A Tale of Twenty Writers

[Olis]

I think you may need to update the front page, brother. :)

[Pavement Artist]

I took Ludovic off, who else am i missing?

[Olis]

Dominicus has volunteered to do the Thousand Sons and darnath lysander has taken up the Emperor's Children. :)

[Pavement Artist]

You are quite right. Glad one of us is awake :(

 

So folks, we need Sisters of Silence and then we are good to go!

[Ferrus Manus]

Would you guys consider the Battle for Caliban within our time frame?

[Pavement Artist]

I certainly would

[Olis]

Would you guys consider the Battle for Caliban within our time frame?

 

I would. :)

[Ferrus Manus]

I certainly would

 

 

Would you guys consider the Battle for Caliban within our time frame?

 

I would. :)

 

Ahh excellent. I will try and get my teaser up in the next few days then.

[Pavement Artist]

It's best to keep the timeline fairly open, i'd hate to quash a cool story idea because it doesnt happen at a specific point.

[No Foes Remain]

Back and have written a fair bit in my notepad which I will be typing up today, I may post the starter just for the hell of it.

[Dark Apostle Thirst]

Oh yeah, about that starter.

 

 

Chapter Master Idainus looked below him. From his balcony he could see the Hand of Dawn's command deck and the ship-captain who was quickly tossing commands to the crew, who were giving their own orders and giving affirmations back to their astarte commander. Soon, the holo-projectors built into the highest platform would light up and present images of the five ship-captains of the chapter fleet, minus the one below Idainus. Only one thing remained before the might of the Bearers of Dawn chapter of the Word Bearers legion reassembled.

 

Entry into realspace.

 

The frantic activity of the deck below Idainus ceased suddenly, and the ship-captain looked up at him with the barest hint of excitement. "We await your command to exit the Warp, chapter master."

 

"You have it. Execute immediately." Though his words were short and flavored only by formality, the lord of the Bearers of Dawn shared in his brothers' eagerness to go to war.

 

For too long they had been shamed. For too long the Word Bearers had been treated as lesser and unworthy. For too long had they been deemed as unfit and even their brothers who had joined them in Horus's revolution still treated them with that same stigma of dismissal and rejection. Even now they still preferred the example everyone followed, that of the Ultramarines, always assuming that those loyalist scum were everything the Word Bearers should be. For too long this had gone on. It was time to change things.

 

The ship began to lurch and pull back as the Warp tugged at the Hand of Dawn's shields. With a roar and the punch of thrusters the Hand began to push itself into realspace, and for a horribly long moment the two forces resisted each other. Then the battle barge's power won and a collective sigh of relief past through the ship as it re-emerged into reality. Around the Hand, the rest of the fleet was beginning to do the same, and the viewscreens showed the world they had come to burn. It's name was simple, for one claimed by the pompous Ultramarines - Torus.

 

Idainus knew it would take more than just one Ultramarine world to change the minds of their brothers. There was also no doubt that it was the start of earning back their respect, however.

 

The last ship-captain's image joined the rest. All of them looked to the chapter master, more than ready to begin breaking Torus in the name of the Warmaster, Lorgar, and the Dark Gods. For a moment he stood still, closing his eyes and enjoying the calm before the storm they were about to deliver.

 

Then Idainus opened his eyes, smiled, and opened his arms wide, the very image of false benevolence.

 

"Come, my brothers. It's time to show the Ultramarines hell."

[Dominicus]

Here is my starter...

 

 

Magnus sat on a throne of ethereal fire, his blue gauntlet tapping an old Prosperan folk-song on the arm of the vast chair. His wild red hair flowed like a halo around his now-pale skull. His one eye blazed with warp-fuelled power, and the corner of his mouth drew up in a fatherly smile as he saw the throne room doors slam open.

 

Ahriman stalked into the room, his staff hitting the floor in time with his armoured footsteps. His armour was re-painted as well, trimmed with gold and painted a dark blue, identical to his liege lord. His helm showed the beginning of two great horns emerging from the crown, evidence of the taint of the warp.

 

Ahriman bowed before Magnus, his helm tucked under his arm.

“My lord, the Legion awaits your arrival,” the Chief Librarian announced, his eyes betraying his excitement at the impending orders that Magnus would soon be giving.

