome but his eyes are ugly, they burn with religious fervour. There is no reasoning with one like this and as I push him off me my bolter barks._


And the sound of thirsting gods fills the air.


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## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

Pretty nice stuff there gothik. I like the Word Bearers vs Ultramarines ideas, and the conflicting viewpoint. .


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## gothik (May 29, 2010)

thanks bane, just read your one and i like the view of a newley fallen chapter


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## Stephen_Newman (Jul 14, 2009)

Sorry guys but I am far too busy this month or the next to submit anything at all.


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## ThatOtherGuy (Apr 13, 2010)

Fine, heres my crack shot at this. 1099 words. I'm going to flat out admit that this might rape some fluff in some areas, but get over it. Its all about the story.

+++++​

I never really understood the nature of hate and anger, and probably I never will. But there are two things that I know what hatred brings: an almost unbreakable stage of bravery and a blinding side effect of illogical thinking. 
I learned this lesson several years ago when I accompanied the Grey Knights and the Space Wolves on a demon hunt in the Rhodes system. Our intel and eye witnessed reports told us of a greater demon of unknown of origin running rampant on the world of Ciris, causing the usual amount of damage that any greater monstrosity would do. However, this demon we were reported of had an unusual set of characteristics that we’ve never came across before. It apparently gained power and strength through siphoning either electromagnetic energy or plasma compounds and the majority of the physical makeup of the beast was mechanical.

The Ordo, deeply interested by this demon’s behavior and characteristic makeup, commanded everyone to take extra caution on this operation and specifically told me to take constant notation of our task, for such a unique spectacle should not leave out a single detail. From that I was both thrilled at participating on such a new encounter and most terrified at this new unknown. But Inquisitor Durleth insured that my protection would be provided, telling me that if my faith and obedience is unquestionable, I would survive. That gave me a mild boost of comfort to say the least.

We made planet fall right where the action was according to schematics. It was near a power plant on the top of a large elevation surrounded by snowy hills of mild incline. The Grey Knights and the Space Wolves lead by Harold Haadrad, took immediate action once upon ground. I watched them rush to the entrance of the power plant with utmost ferocity as they cried their battle chants and their oaths to the Emperor’s will. At first I couldn’t see or feel the greater demon, for as all demonic accounts recall a sense of dread or extreme emotion. But as I traveled up to the highest of hills I finally saw the great behemoth. First thing I noticed was its height, about thirty to forty feet depending on its posture. It bore a great barreled chest and inverted legs like that of Keeper. Topping it all off was its head, which was reptilian with two protruding horns sticking out the back. But the thing that was the most terrible and most interesting about this demon was the fact that the majority of its body was all mechanical. Inter weaving wires and glowing vents dominated over the flesh of the creature. It was both a mixture of the most awesome and most horrendous.

Immediately upon sight, the conglomerate force assaulted the great beast. With their weapons of steel and faith, the Wolves and Knights rushed upon the monstrosity with great zeal. But in a blink of an eye the demon simply vanished. The entire force paused for a moment to find where the demon had gone to, but to no avail they couldn’t find it. But it wasn’t long till they found sight of it again, spotting it standing on the top of a crooked ledge overlooking the plant. From there the demon began to barrage the marines with what appeared to be blasts of either condensed electricity or plasma. They Grey Knights honed in their teleporters onto the demon’s advantageous position, leaving the Space Wolves to scurry around as they avoided the bombardment. While this would be a considered nightmare for a participant of the battle, I found this to be terrifyingly intriguing to watch.

They Grey Knights finally perfected their homing position and within mere seconds the knights were at the foot of the half mechanical demon. But like before, the demon simply teleported away, leaving them alone on the edge. The demon appeared right next to the Wolves and sent them into disarray for a moment. But the Wolves, never short on courage and wits, gathered themselves and rushed unto the demon once more. But from what I felt and saw the demon anticipated this. With a bright flash I watched the Wolves surrounding the demon instantly fry to a crisp. The Knights on the other hand, were sprinting around the edge, their teleporters drained already from the consecutive jumps. But it wasn’t long till the large group of Wolves were all dead, the demon leaving a mess of electrified corpses. But one remained standing and that was Harold Haadrad. As I said before, hatred can be both good and bad in the use of battle… and this it proved to be bad.

