Evil's Little/Preacher

[Flood]

Wrote these some time ago, just uploaded today. Both are in pdf format. Criticisms welcomed and encouraged :lol:

 

 

Evil's Little - Chaos, Guard & Deamons having fun.

Preacher - quiet day in the life of the Emperor's messenger (incomplete pdf, story posted below in full).

 

 

Preacher

 

I stepped down from the small podium, my worn sandal landing on the rather dusty stone-tiled floor of the chapel with a soft thump. The mosaic that decorated the floor appeared worn and faded: years of dust gave it a fine coating of grey. I made a mental note to sweep up after the patrons had left and began making my way toward the main entrance to the hall. As I went I made small talk with the worshippers who had came to hear me speak His Word, some were nice enough to congratulate and even complement me on the service. I reciprocated with an appropriate thank you and a smile before walking on to the next. Those in closest proximity were familiar faces; Lady Gothuen, wife of the Town Provost; Lord and Lady Turnel of the House Turnel; Yorel Stans, head Administrator of the province; Tarob, the local constabulary; and Emilia Von Dierstan with her two children Gorjen and Mia. Beyond them sat several rows of other locals of lesser stature. Without exception, I greeted each with a smile and a patient ear, for in the eyes of Him on Holy Terra all are equal. I preferred to treat my congregation as I would have them treat me; unlike some of the more severe preachers within the Ecclesiarchy who found it impossible to address their fellow citizens as anything more than potential heretics. 

After passing the last row of benches, I faced the twin doors that sealed the main entrance to the church. Styled in the traditional way of the province they were an impressive display of craftsmanship, each bore a symbol of the Holy Ecclesiarchy in its centre, an intricate white rose swirled around a bevelled Aquila insignia, both minutely detailed. The edges of the doors were adorned with scriptures of great philosophic ideals and creeds, coloured in a soft golden hue with acidic paint. Over the years the paint had burned and stained the dark mahogany of its canvas, creating a beautifully inscribed motif that would last the ages.

I reached out for the heavy bronze latch that held the doors closed, it felt cool to the touch and the relative warmth of my palm left a faint print of sweaty condensation as I released it. The hinges whined and creaked as I opened the chapel to the outside world once more, a small gust of fresh wind blew in at once, replacing the tired stale air that had accumulated during the last hour or so of the sermon. I turned to my waiting habitué and wasn’t surprised to see that most were already queued right behind me, eager to meet the sweet breeze of the early evening. I could hardly blame them, most of the day it had rained heavily, the sun only just appearing as it prepared for dusk, and many would want to make the most of the summer evening.

‘Lovely sermon Father.’

‘See you again next week Father.’

‘Enjoyable as always your holiness.’

‘You must visit us at the estate this weekend Father, my husband would be delighted.’

‘Good evening Father, take care.’

A few handshakes and niceties later I was alone again and finally allowed myself a deep sigh of relief. After nine decades of actively preaching the faith, I was beginning to feel my age, and the service had all but exhausted me. With no further obligations for the evening, I decided to rest outside and enjoy the sunset from the church gardens. Stepping back inside the building, I strolled around the edge of the pews to a small crevice in the smooth sandstone wall and retrieved the blue and white towel that I had stowed earlier. Returning to the doorway, I left the confines of the church and followed the well-trodden dirt track alongside the perimeter until I reached the open grasses of the rear gardens. Here I could view the setting sun on the horizon unobstructed. I laid out the square-shaped towel, straightened the edges and lay down. Gradually, I let myself slip into a coma-like state of relaxed numbness…

I awoke some hours later: spittle’s of rain pattering my face and hands. As I opened my slightly crusted eyelids my eyes registered the much-changed colouring of the sky above, it was night. Sitting up, I felt the result of sleeping on such a hard surface along my neck and shoulders. I cricked my neck to relieve the tension, hearing it pop and snap as I did so, and willed my slightly refreshed limbs to help me stand up. I gathered the towel beneath my arm and made my way back into the church house, cursing myself for being so old and worn-out. To my relief the chapel had remained empty. In this part of the province, far out in the countryside, there was little fear of thieves and such, but I was concerned that one of my parishioners might have stopped by for a confession or some spiritual advice. Fortunately, that did not seem to be the case, so I tossed the old cloth towel to one side and heaved the heavy wooden doors shut, securing the latch and checking the immediate vicinity for scuffs or dirt. Satisfied, I made my way over to the podium at the head of the hall, surveying the benches for any items left after the sermon.

