Rapid Fire Challenge #1: February 2018

[Dosjetka]

Prompt: Loyalty

 

Maximum length: 500 words

 

Deadline: 28th February 2018

 

Where to post submissions: in this thread

 

Note - please make sure all submissions adhere to the forum rules. Any entry that breaks one or more rules shall be removed without notice.

Edited February 7, 2018 by Chaplain Dosjetka
Added tag.

[No Foes Remain]

My brothers have the wrong idea, the weapons of the Great Enemy are not to be used against them but to be destroyed. There is a greater war coming, a war bigger than our wayward Chapter. I still remain a Fire Claw, there are a score among our demi-company who still refer to themselves as such, the rest call themselves Relictors. That is not our name, that is not who we are.

  I march at the head of twenty seven Astartes, Fire Claws all. The Chaplain at my right, Vertis, follows my lead with ten tactical marines, ten assault marines and six veterans as our escort. We march to demand an answer from our commander, I keep my powers at the edge, ready to summon yet not active.

 

  We reach the bridge and the portal opens admitting all twenty eight of us.

  ‘Calan, we must talk.’ I announce as I enter the bridge.

  Calan stands upon the command dias, surrounded by twenty tactical marines and ten assault marines. They turn towards us, they are all in full plate and ready for combat and yet, they are hesitant whereas those who follow me are ready for anything.

  ‘What is it, librarian?’ Calan’s voice irritates me, he acts as if he’s better than us.

  ‘The path our Chapter is walking, we must change it or else we will be lost.’ I partly explain the nightmares I have been seeing. The Fire Claws, never the Relictors, will die if we continue this path.

  ‘The path? We use the weapons of the enemy against them, what surest sign of the Emperor is it that we can use the weapons of the enemy against themselves?’ Calan was blind to the truth, another had turned him from the Emperor’s grace.

  I saw only one outcome.

  ‘To use the weapons of the enemy is to risk damnation, if you cannot see this then you are truly lost.’ I draw my force sword and channel power to it. Those who follow me aim their weapons at our former brothers who surround Calan on the command dias.

  ‘You dare threaten me?!’ Calen draws his own weapons in response, his followers a few seconds behind him.

  ‘Calan, there are no threats.’ I let my true powers flow. I hold out my arm and cast five of the Relictors near Calan be sucked into a small warp portal just before the warriors around opened fire.

 

  This is the path I had to take, to ignore this would cause us all to be damned but to kill my gene-kin, to slaughter those of my blood and draw those who don the black and to wear it myself, ignoring my previous loyalties, it was worth it. Such is the price of loyalty. That is what our Emperor, our Creator demands. It is a price I pay gladly.

  As I tell you this story, the circumstances that lead me to this Watch-Fortress, know this: I am a loyal Fire Claw. A loyal Blackshield.

Edited February 8, 2018 by No Foes Remain

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Brother Bascombe sucked in a wet breath.  Even through the fugue of pain that hazed his mind, he could taste the tangy, metallic scent of his own iron-rich blood, leaking from a score of wounds across his body.  And, of course, the foul perfume of the ones he shared the chamber with.  Their plate had been debased, the golden aquilas across their plastrons carved to pieces; he could only guess at the original colors, painted over as they were in lurid hues of green and orange and purple that caused physical pain when so much as glanced at.

 

The one in charge – for the moment at least – sighed heavily through lips so heavily torn they were more scar tissue than flesh.  All six of them, in fact, had suffered heavily in battle and apparently under the surgeon’s knife as well.  One’s armor had been cropped short, barely reaching below the rib cage, and a series of serrated blades had been used as piercings through the ring of skin around his navel!  Others showed tattoos and piercings and scars just as odd if not more so, some even proudly bearing ritualistic icons that made his bowels clench and his lips pull into a sneer.

 

Bascombe exhaled despite the pain of breathing, forced himself to inhale again.  His tormentor noticed; moving like a Corralian whip-snake, his hand lashed out and grabbed Bascombe about the throat.  The foul thing that used to be a Space Marine squeezed with just barely enough pressure to close his trachea.  He – it – leaned over Bascombe, long and lank white hair falling forward to occlude that tortured countenance.  When it spoke, the voice was dry and raspy, as if a serpent was speaking.

 

“You are tough, brother,” it said, the lips twisting into a sneer at that last.  “So few have lasted so long.  You’ll make a fine addition to our company, and we shall treat you oh so better than your so-called God-Emperor.”  It leaned in closer, the voice dropping to a leathery whisper.  “Just say the words.  Swear to us, swear to the Bliss-Giver, and the pain won’t bother you anymore.”

 

Bascombe tried to force a subtle smile on his face, and the heretic loosened its grip so he could speak.  “I swear. . .” he began, then coughed twice as he tried to moisten his bruised throat.  The Chaos Marine’s own tattered lips pulled in a smile, the action pulling the wounds apart and starting several trails of thin blood down its chin.

 

Bascombe darted his head forward, smashing his forehead into his enemy’s face.  Its nose broke with an audible and oddly wet crunch, and it recoiled as the trickle of blood from its split lips became a flood from its nostrils.  It stared at him for a moment, then shook its head as if disappointed.

 

“I see there’s no breaking you, Templar.  Too bad.”  The last thing Bascombe heard was the boom of a bolt pistol.

[Son of Carnelian]

The serrated knife leaves my chest and takes part of my primary heart with it. Blood issues forth from my mouth as I toss the rusted thing aside into the dirt of this ruined world. The World Eater standing above me laughs in a deep, guttural tone. He mocks my pain.

 

"Third Legion bastard. Did you ever imagine you'd die like this?"