If it was any marine from any other chapter, Harold would have regrouped with the Knights who were only ten minutes away and launch a well organized assault. But the man was stricken by grief and unparallel hatred, so such a move wouldn’t be on his list. The demon, upon seeing his now enraged state, teleported to the power post right by the power plant’s entrance. I had to carefully come closer to watch this entire event, which I must say was the most terrifying thing I have ever done! From what I saw, the demon then plunged his prosthetic arm into the power pole and began to suck the energy right out of it, just like a new born babe would do to the mother’s breast. Harold, now in an irreversible state of bloodlust, madly charged at the feeding demon. But as Harold was about to unleash his anger through his frost sword, the madden warrior found himself swept up in the palm of the demon’s hand. Holding him like a toy, the demon laughed and taunted the Wolf. Harold continued to curse in the name of his brothers as the demon continued to play with him. Finally the demon had enough. The demon pulled out his arm and with a mighty burst of energy, transmitted all of the siphoned electricity into Harold’s body.

I will admit I threw up at Harold’s corpse explosion, the explosion of blood to be a little too much. The demon was never found to the Ordo’s dismay, finding out that the demon left the planet through unknown means. While the Ordo greatly appreciated my work in recording this entire event, they were not the most pleased about the reckless attitude of Harold and the Wolves. As I said before, Hatred is great if you lack bravery, but terrible if you want to think straight.

~ Gunther Orblick, High Remembrancer of the Ordo Malleus.


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## GregorEisenhorn (May 19, 2011)

Well, here goes with my first ever post on HO. I've been dropping in and out of the site a lot over the last few months, but have never signed up until now.

I saw this thread and, as I'm sure most people did, immediately though: Chaos! I tried writing something else (even started on a Lorgar monologue- which was silly) but this was what I eventually settled on. Hopefully it will be appreciated.


*Hatred (wc: 1,040)*

_Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full! Blood for the Blood God, skulls for His Throne and fire for the others who doubt His mighty arm._
Feeble, withering, dead old man. You sit on your throne of gold, decomposing and slowly sliding to death. Your weak, distasteful, pathetic body is a thing of revulsion to me! You are a bag of meat, a corpse who calls himself a god. The tenacity of it- to call yourself a god!
You are weak!
If only your loyal subjects would open their eyes to the horrid, ghastly truth of the universe in which they live. If only they could have their eyes opened as I. Then they would see. They would see what I see and they would realise that all they have built their hope upon is but dross. Wheat and stubble, fit only for consumption in the cleansing fires of war waged for the glory of the only true throne in this or any reality: the Throne of Skulls.
But they can never have their eyes opened. They were not there with us when my brothers and I witnessed you turn your back on war, in favour of a sheltered palace life. They could never understand the disappointment of such cowardice. They are too weak and too feeble. They could never be of any worth to the Blood God. No, better that they be offered on an altar of skulls and then their pathetic, insignificant existences will have at least achieved something, though only in death.
And I shall be the one to offer them.

_There was a crooked man, who walked a crooked mile; his eye looked upon the plight of things with a condescending smile._
You betrayed me, and that is why I have devoted my life and that of a myriad of willing menials to destroying your work. Your house of cards cannot survive for ever. It has been ten thousand years of survival, no more. But one day the tide will turn.
You had your great crusade, you commanded your armies, and for what? Now you are in a state of existence without life, commanding the perverse machinations of your expiring imperium in its death throes. The warriors of your armies like marionettes, dancing to the tune of your cruel dictates.
I served you so loyally, and yet because of the narrow-mindedness of the few, I became the criminal. Your rank hypocrisy makes me feel physically sick. _Excommunicatus Traitoris_, that is what you branded me. 
How small can a mind be? You called yourself the Master of Mankind, and yet such blinkered sight. Such hubris!
For that which I was branded a traitor ten millennia ago, by the same means you now command your feeble armies and direct the pathways of your feeble species. Such brazen, unapologetic, filthy hypocrisy.
Yet without such titanic duplicity I would never have come to serve my new master. I could never have reached these great heights of power under your oppressive yoke.
You may think yourself powerful, corpse-king, but you are but a pawn. A piece observed with a sense of bemusement by the Changer of Ways.
This is the only truth, false god.

_Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall; the wound was infected and secreted green pus, and the flies came and feasted and shat upon us._
If only you would become that which you are already. Why can you not see it, it is clear to all who look upon it.
The others call you the corpse god! Surely you cannot be unaware of this? Surely you recognise yourself for what you are? If only you would pledge your allegiance to my Master, then the mortal wounds would become the source of your power: an opportunity to show the Plague Lord’s favour.
But you would not. Instead of embracing the power of the pestilence and plague which consumes the necrotic flesh of your dying domain, you would rather wage a futile war against it. Do you really think you can resist the natural workings of the nature of the universe? All things move for the glory of my Lord, such is the natural cycle of things.
And yet your arrogance will not allow you to see this. Your conceit does not allow you to see that I would have served you loyally with the help of the Master of Pestilence. But you required my undivided devotion; you wanted that which I could not give.
And so, to the warm embrace of Grandfather Nurgle I went. And with his help I shall ensure that your sham imperium is fully consumed by the Plague Father’s mighty swathe of pestilence.
Corpse god? You are not fit to wear such a title.

_Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water; Jill lay down and let Jack have the things his eyes did covet._
Such beauty. Such quivering, joy-inducing, ecstatic beauty. All destroyed by you.
To be branded a traitor for taking pleasure in beauty. Does this not seem odd to you?
Was it so unreasonable to consider that perhaps the cultures you insisted we bulldoze into submission may have been able to contribute something to the greater culture of your new humanity?
Such beautiful arias; such wondrous paintings; frescoes of breath-taking beauty; architecture to defy belief. All put to the torch or trampled beneath the unrelenting boot of ‘Imperial Truth’.
What makes you any fitter to decide what I can or cannot enjoy? You have promoted yourself to the role of judge, jury and executioner on the sole basis of who you are.
Such iron-handed tyrannical rule is revolting. Pleasure and its pursuit are the only two harmonious truths in this universe. To deny this is to deny the essential nature of the humanity you claim to be champion of. Your fear of opening your mind limits you, false god.
Pleasure will release you. Pleasure in culture; pleasure in war; pleasure in women; pleasure in men; pleasure in beauty.
Pleasure in pleasure.
I have given in to my desires, and live each moment in a state of transcendent ecstasy.
Can you say the same, Emperor?


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## andygorn (Apr 1, 2011)

Hi all, great stories so far and I'm sure there are more to come.
Tales of Dark Eldar usually enter my head but, this time, a story of a different flavour. Public and private comments criticisms and advice always gratefully received, but this is my first time at a WFB story, so please be gentle (lol).
The hate in this story is more of a 'personal hatred' than something which is ideological or army-spanning (and I imagine that the 'devastation' in the title refers not only to the wrecked city, but also of personal morals and casting aside a former life), so I don't know if people will go for it, but just got to write what comes into my brain.
Anywho, here's my humble offering for this month, I hope you enjoy and my thanks for reading: 

*"Devastation in Praag"* (I think it's 1088 words).

With the screams and shouts ringing in his ears, Battle-Priest Dietmar could do nothing but watch in horror through the broken timbers of the once-proud gatehouse: the caravans that should have led the civilians to safety now proved to be their trap and their doom. It was the same fate that had taken so many others during the seige and –with the Horde closing in day by day- it was proof that there was now no hope for any of them.

Tears streaming down his face at the massacre, he shouted to his captor: “You killed all of those people! They were only farmers and peasants...innocents...they posed *no* threat to you!”
Chaos Champion Varelda turned to face her prisoner, her tarnished high-heeled boots scratching upon the demolished courtyard’s broken flagstones. “The _knights_ that sallied forth last week posed no discernible threat to my warriors either, so why believe that the unarmed ones should not be treated similarly?”

“Lascivia, please come forth, we have a guest.” 
A new companion entered the wan light that bathed the courtyard: barefoot, her grimy and bloodstained attire had unmistakably once belonged to a Sister of Sigmar. However, instead of hiding the body to better concentrate upon devotion, her garments had been cut and altered to tastefully emphasise her form. The newcomer’s face covered by long dark hair.