 

Magnus nodded, and rose from his throne, his ornate armour clanking as he stood. Ten Scarab Occult Terminators emerged from the shadows around the dias, their storm bolters held loosely in their hands. Without a word, the Thousand Sons’ primarch swept from the room, Ahriman and his warriors in tow.

 

The primarch and his entourage walked in silence through the vast palace, the only sounds the clanking of boots on hard rock, and the wailing of the thousands of daemons bonded to the walls of the building. A pair of magnificently ornate doors rose up in front of the group. With but a thought from the powerful primarch, the doors swung open, and as Magnus walked in, he beheld a spectacular sight that made his heart swell with pride.

 

One thousand two hundred Astartes, arranged a hundred wide by three hundred deep, stood at attention, the daemonically-infused light of the auditorium glinting off of their pristine blue armour. Bolter were held in tight hands, and staffs and force weapons crackled with psychic potential. Two hundred Scarab Occult Terminators stood in serried rank on the stage around Magnus, their imposing figures casting a shadow over the first ranks of their power-armoured brothers. Banners were raised high, honour scrolls flapping in the wind.

 

In the wind, Magnus thought. He chuckled to himself at the wonders of Chaos, and raised his staff high.

“My sons!” Magnus cried. “This day shall be remembered in the annals of history forever. For today the Thousand Sons will march to war against the Imperium of Man!”

 

Cheers shook the auditorium walls as a Legion chanted it primarch’s name, over and over and over. Magnus raised his hands, beckoning for calm. Silence descended over the disciplined troops, and Magnus cleared his throat.

“There is only one thing left to say: to your ships. We depart in one hour.”

[Chapter Master Onyxius]

I like Dominicus's teaser the best right now, specially since it has Ahriman in it :)

[Dominicus]

I like Dominicus's teaser the best right now, specially since it has Ahriman in it ;)

Why thank you :P And don't worry, Ahriman is about to become uber badass :P

[ChaptermasterDemon7]

Been very quiet in here. Do we need to post our stories now?

[Hyaenidae]

Ug. I'm out, real life caught up with me, and I just don't have the free time to commit to this.

 

Night Lords are officially open to whomever wants 'em.

[No Foes Remain]

Sorry to hear that Heathens, was kinda looking forward to your NL story.

 

 

As an update, I've finished the first 'chapter' but I've written it down in a note pad and need to type it up which I've been putting off but I'll get it done tomorrow. The rest I'll have done in time.... I hope.

[Olis]

I too am part way done, however it's bits and pieces, rather than full segments done so far.

[Chapter Master Onyxius]

agreed I only have a chapter done and even then there are some editing to be done. But we are the legion astartes so what do we have to worry about :yes:

[GooseDaMoose]

Opening scene to my Death Guard story, behold!

 

 

 

 

 

Finneac Morrhun shuddered in his trance. He was sitting on the floor of his chambers, with his legs crossed, and his arms twitching and tracing echoing movements through the air. Around him drifted ghostly whisps of a pale haze, flowing from censers placed around his room, thick as a fog near the floor, where it rolled around his legs. Even by enhanced Astartes standards he was large, but deathly pale, and with dark rings around his eyes. He looked gaunt, despite his genehanced musculature, especially in his trance as he sat bent over and moved his arms awkwardly, acting out phantom movements of ages past.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

It smells like home.

 

I’m standing on an embankment overlooking a vast wetland; an unending bog stretching well into the distance, with the occasional dike or bank of saturated moss and a sickly tree twisting upwards, as scum and rotting matter float still as corpses in the mud-stained waters. Down the embankment behind me, growing in the drained polder of an ancient swampland stands the only forest of any size left on Flyme, like a mourning procession, leaves drooping and the branches spreading and snaking like parasites around a leg. This close to the bog’s edge only a vanguard of trees dare creep, the strongest and most resilient of the twisting species of gangly trees that populate the marsh planet.

 

Building anything on the rotting surface of this world would have taken monumental and stubborn effort and dedication in the early days of the human colonization of Flyme, something I can respect and even admire amongst the lowliest of the human race.

 

I would, had they shown any of these qualities, but society here was built on more rotten foundations than even these stinking wetlands.