Upon reaching the dais, I knelt, lowered my head, and muttered a short prayer of forgiveness for cursing in His presence. As I raised my vision, the effigy in front awed me with its beauty as it had done so many times before. Raised on a pulpit which brought its feet level with my own shoulders, was a figurine of immense grandeur and magnificence. Draped in precious metals and gems, the sculptor had tried to install an emotion of reverence in the viewer through displaying the God-Emperor as an almighty king, dressed in the very finest materials available to man. I found the sculpture more of a statement about the artist’s own ambitions of wealth and greed to be honest. To me, the Emperor had always been about strength of will, unity, compassion and looking out for your fellow man, not displaying material gain or right of conquest as many, including fellow cultists, so believed. In my ninety years of dedication to the Imperial Faith I had never raised a fist in anger, let alone a weapon. No, one as benevolent as Him on Holy Terra would not result to such tactics, not unless it was a morally critical situation, like back in the days of the dreaded Heresy for instance. I had so far led a life of understanding and communication, and through doing so, been rewarded richly with friends and a place that I was proud to call home.

Home. Now there was a distant memory. A land so far away I could not remember its name. I knew it existed, oh yes, feelings of uncertain loneliness and fear had imprinted themselves deeply on my psyche at a young age. How old had I been? Six, maybe eight standard years? No I must be at least over a century old now, which would have made me about twelve when I was rescued by the Missionaries of the Adeptus Ministorum, an event that would shape my life forever.

Such a long time ago.

My stomach gurgled with an angry pang of hunger. Good Throne! I hadn’t eaten in hours. Raising myself off my knees again, I left the altar and started casually for the veiled stairway hidden beyond a curtain that hung at the far right of the sanctuary. The old cloth blew a cloud of dust in my face as I pushed past it. I made a mental note to clean the place before the next sermon; such untidiness was not fitting for a place of worship.

The stairway was narrow and twisted in a steep spiral upwards, leading to my personal living quarters. Though I made the climb every day, I still found the effort tiring and had to support myself with one hand against the wall as I ascended. Often this left a fine layer of reddish sandstone stuck to my palm, which I would have to rinse off before cooking or preparing for bed. Out of habit, I immediately went for the washbasin after climbing the steeple and rinsed my hands with cold water, letting the tap run for a moment before making use of it. I dried myself off with an old face cloth which lay beside the basin, dabbing my forehead also after remembering I’d fallen asleep outside in the rain. Stepping out of the washroom, I spied a box of matches that I had left sitting on the nightstand beside the stairwell entrance. I lit the four oil lamps which were hung around the living space; the aromatic scent of burning fossil whiffed around the room and met my nostrils, the familiarity easing my old joints somehow. I turned to a small open-space kitchen adjoining the main living area. Neatly polished ivory cutlery were strewn across the dark marbled counter top in an untidy fashion, I reminded myself to clear them up later as I lit the old stove beside the counter. The Town Provost, Lord Gothuen, had offered to fit a newer appliance that cooked with microwaves, but I had a liking for traditional methods and so never took him up on the offer. Feeling rather weary still, I decided to re-heat some of last night’s ganush; a delightful dish that I’d been given by the Lady Gothuen yesterday afternoon. Placing the pot I had left in the cooler last night on the stove, I prepared my rehashed meal and set the table. The night before I’d felt the ganush lacked a little something, so I diced some pork with a hefty blade, which had been a gift from the town butcher, sprinkled a little seasoning and added it into the mix. Lazily, I left the butcher’s knife at the side of the stove, intending to put it away after dinner.

A few minutes later, I was sat at the dinner table, something I’d brought with me from the capital during my last visit, a small but elegant piece of furniture crafted some time in the for fortieth century, making it nearly seven hundred years old. I’d felt quite pleased with it upon my return to the province and probably bored everyone to death in telling them so. I began to tuck into my rather spicy meal when all of a sudden I heard a loud thudding noise.

I paused. My ears strained to recognise the sound.

 

Thud.

 

Thud.

 

There it was again, louder. I could feel the faint vibration in the floor. A cold trickle went down my spine.

 

Thud. Thud. Thud.

 

My heart leapt out of my chest before I could calm myself with some deep breathing.

What the devil was it?

 

Thud. Thud. Thud.

 

I almost laughed at myself.

Silly old fool, it’s the door, someone is knocking the front door.

I left the table and hurried down the stairway, taking care not to fall over and potentially break my silly old neck in the process.

 

Thud. Thud. Thud.

 

Old fool, jumping at ghosts: though I could feel a cold apprehension in the pit of my stomach. I shrugged it off as hunger pains. ‘When would I eat today?’ I wondered as I entered the nave of the church and circumvented the rows of wooden benches.

 

Thud. Thud. Thud.