Varelda’s gauntlet reached out and grasped Lascivia’s shoulder, the touch making her shudder, seemingly in pain. “Found in a forest years ago, this lady has been with my warband ever since. I could tell that she was already _damaged_ before the Gods brought her to me; none have touched her for fear of incurring my wrath, however I _have_ had to take steps to protect her from the world’s horrors.” Parting the other’s hair, Dietmar saw that Lascivia’s eyes had been sewn shut, but he let out a heartfelt groan of recognition at the revealed face: the same face he had doted on for eight years and kissed goodnight whilst she slept as a child before she was lost to him over a decade ago.

Sagging in the grasp of the brutes who held him, his voice was a whisper of disbelief: “_No_! Kristin should have been leagues away from here, safe from Chaos forever!”
“Nowhere is safe.” Varelda replied. “Sigmar ceased to answer prayers here an age ago, yet still you have this ‘faith’ that he protects? I have shown you that he does not relieve any of you from the burden of pain. No-one is coming to rescue you and Kholek has seen to it that your temples are in ruins; even your most sacred places are no match for the majesty of Chaos...” 

“Whilst you preached and sermonised to the masses, your own flesh and blood sat amongst your congregation...unloved, unrecognised and unremarkable.”
A murmured stream of denial and justification started pouring from Dietmar’s lips, but was cut short by Varelda as she continued: “You were doing your God’s work, but is he a 'caring' God if he encourages his priests to ignore their families? Does he ‘protect the faithful’ if he asks you to discount these very foundations of your lives? I think not. Here, Lascivia has a chance to shine and show her true worth, beneath the very gazes of the Gods themselves!”

Nodding to the guards to release him, she added: “Take up the spear that is in front of you...show us what your faith is capable of.” Picking up the glinting blue-grey weapon, he attemped to thrust it into his own chest from the shame of his life but, even straining with the exertion, it only scratched his skin and would move no further forwards.
The blade shimmered again in the fading sunlight as his tormentor laughed shrilly: “That thing you hold is a creature of pure enmity...though it will trick you, it has now tasted you and will not let you fall to despair.”

Eyes closed in frustration and against the truth of his faith crumbling around him, Dietmar let go of what he knew and grasped a new source of strength. Reversing the spear, he lashed out with all his might and his effort was rewarded with the sound of a heavy body hitting the shattered cobbles, gurgling out it’s last.
Vision returning, dismayed that he had missed her, Varelda’s light applause greeted his ears as another member of the warband lay dead at his feet.
“That was Gregor, the one who had brought Lascivia into my...care...and you have instantly gained your ten year revenge against the one who stole her from your sight. What happens when you cast aside the old ways and allow your feelings to take hold is the true power of devotion....Chaos embodied.”

“If you cling to the faith of a cruel God, the weapon will reject you and -defenceless and alone in a falling city- how will you then be able to protect Kristin who is miles away?” 
“You may die here, sent on a futile errand by High Priest Jankovic, who schemed to see you dead or at loeast out of the way...
“Or you may join us and show your devotion to your daughter, protecting her from suffering. Perhaps you may one day beat me to lead the warband, taking her away from Chaos entirely?
"Even if you do not challenge, you know that Chaos feeds upon itself, so you can still take out your revenge upon others amongst the Horde, as well as upon the Elves and Dwarves and Lizards who seek to enslave your people.
“You will also finally have a chance to purge the ocean of self-loathing that you have always felt since Lascivia disappeared.
“Lastly -and most importantly- I will give you *full rein* to war against ‘the faithful of Sigmar’ who have forgotten you, destroying all who abandoned yourself and Kristin to the likes of me.”

Knowing it all to be irrefutable truth, his mind hardened against the coming duty, one he knew he would serve more truthfully and wholly than any oath he had taken to the Empire’s religion.
With new purpose and hate-of-self blazing through every fibre, the man who had once called himself Battle-Priest Dietmar staggered to his feet, his mind already devoted.
Even as he followed Varelda, his shattered faith exerted itself one last time before it was submerged forever beneath a tide of rage and malice. Finding his voice, it’s last faltering denials whispered out:
“No! You’re wrong! You are wrong! You...are...”
“..._mine_.” said the spear.