 

Above me in the starry dusking skies hang massive, looming shapes, tear-shaped and suspended in mid-air. The Sky-Cities of Flyme. Clumped together like a flock of desperate children in the dark night, the huge floating swathes of earth and peat are held together by some invisible force and hanging, trailing dead plant material and huge roots as if reaching down, seeking to return to the earth beneath them from which they have been so unnaturally wrenched. I spit, the ground hissing at its corrosive touch, and stare at the hanging fortress north of me, the biggest in view. Even at this distance I can see the amber flicker of fires in the capital city and hear low, percussive booms, like a rolling thunder, reaching me seconds after the explosions flare up on the faraway muck citadel.

 

“Brother,” a voice crackles over the vox. I recognize it and replace my helmet, blink-clicking the affirmation rune, “the siege goes well,” it continues, “Lord Typhon has reached the inner courtyards of the citadel. Whatever sorcery is keeping these piles of mud floating is doing little to stop our advance.”

 

I grunt, a non-committal reply, knowing that the owner of the voice will ignore its dismissing tone.

 

“Brother, our victory is secured, do you find no joy in that?”

 

“Everything tastes bitter in this air, Moirae.”

 

The voice crackles again, coloured with impatience now, “ever the melancholist, Finn. Do you find no comfort in your revenge against that sorcerer?”

 

That word again, sorcerer, spoken with such scorn. As always, shame blossoms briefly, but, as always, I ignore it and swallow, and answer, “no.”

 

“He died honourably, brother, and his murderer died by your hands,” Moirae says, speaking softer now, “you’ve done him justice.” I don’t answer.

 

He sighs, “Graul was my friend too, Finneac, but such is our duty. Death is always near, but with us it lingers closer than with most; we are the weapons of the Emperor, and bring humanity’s illumination, but the brighter the light, the deeper the shadows, and Death shadows us like wraith-hounds.”

 

I snort, “ever the philosopher, Moirae,” and close the vox.

 

It is over. The muck citadel is in flames on the horizon and landing craft are taking off to return to orbit. As I watch, a final explosion rocks the sky-city and its hovering, unnatural foundations and it quavers, shuddering in the deepening dusk, silhouetted against the horizon as the sound wave hits me. My helmet’s aural dampeners immediately react to the overwhelming noise as the massive displacement of air ripples the water-logged land. By the time it reaches the wetlands below my embankment it has died down to gentle sloshing, upsetting and stirring the dead plants and rotting materials for the first time in years.

 

The sky is falling.

 

With the death of the world’s capital city, the spell which had suspended the sky-cities is broken, and the massive earth structures begin to fall, impossibly slow, back to the cold, wet embrace of their old homes. I watch as the world around me falls apart and dies an apocalyptic and shuddering death.

 

I close my eyes, and sigh.

 

The vox rune on my helm display blinks, “Lord Typhon.”

 

“Apothecary Morrhun,” the voice speaks, gruff and drawling, like a rake dragged across gravel, “Chief-Apothecary Horphon is dead. You are hereby promoted and transferred to the Terminus Est. Eth grahul nurg-ya.”

 

“I summon thee.”

 

I turn from the colossal jets of rotting water and biological matter raining filth and muck on a drowning world and walk towards my Stormraven.

[GooseDaMoose]

Opening scene to my Death Guard story, behold!

 

 

 

 

 

Finneac Morrhun shuddered in his trance. He was sitting on the floor of his chambers, with his legs crossed, and his arms twitching and tracing echoing movements through the air. Around him drifted ghostly whisps of a pale haze, flowing from censers placed around his room, thick as a fog near the floor, where it rolled around his legs. Even by enhanced Astartes standards he was large, but deathly pale, and with dark rings around his eyes. He looked gaunt, despite his genehanced musculature, especially in his trance as he sat bent over and moved his arms awkwardly, acting out phantom movements of ages past.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

It smells like home.

 

I’m standing on an embankment overlooking a vast wetland; an unending bog stretching well into the distance, with the occasional dike or bank of saturated moss and a sickly tree twisting upwards, as scum and rotting matter float still as corpses in the mud-stained waters. Down the embankment behind me, growing in the drained polder of an ancient swampland stands the only forest of any size left on Flyme, like a mourning procession, leaves drooping and the branches spreading and snaking like parasites around a leg. This close to the bog’s edge only a vanguard of trees dare creep, the strongest and most resilient of the twisting species of gangly trees that populate the marsh planet.

