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Hello! This is the first short story I've ever written. It's designed to be like something out of WD or a Codex, as an introduction to my CSM warband. I hope it pleases people! C&C welcome. -- A killer stalked the halls of Hive Gannezar, the long blade in his hand trailing blood behind him as he stalked the cramped halls deep below the munitions factories. Hive scum barricaded doors and gripped concealed stubguns as he passed through derelict hab-blocks. The fear tasted sweet to him, his senses tingling as he finally felt the rush of adrenaline he had not felt since abandoning his brothers further up. His armor was tattered, his blade nearly broken, but it mattered little to him. He only wished to see the fear in another victims eyes, a twentieth notch upon his armor, a new daub of blood upon his profane symbols. A distant thump sounded. The killer stopped outside the hab-block he had risked life and limb to reach. He did not know why he chose this hab-block, only that every instinct in his body screamed to tear down the door and thrust death upon those inside. With a sickeningly slow motion he reached for his blade. Another thump, closer this time, sounded out down the winding halls. It mattered not. His senses throbbed as he kicked down the door. A man, probably nearing fifty, huddled inside with a rusty pipe. He was a sump-dweller, a survivor; no man reached fifty around here by being weak. But time had slowed his gutter-rat skills, and the killer could see the look in the man’s eyes. His victim knew it would be a slow death. The killer swung before the old man could. His blade arced down. It was not graceful, for that would be too quick. It was not clean, for that was not the killers intentions. It was a cruel, clumsy strike. The killer’s shoulder shattered before the blade landed. Thrown out of his hand, the machete skittered across the floor, useless. The whir of cooling fans and the whine of servo-joints announced the arrival of another. “You have broken the peace here, slave of the Eighth.” came a tinny, mechanical growl. Through the haze of pain, he could make out the figure that had crippled him. Three meters of ceramite towered over him, shrouded in midnight blue. He knew that color. It was the color of his masters; his former masters, those who had taught him the lesson of power as they lorded it over his warrior-thrall battalion. A gloved hand reached out and lifted the man off the ground, pain shooting through what nerves remained in his right limbs. “I condemn you.” And so Halaskar of the Twelfth Warrior-Thrall Cohort learned fear. He learned fear for eight days and eight nights, as the warrior clad in a dark shroud flayed his hands and nailed them to the crucifix created for him. Halaskar did not die gracefully, for that would be too quick. Halaskar did not die cleanly, for that was not his killers intentions. It was a cruel, clumsy death. And it was justice. --