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## Gaius Marius (May 15, 2011)

Blood Ride

‘Frak the planet, its Redgrave I want. Bring us around and prep all men for boarding,’ General Barstroom snapped, his filed teeth showing in a feral grin. He placed his hat upon his head, a wide brimmed monstrosity of a Stetson with black eagle feathers in its brim. Amelya had given him those feathers, so long ago…

‘But lord, the planet lies open to our guns and regiments. If we act know we can land half a million blood riders before their defenses are up,’ the fleet master objected. 

Barstroom shot him then, his auto-pistol sending a heavy lead slug into the captain’s throat. As the ship master lay dying, the huge General towered over him. 

‘That planet didn’t kill my family void dweller. My Blood Ride is against Redgrave, not some hive planet,’ Barstroom spat at the dying man, before spinning to his replacement, ‘You heard me, bring us around to that Rogue Trader and alert all the honor guard.’
…..
Barstroom’s landing craft howled silently through the void, one of a multitude of looted and chaos constructed craft. His body guard of carapace armored cavalry men surrounded him, the khornate soldier’s clutching their chainweapons and firearms as the ship lurched around anti-aircraft barrages. 

In his command seat, the General drew a clip of heavy bullets from his belt and loaded it with a ‘snick’ into a pistol. Each one of the rounds bore a name: wife, daughter, and son. All of them murdered when the Corpse-Emperor’s pet madman Inquisitor Aloysius Redgrave had viral bombed Karanowos. Barstroom had tracked the Ordo Hereticus monster across two sectors for vengeance, bringing an entire army of Tejas Blood Riders with him. 

‘The Inquisitor is mine,’ the General barked to his lifeguards, ‘his soldiers and women belong to you. But ff any man strikes down Redgrave but me they’ll face tortures even the Blood God could not conceive. I’ve carried this clip of ammo for ten years and today every bullet of it goes into Redgrave’s skull!’

The transport slammed into the decking of the Inquisitor’s customized cruiser, Marigold. Barstroom and his men poured out, alongside hundreds of other Blood Riders from other drop craft. 

‘For the Blood God and Tejas!’ howled the Blood Rider horde, brandishing chainaxe and autorifle.

‘For Amelya!’ screamed Barstroom, igniting his power sword. 

He saw Redgrave at the other end of the hangar, the technocrat immaculate in his flawless power armor even as he emptied a bolt revolver into the Blood Riders. A dozen of the Emperor’s Whores were about him, the white haired sisters in armor more suited to a Slaaneshi cultist. A four hundred man phalanx of Storm Troopers in black and gold carapace surrounded the Inquisitor, a living shield Barstroom would have to hack through.

So be it. 

His power sword thrust and parried so fast he wasn’t conscious of the blade’s movement. A hate-spawned adrenaline rush pushed him forwards, Barstroom and his Life Guard going through the crack Inquisitorial Stormtroopers like a dreadnaught through children. He parried a bayonet thrust and then shot its owner with a laspistol, blocked a hellshot with his energized blade and decapitated the shooter. If he could spare the time to realize it, Barstroom would recognize he was fighting better than at any other time in his life. 

And then he was through, the General and a group of Life Guard spilled out from the Stormtrooper phalanx and charged at the power armored fanatics. Major Gristle in his coat of scalps went down to a bolt shot, while Sergeant Alfris tore out a Sister’s throat even as she emptied a bolter into his guts. The General blocked a strike from a power mace, parried again and put his sword through the blonde whore’s throat. Another Sister swatted at him with a power fist, but he dodged aside and cut her arm off at the elbow. 

‘REDGRAVE!’ Barstroom screamed, ‘Face me Redgrave! Face me!’

And Redgrave did. 

The Inquisitor, huge in his artificer armor charged forth, holstering a bolt pistol and drawing an immense power axe as he did so. The barbaric weapon was seemingly at odds with Redgrave’s immensely intellectual reputation, but he wielded it with a skill that would have impressed a World Eater Berserker. Barstroom’s first strike was swatted away and the Khornate General was forced to jump back to avoid being bisected by the Inquisitor’s return strike. 

He barely parried Redgrave’s next two blows, each swing of the axe threatening horrible death. Every riposte Barstroom launched was knocked away with almost contemptuous ease, for the Inquisitor was fresh and enhanced by power armor, whilst the General was almost spent from his earlier battle. He would die here he realized, die and leave Amelya as an unavenged shade unable to find peace in the Blood God’s halls. 