 

Building anything on the rotting surface of this world would have taken monumental and stubborn effort and dedication in the early days of the human colonization of Flyme, something I can respect and even admire amongst the lowliest of the human race.

 

I would, had they shown any of these qualities, but society here was built on more rotten foundations than even these stinking wetlands.

 

Above me in the starry dusking skies hang massive, looming shapes, tear-shaped and suspended in mid-air. The Sky-Cities of Flyme. Clumped together like a flock of desperate children in the dark night, the huge floating swathes of earth and peat are held together by some invisible force and hanging, trailing dead plant material and huge roots as if reaching down, seeking to return to the earth beneath them from which they have been so unnaturally wrenched. I spit, the ground hissing at its corrosive touch, and stare at the hanging fortress north of me, the biggest in view. Even at this distance I can see the amber flicker of fires in the capital city and hear low, percussive booms, like a rolling thunder, reaching me seconds after the explosions flare up on the faraway muck citadel.

 

“Brother,” a voice crackles over the vox. I recognize it and replace my helmet, blink-clicking the affirmation rune, “the siege goes well,” it continues, “Lord Typhon has reached the inner courtyards of the citadel. Whatever sorcery is keeping these piles of mud floating is doing little to stop our advance.”

 

I grunt, a non-committal reply, knowing that the owner of the voice will ignore its dismissing tone.

 

“Brother, our victory is secured, do you find no joy in that?”

 

“Everything tastes bitter in this air, Moirae.”

 

The voice crackles again, coloured with impatience now, “ever the melancholist, Finn. Do you find no comfort in your revenge against that sorcerer?”

 

That word again, sorcerer, spoken with such scorn. As always, shame blossoms briefly, but, as always, I ignore it and swallow, and answer, “no.”

 

“He died honourably, brother, and his murderer died by your hands,” Moirae says, speaking softer now, “you’ve done him justice.” I don’t answer.

 

He sighs, “Graul was my friend too, Finneac, but such is our duty. Death is always near, but with us it lingers closer than with most; we are the weapons of the Emperor, and bring humanity’s illumination, but the brighter the light, the deeper the shadows, and Death shadows us like wraith-hounds.”

 

I snort, “ever the philosopher, Moirae,” and close the vox.

 

It is over. The muck citadel is in flames on the horizon and landing craft are taking off to return to orbit. As I watch, a final explosion rocks the sky-city and its hovering, unnatural foundations and it quavers, shuddering in the deepening dusk, silhouetted against the horizon as the sound wave hits me. My helmet’s aural dampeners immediately react to the overwhelming noise as the massive displacement of air ripples the water-logged land. By the time it reaches the wetlands below my embankment it has died down to gentle sloshing, upsetting and stirring the dead plants and rotting materials for the first time in years.

 

The sky is falling.

 

With the death of the world’s capital city, the spell which had suspended the sky-cities is broken, and the massive earth structures begin to fall, impossibly slow, back to the cold, wet embrace of their old homes. I watch as the world around me falls apart and dies an apocalyptic and shuddering death.

 

I close my eyes, and sigh.

 

The vox rune on my helm display blinks, “Lord Typhon.”

 

“Apothecary Morrhun,” the voice speaks, gruff and drawling, like a rake dragged across gravel, “Chief-Apothecary Horphon is dead. You are hereby promoted and transferred to the Terminus Est. Eth grahul nurg-ya.”

 

“I summon thee.”

 

I turn from the colossal jets of rotting water and biological matter raining filth and muck on a drowning world and walk towards my Stormraven.

[GooseDaMoose]

Opening scene to my Death Guard story, behold!

 

 

 

 

 

Finneac Morrhun shuddered in his trance. He was sitting on the floor of his chambers, with his legs crossed, and his arms twitching and tracing echoing movements through the air. Around him drifted ghostly whisps of a pale haze, flowing from censers placed around his room, thick as a fog near the floor, where it rolled around his legs. Even by enhanced Astartes standards he was large, but deathly pale, and with dark rings around his eyes. He looked gaunt, despite his genehanced musculature, especially in his trance as he sat bent over and moved his arms awkwardly, acting out phantom movements of ages past.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

It smells like home.