 

‘Coming! Coming!’ I yelled, in a tone infused as much with frustration on myself as with that of the knocker’s obvious impatience. As quickly as I could manage I shifted the bronze latch of the great doors, pulled one door open with a weakened gasp and, rather more cautiously than usual for some reason, peered out from behind it.

There, like a sodden street urchin, stood a miserable-looking girl, drenched by the now pouring rain and obviously chilled to the bone. No wonder she was impatient, I thought. ‘I am sorry child, please, come in out of the rain.’ I said sympathetically. She gave a slight nod and slid by me into the chapel hall, droplets of rainwater running down her pale cheeks. I closed the door and re-fastened the latch. The girl said nothing and instead sat down on the nearest end of the last pew, her soaking clothes dripping moisture in an uneven circle around her. I hastily lit some oil lamps, chasing the darkness away into the shadows of the ceiling rafters, and looked upon her. In the light now, I could see she was in fact crying, or at least had been recently. Her bright green eyes seemed to glow in the dim light, radiating like an angel’s with an aura of graceful sadness. I took a step closer and wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘Hielna, isn’t it?’ I asked, remembering her as the child of Lord and Lady Turnel of the House Turnel. She nodded slowly, her eyes positively shining in the warm light of the oil lamps. She appeared nervous. ‘Come child, what brings you here to me at this late hour? Surely you must be missed at home?’

I stroked her hair to ease her, long and dark it reminded me of her mother when she was younger. I had married her and Lord Turnel some years ago, at the time I had thought her something of a mystery, she was from some other region of the planet; a preacher’s daughter I believe. Quite attractive: as was young Hielna. Yes, she had her mother’s qualities alright, thick soft hair, long dark eyelashes, skin pale as snow and textured like silk, and those eyes, those eyes shone and sparkled like some fiery emerald gem from the Erision mines. I felt drawn to her, tempted.

I withdrew my hand, conscience of where my thoughts were leading me.

‘Hielna, please, what has brought you here? Is your family in need of help? Talk to me child.’

‘My family!’ she cried. ‘My family indeed has brought me to you Father!’

She lapsed into a flood of tears and whimpers and flung her arms around me, burying her face in my robe. Despite her delicate state I couldn‘t help but admire how she had grown into an attractive young women, she didn’t seem so childish anymore.

‘Hielna you must tell me what has happened, how may I help?’ I whispered, reluctantly guiding her hands away from my waist.

‘Oh Father.’ she said softly. ‘I am in need of your guidance for I am lost and have no-one else to turn to.’

‘There, there.’ I said with an assuring tone. ‘I am listening.’

She looked away to the left of me; I followed her gaze to a wooden enclave wherein I took confessions from those who had sinned. Surely this girl, in all her youth and innocence, could not have committed some act of evil? Perhaps she had reached the age where the desires of the flesh began to take hold, I reasoned.

I was so old and it had been such a long time since I had felt any such pleasures myself.

‘You want confession?’ I queried, now firmly of belief it was to do with teenage hormonal desires.

‘Yes Father. I have sins to confess. I need His Mercy.’

‘Very well.’ I motioned toward the confession box and helped Hielna to her feet.

‘May I take those?’ I asked, noticing she wore a pair of long-length gloves, their black cotton exterior soaked through with rain.

‘No!’ she barked, withdrawing her hands into her dress sharply.

‘It’s alright child, I meant no harm.’ The girl had obviously been through a lot and was feeling vulnerable; my mind began to ponder at her Father’s reaction to her sinful, but natural thoughts. Perhaps she had been beaten, or worse. I shuddered. Sometimes people of the kindest nature could do the most despicable things.

‘Take a seat Hielna and we’ll begin’ I said, and sat down opposite her in the booth, our faces shielded by a velvet grill of fabric. Once more I was captivated by her dazzling green eyes, even now, through the dark screen between us.

‘Tell me then, Hielna Turnel, what sins do wish to confess in the presence of our Saviour God-Emperor?’

It took her a moment to gather her thoughts.

‘Forgive me Father for I have sinned. I have desecrated the good reputation of my family, I have lied, I have…’ she trailed of in a whimper of barely restrained grief.

‘Take your time Hielna, I am here for you.’ Her confession was beginning to sound like one I was familiar with. She straightened her posture, closed her eyes and exhaled deeply.

‘I carry an abomination Father. A sin most unholy in His eyes, and I do not know how I can make it right.’

I responded automatically, so acquainted was I with the words;

‘Ah, my child, it is a sin so easily made by those so young. Do not fear Him in this matter, all life is valuable to the saviour, all of man is precious, illegitimate or not. I’m sure your family will understand given time.’