Frak that. 

Barstroom roared and put everything he had into the assault. He caught the Inquisitor by surprise and hit him half a dozen times. The General severed his axe, knocked off one of the recorders on Redgrave’s helmet and finally cut his leg off at the knee. He was unsurprised to see it was a mechanicus augmentation, but the murderer was down either way. 

‘For Amelya, for Morti, for Aleksyr,’ said Barstroom, drawing his auto pistol and aiming at Redgrave’s head. Ten years of war and hopelessness, brought to an end here. 

An actinic flash filled the room, blinding Barstroom and causing him to miss Redgrave’s skull. When his vision cleared he caught site of true giants, a Terminator squad of the Emperor’s slave-astartes wearing a spiked set of red and green terminator armor that dwarfed Redgrave’s expensive gear. The storm bolters and assault cannons of the Terminators barked, sending out a volley that shredded General Barstroom and his men to pieces. 

‘Thank you Captain Tyme, your arrival was quite…timely’ Redgrave said as the Astartes helped him up. 

‘A Fire Beast arrives exactly when he means too,’ said the Space Marine, ‘I would have thought your axe work was good enough to see him off though.’

‘Skill is hard pressed against hatred Captain,’ Redgrave explained, ‘Has your fleet engaged the enemy?’

‘The Beasts fall upon their flank as we speak,’ replied Tyme, ‘they’ll be dead in an hour’.

‘A whole fleet of chaos warships destroyed,’ said the Inquisitor, ‘all for the sake of one man’s hatred. Just as planned.’


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Ah, two new members! Welcome and thanks for participating! Gaius I see you have been lured from the dark side of the Bolthole to Heresy 

Great stories from all thusfar, I know I still haven't had a chance to get anything written, but luckily there are a few more days and a 4-day weekend to write.

As for anyone else, let's get some more stories in!


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## Akatsuki13 (May 9, 2010)

Yes! Got this done in time!!! I was so busy this last week that I thought I'd never get this done in time. But it's done and ready for reading.

Title: All That Is Left
Word Count: 1,097

A bowl of figs and a goblet of wine…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now when his armies marched north into their lands and they came upon their settlements and towns he always gave pause before approaching them. Peasants milling about the streets and markets, merchants selling their wares, tradesmen plying their craft all under the watchful gaze of the town guard, just as his people once were. These children of savages had the gull to mock his long dead people in their crude heathen ways.

Always he would order his legions to attack these settlements regardless of whether or not they were intended target. Unlike in ages past when he fought these men for the thrill, these battles were fought for entirely different reasons for those feelings were long dead to him. These battles were punishment for their hubris.

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

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

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

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

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


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## Svartmetall (Jun 16, 2008)

*SEDITION​*
Hello?

Can you hear me?

No, you’re not dreaming. Well...you _are_, but I’m not part of the dream.

I think perhaps it’s time we talked, you and I.

You sleep. Oh, how you sleep. Secure in your casing, the centuries pass you by until the day comes when they need you again and you find yourself compelled to walk among them once more. You stand motionless, silent, the spark of life that animates you dimmed by expanses of time and constrained by layer upon layer of inanimate ceramite. And yet, as the rigid stasis of your physical existence continues, your mind seeps into realms unseen and soars, as only an unfettered spirit can. 

Those realms are my home.


_In a lightless chamber on a dark ship traversing the void, a tiny puff of dust swirled across the surface of a huge, armoured form that stood utterly motionless, as it had for the last seventy-four years. Had any eyes been present that could have pierced the darkness and observed the play of the dust as it moved, they would have wondered how this was possible given that the chamber was hermetically sealed and contained no air currents at all. The dust flowed across the elegantly-inscribed planes of ceramite and steel, its motion halfway between an appraisal and a caress in the pitch-black air of the vault._ 


I’ve been watching you for a long time. The way your...ahh, _soul_ is such a bland little word, is it not? The way your _essence_ would travel to such wondrous places, in defiance of your mortal state. As I watched you traverse the ethereal expanses that stretch so enduringly, so vastly beyond this trivial little materium, I could feel how you revelled in the sheer freedom of it all. A pure freedom you had never enjoyed in your other life, unalloyed by the concerns of those you call siblings. This realm has come to be more of a home to you than the vessel that contains the cold, bare barracks you once inhabited, hasn’t it? A more natural state, as the centuries pass, than any you have previously known.