 

I’m standing on an embankment overlooking a vast wetland; an unending bog stretching well into the distance, with the occasional dike or bank of saturated moss and a sickly tree twisting upwards, as scum and rotting matter float still as corpses in the mud-stained waters. Down the embankment behind me, growing in the drained polder of an ancient swampland stands the only forest of any size left on Flyme, like a mourning procession, leaves drooping and the branches spreading and snaking like parasites around a leg. This close to the bog’s edge only a vanguard of trees dare creep, the strongest and most resilient of the twisting species of gangly trees that populate the marsh planet.

 

Building anything on the rotting surface of this world would have taken monumental and stubborn effort and dedication in the early days of the human colonization of Flyme, something I can respect and even admire amongst the lowliest of the human race.

 

I would, had they shown any of these qualities, but society here was built on more rotten foundations than even these stinking wetlands.

 

Above me in the starry dusking skies hang massive, looming shapes, tear-shaped and suspended in mid-air. The Sky-Cities of Flyme. Clumped together like a flock of desperate children in the dark night, the huge floating swathes of earth and peat are held together by some invisible force and hanging, trailing dead plant material and huge roots as if reaching down, seeking to return to the earth beneath them from which they have been so unnaturally wrenched. I spit, the ground hissing at its corrosive touch, and stare at the hanging fortress north of me, the biggest in view. Even at this distance I can see the amber flicker of fires in the capital city and hear low, percussive booms, like a rolling thunder, reaching me seconds after the explosions flare up on the faraway muck citadel.

 

“Brother,” a voice crackles over the vox. I recognize it and replace my helmet, blink-clicking the affirmation rune, “the siege goes well,” it continues, “Lord Typhon has reached the inner courtyards of the citadel. Whatever sorcery is keeping these piles of mud floating is doing little to stop our advance.”

 

I grunt, a non-committal reply, knowing that the owner of the voice will ignore its dismissing tone.

 

“Brother, our victory is secured, do you find no joy in that?”

 

“Everything tastes bitter in this air, Moirae.”

 

The voice crackles again, coloured with impatience now, “ever the melancholist, Finn. Do you find no comfort in your revenge against that sorcerer?”

 

That word again, sorcerer, spoken with such scorn. As always, shame blossoms briefly, but, as always, I ignore it and swallow, and answer, “no.”

 

“He died honourably, brother, and his murderer died by your hands,” Moirae says, speaking softer now, “you’ve done him justice.” I don’t answer.

 

He sighs, “Graul was my friend too, Finneac, but such is our duty. Death is always near, but with us it lingers closer than with most; we are the weapons of the Emperor, and bring humanity’s illumination, but the brighter the light, the deeper the shadows, and Death shadows us like wraith-hounds.”

 

I snort, “ever the philosopher, Moirae,” and close the vox.

 

It is over. The muck citadel is in flames on the horizon and landing craft are taking off to return to orbit. As I watch, a final explosion rocks the sky-city and its hovering, unnatural foundations and it quavers, shuddering in the deepening dusk, silhouetted against the horizon as the sound wave hits me. My helmet’s aural dampeners immediately react to the overwhelming noise as the massive displacement of air ripples the water-logged land. By the time it reaches the wetlands below my embankment it has died down to gentle sloshing, upsetting and stirring the dead plants and rotting materials for the first time in years.

 

The sky is falling.

 

With the death of the world’s capital city, the spell which had suspended the sky-cities is broken, and the massive earth structures begin to fall, impossibly slow, back to the cold, wet embrace of their old homes. I watch as the world around me falls apart and dies an apocalyptic and shuddering death.

 

I close my eyes, and sigh.

 

The vox rune on my helm display blinks, “Lord Typhon.”

 

“Apothecary Morrhun,” the voice speaks, gruff and drawling, like a rake dragged across gravel, “Chief-Apothecary Horphon is dead. You are hereby promoted and transferred to the Terminus Est. Eth grahul nurg-ya.”