‘You misunderstand Father.’ she replied. I noticed her weeping had ceased, again the pit of my stomach felt tight and knotted.

‘You are not with child?’ I asked, puzzled at my mistake.

‘No Father, I am not.’

The tightness in my stomach extended up my spine like a thread of ice-cold steel. I shuddered. The night was becoming chilly, yet I could feel perspiration gathering on my forehead. I tried to catch another glimpse of Hielna’s wonderful jade eyes, but she held them shut, allowing only the faint glow of the oil lamps to softly illuminate her petite features. She had confused me with her reply and seemed hesitant to divulge more. I reached a hand through to her half of the box in an effort to coax her into talking more.

‘Hielna.’

She bristled at the gesture.

‘You have a soft touch Father.’ She said smoothly, caressing the back of my palm with hers. ‘Please, take my hand in yours.’

I obliged, feeling the gentle warmth of her slender fingers between mine, slender and…unusual, I felt hairs; bristles; hard and sharp, like tiny flecks of glass protruding from the pores in the skin. I withdrew, but she held on tightly with an iron grip. Panicking suddenly, I yanked my arm, and a wave of utter revulsion swept over me as I saw what had attached itself to my wrist.

Where I expected the sensual, feminine hand of a young woman in her prime, was instead a thing of hideousness. Instead of pale soft skin, there was black-purple chitin; where there should have been short pinkish nails tipped with white there were nightmarish claws, sharp and serrated; and the thing was covered in jagged stubble, tiny shards of incisive bone that were as sharp as razor blades.

My fingers swelled, and blood seeped from numerous small cuts in the skin, and a painful burning sensation itched from the inside, yet the sheer horror at the sight of the loathsome hand left me with a far more permanent scar.

 

‘Mutant.’

 

In a fit of rage and fear I leapt from my seat, spinning on one heel as I exited the confession box I tore apart the velvet curtains behind which the profanity hid. The girl screamed as I pulled her from her chair and flung her into the rows of hard wooden benches, smashing the more brittle ones into splinters with the force.

‘Sacrilege!’ I yelled, enraged by the audacity of the beast to enter His temple seeking consolation.

‘No! Father, I need saved! Please!’ cried the freak, tears streaming from her eyes. Those eyes! I saw them now for what they were; beautiful; alluring; dangerous; deadly. They shone with the bleak light of the Warp, tainted beyond reason. I was a fool, a silly old fool, too mesmerised by the thing’s beguiling charm to realise its latent danger.

‘Please Father, please.’ It begged.

‘I don’t know what to do.’

I strode over the splintered timber and grabbed the creature’s wrist with but one thought:

‘I do.’

Mustering the reserves of my strength, I dragged the mutant-girl across the hall. Writhing and screaming in protest she almost tore away, but I was filled with a great power, power I never knew I had in me, power brought on by faith. As we reached the stairwell, I turned to her, it. ‘If you truly wish to be saved then do not struggle with me, mutant!’

She fell quiet and followed me up the spire with only minimal resistance, bubbling and sobbing loudly as we went. I felt no sympathy, only anger at my foolishness and the determination to do what needed to be done.

At the top of the spire the living area was as I had left it, I pushed the beastly monstrosity through the room to the table where I had been sitting when it first arrived. The tainted eyes looked at me briefly with a stare of puzzlement before I kicked its knees out from behind, knocking it to the floor. Still gripping the Warp-mutated arm, I banged it on the table surface and reached into the kitchen for the butcher‘s knife.

‘Now child, repent your sins to the Emperor, beg his forgiveness, beg for your salvation in His name, do it child, now!’ She started chanting the prayer of redemption, repeating it over and over through floods of tears and hysterics. As my fingers found what I had been aiming for I began the prayer of exorcism. ‘In the name of the Holy Saviour I cast out thee spawn of the Warp, cursed being of hate, treachery and deceit…’ I raised the blade: then struck…once…twice…three times at the monster’s forearm.

The sounds of the girl’s cries were deafening but deserved.

In three strokes I had removed the extent of her mutation. Her redemption could now begin.

In the hours that followed, I acted as any Good Samaritan would. I saw to the girl’s wound, using small medi-las to stop the bleeding, and gave her some ganush to help her regain her strength. While she ate, I cremated the corrupt limb, wrapping it in cloth scribed with the appropriate invocations beforehand. I also made an offer at the altar along with several rounds of prayer in case my act had not enough to appease Him on the Golden Throne. After this, I returned to the girl, who had moved onto a lounge chair adjacent to the dining table, clearly exhausted by the ordeal.

‘How are you feeling?’ I asked with a genuine sympathy.