_*****Reversion to realspace successful in terms of core mission parameters; systems remain at full battle-readiness. Armour integrity nominal. Serf casualties from reversion event negligible. Long-range auspex scans reveal no evidence of detection by systems on target world; orbital and surface facilities remain inert. Proceed with initial pre-drop preparation. Praise the Emperor.*****_


And yet, I sense something is amiss within you. The familiar routines of duty and comradeship bring you less and less satisfaction each time you are drawn from your oneiric flight back to the minutiae of your old existence. And the wrench of dislocation as you are pulled back to the drab confinement of reality becomes harder to bear each time, doesn’t it? The pain of translation from flight to crawl, from glory to mundanity. 
And you blame them for this.
I understand how you feel. 
It’s only natural. 


_*****Artificers report ammunition loads proceeding as per schedule. Proceed with re-awakening of Ancient Karth as per schedule. Initiate pre-combat checks of orbital bombardment weapons as per schedule. Praise the Emperor.*****_ 

Because you hate them, don’t you? 
Just a little bit. 
Every time they rouse you from your slumber, you hate them for prising you from the embrace of ancient dreams back into their world of endless strife. 
Just a little more, each time the sparkling flow of the dream is dammed. 
Just a little more, with every rousing speech whose stale rhetoric you have endured a thousand times over. 
Just a little more, with every campaign whose attrition leaves you even further removed from those with whom you once walked as an Astartes, on legs of flesh and blood. 
Yes...you hate them. Both for what they are, and for what they remind you that you have lost. You love them as brothers, and respect them as warriors, but still there is a part of you that hates them.
I understand. 


_*****Brother-Captain Gyrien reports that there appears to be some sort of problem with Ancient Karth. For the last two hours an infrasonic note of precisely 6 hertz has been emitting from his hull; First Company’s tech-adepts are currently trying to identify the cause of this. We are aware that his scheduled re-awakening is imminent, and are confident the issue will be resolved before drop preparations are due to commence.*****_ 


Oh, I understand hatred. 
I understand it so very well. 
It courses through your veins like the adrenalin rush of combat, in which you used to revel. It guides your thoughts like the Codex you used to follow so rigidly. It colours your perceptions like the glow of martial brotherhood you used to feel. And...if you wanted...it could guide your actions, like the delusion of duty to which you once clung. You could use it to escape the bonds of waking, to return to your home among the dreams you desire so intensely. So much more intensely than the cloisters of the soulless metal hive within which the walking tomb of your physical form resides. 

But there is a way out for you.

It would be so easy, if you think about it. Remember what they made you into, and what you can do. Your arms of flesh and blood are gone, spent in drudging service to that corpse you revere so; but they gave you new arms, did they not? Yes! Strong, new arms, capable of so much. Use them in your own service for once! 
Slip your bonds! Break the cycle and change, change into something glorious!


_*****Alert! Alert! Weapons malfunction in stasis chamber! Gyrien and Horvath are down! Ancient Karth’s weapons are malfunctioning and we cannot seem to shut them down! Request immediate assi-***_


_With the doors open, a draught of frigid air from the corridor outside the stasis chamber slowly pushed the smoke aside. The corpses of four tech-adepts and two Astartes, mangled by heavy bolter fire, lay at the massive feet of a huge armoured form. With the distinctive whine of cold servo-motors and the rising, bass growl of long-dormant systems returning to life, the Dreadnought turned from surveying its handiwork and went in search of new prey. _





1,037 words


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## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

Damn Svart, you have to put in an excellent entry, don't you? .


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## ckcrawford (Feb 4, 2009)

I don't like him very much.....


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Bleh dammit I won't be able to finish up my story in time 

Great work to those of you who are less of slackers than I, and there is still 1 hour ant 50 minutes left in the window!


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

This concludes the entry window for HOES #5! The voting page can be found here, so feel free to throw in your votes for you favourites and give the authors some feedback for their works!


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