 

“I summon thee.”

 

I turn from the colossal jets of rotting water and biological matter raining filth and muck on a drowning world and walk towards my Stormraven.

[ChaptermasterDemon7]

Mine is typed up in word, but school has gotten in the way so it is on hold abit. I will be posting still.

[No Foes Remain]

Typed up the first bit of my first 'chapter', though I might as well post it here for the hell of it.

 

 

 

 

THE WARRIOR STOOD in front of a massive view port, which stared out onto the surface of Isstvan V. The fires from the mass funeral pyres which the dead from both sides were burnt onto, was visible from low orbit from the ship which the warrior commanded. The warrior, however, was not looking at recent deeds. He stared at his own reflection. The green-grey MK.IV power armour plate stared back at him, the helm attached to his belt was black and the red eye-lenses dull and deactivated.

 

The warrior was tall, but no more than the rest of the Adeptus Astartes race. His tanned head was visible as there was not a single hair on the crown of his head, which featured a heavy brow – not unlike his Primarch’s. With him being a Terran, there was a higher chance of him ‘inheriting’ his Primarch’s features through the wonders of the gene-seed that dwelled within him than those of the Primarch’s homeworld, due to there being less mutations of the homo sapien genetic code. Or so the Legion Apothecaries told him, well tried to....

 

However the facial features was where the resemblance ended. The warrior, instead, had piercing green eyes, void black eyebrows and a permanent black stubble across his jaw line. His skin was tanned from just over two hundred years of war and fighting, and the scar which ran from his top right temple to his left collarbone showed that he had lived every moment of those years on the front line.

 

 

‘Thinking of past glories, Lucifer?’ Asked a figure from the shadows of the observation platform.

 

‘Something like that, Brother.’ Replied Lucifer, Captain of the 28th Company in the Sons of Horus Legion.

 

The figure moved from the shadows to stand next to Lucifer, clad in simple robes that didn’t reveal his Legion of origin. However his features were that that of his Primarch’s, not like Lucifer, as the figure looked exactly like his Primarch. His tanned head had no hair upon it and his eyes, that changed from blue to green depending on the light, saw all, no matter who or what was hiding. So there was no use hiding or lying to him.

 

‘So, you being here means that you haven’t been summoned yet then, I take it?’ The figure said by way of conversation, staring down at the planate surface.

 

‘Not yet, but they will arrive soon.’ Lucifer replied.

 

‘How can you be sure?’ Countered the figure, turning his head slightly so he could see Lucifer.

 

‘Because, Brother, the rest of the Legions forces, as well as forces from the other Legions, have all been deployed and I am still here.’

 

‘Fair point.’ Admitted the figure.

 

A pregnant silence hung in the air as the two warriors looked upon the battle scared surface of Isstvan, thinking of the acts that they had committed in the name of the Warmaster.

 

 

‘Was it worth it?’ Asked the figure after several minutes of silence.

 

‘Define “it”, Brother.’ Lucifer turned to look at his friend, his left brow raised.

 

‘The acts we committed, turning upon our brothers.’ He paused for a moment, ‘betraying the Emperor...’

 

‘I have long since given up caring. I have lived far too long and killed far too many things, both human and xeno, to start caring again now.’ Lucifer paused to place an armoured hand on the viewing glass, ‘what the Warmaster wants, he gets.’

 

‘I understand you, brother, I really do. But don’t you think that-’

 

The figure was cut off mid-sentence by the chambers vox speakers, from which a deep but young voice emitted from.

‘Captain Kovac, please come to the bridge immediately.’

 

‘Well, there are your summons.’ The figure said, turning to go back to the shadows.

 

‘Aye, we will continue this conversation later, brother.’ Lucifer said to the figure, before opening a vox-link to the commander of the ship when he was not around.

 

‘Talze, this is Kovac. I am en-route.’ He cut the link after finishing, he was in no mood for one of Talze’s replies that were usually long winded when they could have been shortened down.

 

Soon he would be on the front lines again, after the joyful exchange of void warfare, he would be slamming his mace into flesh as he killed more for his Warmaster. But who would be fighting and where?

[Ferrus Manus]

Sorry guys, gonna have to drop out of this.... final year of uni is leaving little or no spare time.