‘Better, Father. Although I still feel weak from the blood loss. I am glad it is over with Father. I feared my parents would see me burn rather than admit to the shame.’

I crouched beside her. The eyes of perilous emerald still glowed with an aura I could not ignore. ‘It isn’t over yet Hielna, I’m afraid.’

She gulped and began to shake.

‘No, no. There is no more pain to come I swear to you child. But we must make an offer to the God-Emperor so that he is compensated for your sacrilege.’

She slowly calmed down again, her eyes intensified. ‘Come.’ I offered my arm and hoisted her upright. We descended the stairs, arm in arm. I leaned against the smooth red sandstone wall for support: my legs trembled with tiredness. We reached the main hall and crossed the altar. ‘Here Father?’ Hielna asked.

‘No child, you are not free to worship here yet. There is another downstairs in the basement where you may make your prayers.’ I led her to a small trapdoor on the far right of the altar and heaved it open with both arms, exerting every ounce of strength as I did so. Through a cloud of dust and dirt, the trapdoor revealed a set of broad, marbled steps, worn and damaged from years of use. I waved her downwards and followed briskly into the pitch-dark recesses of the chapel basement. Once at the bottom of the steps I lit the two torches that hung from the walls on either side of the room. The lights filled the room with flaming shades of orange and yellow, revealing an idol of the Emperor in the far corner. Small and humble, it was the very opposite of the shrine upstairs, as was my intention. This is where I came in my own times of need, were I believed the leader of the Imperium of Man would hear me loudest. This, I knew, is where Hielna would have to pray for her soul.

‘Kneel before the altar Hielna, make your prayer and ask to be exonerated by Him.’

She knelt, using her one good arm for support, and began muttering her appeal. I watched on, and took a small step back towards a large bookcase on the adjoining wall. Next to the bookcase was a short nightstand with a locked drawer. Taking a key from my robe pocket, I opened the drawer. Inside, coated in a layer of dust, lay my old las-pistol. I hadn’t looked at it in decades, let alone used it. Now, here, beneath His church, I knew why a man of my faith, a man who had never raised his voice in anger, never hurt or angered anyone in his life, had bought and kept a gun in his possession for all this time. It had been fate, pre-ordained by the holiest of saints, the Immortal Emperor.

I took the gun silently and checked it over for faults. Hielna still knelt, repeating her pleas through closed eyes.

A decent girl.

A faithful girl.

A lie.

She was an obscene manifestation of the Warp, lusus naturae, tainted so heavily her very eyes glowed with pure evil. In my continued foolishness I thought that severing the limb would be enough, but evil so often hides where it is least suspected. No, it was her mind that was corrupt, her very soul rotten to the core. Prayers and chants could only do so much for a thing such as her.

I aimed the firearm carefully, sighting the centre of her head as the target.

‘Deus Imperator Misereatur.’

 

I pulled the trigger.

Blood spattered everywhere, fragments of tissue and skull collided with ceiling and floor. I gasped as the headless body slumped to the ground and her blood poured like wine from an overturned jug.

She was dead. It was over.

 

Except it wasn’t.

 

For a mutant this age to of remained hidden must have taken conspirators, friends, family, all disguising the truth. I would have to report the mutation to the Ecclesiarchy, maybe even the Inquisition. It was my duty as a servant of the Holy Emperor..

There would be more deaths, human and mutant alike: and they would be bloody.

 

[Ufthak]

Hey Flood!

 

Just read "Preacher", and can only say:

 

BRILLIANT!!!!! :(

 

Seriously, that is a wonderful story, finally a change from the usual hack, slash and boom - war stories. You have a great writing style and a wonderful way of describing things... "chasing the darkness into the shadows..." - brilliant!!!

I liked how the peaceful, gentle priest turns into a brutaql murderer just because of faith and set-in ways. Very true in many aspects of real life as well.

 

One thing though, the story appears cut off mid-sentence. The last sentence on the pdf-document states "Prayers and chants" then abruptly breaks off. Perhaps you could fix it, would like to read the rest as well :lol:

 

In any case, keep up the great work!!!

 

One last bit of advice though:

As nice as pdf is, I think people prefer it if the story is posted directly. I think more people would read it...

[Flood]

Ah you are indeed correct, the document has cut itself short somehow. My mistake I apologise. Glad you like it though.

 

I'll edit the first post for you now.

[Ufthak]

Ah, thanks! Nice ending, implying more bloodshed to follow...a good representation of the bleakness and brutality that is the 41st Millenium!

 

Great Job!!!!!

 

Will make a point of reading the other story one of these days! In any case, keep up the good work, you definitely have a talent for writing!!!

 

:P