 

He spits on me after he says the final word. The acid in his saliva hisses against my breastplate and leaves a tiny wound in the purple and gold of my armor. I look up at him with my one good eye.

 

"I would prefer dying on my feet. But this death will serve."

 

The World Eater snorts the blood dripping from his nose back into his throat. His face contorts into a mask of disgust as he examines me.

 

"Serve. That's the difference between us. I choose to follow the Warmaster. You serve the Emperor like a dog on a leash. Look what it gets you."

 

The poisoned winds of Istavaan III rush over my face and I feel a sudden longing for the sight of evening on Chemos. Before I realize it, a laugh emerges through my damaged throat. The World Eater shows surprise for the first time since we locked eyes on the battlefield. My crippled voice sounds foreign to me, but I speak without pause or stutter.

 

"You rebel against the Emperor because you believe that some better life awaits you under the Warmaster. But you are wrong. Trust is the only currency a man or an Astartes can possess and you have spent yours like a fool."

 

The World Eater actually pauses and considers my words. The cries of the dead and the dying issue from all around us. My loyal brothers and I will lose the contest for this world, but we shall sell our lives dearly. It brings me a measure of peace.

 

"There must be more to living than servitude."

 

The World Eater's own words come unsteady and unsure from his bloody mouth. He avoids the gaze of the broken man at his feet. I laugh again.

 

"Everyone serves a master, even mighty Horus. We are judged by the quality of our service. And the Emperor will judge your service quite poorly."

 

He matches my laugher now and we smile together for a long moment. When he speaks again, mirth colors his words.

 

"What dry, dreary text are you quoting, cousin? One of your obnoxious poets?"

 

I shake my head.

 

"The words are mine."

 

His expression changes. A sorrow fills his darkened eyes.

 

"Then I would hear no more of them."

 

Then he brings his fist down against my face, again and again. The darkness finally takes me. I feel myself smile as the red warmth of death envelops me like an old friend.

 

And I see the setting sun of Chemos.

[Dosjetka]

Three entries already, fantastic! If you feel like writing another one or ten, go ahead! :tu:

 

No Foes Remain: I noticed that you switch from Calan to Calen mid-text. Not a huge mistake but I figured it's still important to point it out. :)

[No Foes Remain]

Three entries already, fantastic! If you feel like writing another one or ten, go ahead!

 

No Foes Remain: I noticed that you switch from Calan to Calen mid-text. Not a huge mistake but I figured it's still important to point it out.

Thanks, I blame Word and rum.

[Dosjetka]

I wrote something for this but promptly realised I could use it for the BL open submissions. So I'll keep it "secret" for the moment until I decide to bin it and write something else.

 

Silver lining: my own mini-challenge got me writing again! :)

[Jagus Kumkani]

==REDACTED==

Edited February 9, 2018 by Jagus Kumkani

[Dosjetka]

Jagus Kumkani: You've got 501 words.

 

Teasing aside, I wasn't expecting that end which is always good in my books (haha). The only other (two) points of criticism that I'd have are 1) I wouldn't call vehicles "dead" as you did in the first paragraph. I'd suggest you use "destroyed" or a similar word and 2) I'm not too sure how the challenge's prompt word "loyalty" inspired you as that theme doesn't really transpire in your text.

Edited February 8, 2018 by Chaplain Dosjetka

[Jagus Kumkani]

Yeah, I probably should have payed attention to that. I'll take this down and submit something that actually covers the theme lol.

Edited February 9, 2018 by Jagus Kumkani

[Jagus Kumkani]

Lord Commander Cassius could feel the anger and disgust welling up inside him like a volcano ready to burst. His most senior officers knelt in reverence to their progenitor, Cassius knelt out of necessity, for he held no such admiration for the being that stood before him. Clad in shining golden artificer armor etched with the images of his most notable battles, the Primarch of the Golden Jaguars was not to be taken lightly despite his opulent appearance. He wore a great spotted pelt over his broad shoulders.Claws and fangs hung from necklaces and bracelets about the Primarch.

 

There was a sneering Jaguar wrought into the breastplate of his armor. Forever gazing upon its victims. Poised to leap from his chest. The fighting blade that lay at his hip was a brutal, blunt-nosed double tipped blade meant to hack and slash and kill. Cassius had never seen anything of the like. But it was the face of the Primarch that gave Cassius pause. The Master of the Xth had brown skin like himself, high cheek bones, a slender nose and piercing green eyes. Much like the people of Ethia in Eastern Afrik. But most interesting was his fanged mouth.

 

He was beautiful. Regal and noble, all the poise and power of a living god. But as menacing and dangerous as an untamed beast. Cassius frowned at the mental affirmations that formed in his mind. He remembered, it was himself that had lead the Legion in his absence. It was he who molded the Xth into a feared and formidable fighting force. It was he who kept the Legion together when their affliction nearly tore them apart. Upon remembering these things, Cassius’ anger boiled in him anew.

Though the Primarchs blood flowed through his veins, he was no son of his. His loyalty was to the Legion, not to him. “I come as your salvation my sons.” The Jaguar King says.

 

“The Legion is shrouded in a darkness and I intend to bring you to the light. Give you nobility and honor, something more to fight for.”

 

This, this…heretic talks of nobility and honor. We are warriors for the Emperor and nothing else. I will not stand by as he tears my Legion apart Cassius thinks to himself.

“Stand with me my sons, fight with me. Cast aside your black armor and rise anew in the shining gold that I wear, as the noble sons of the Golden Jaguars.”

 

The Primarch fixes Cassius with his piercing green eyes and gives him a crooked, fanged smile. Cassius gives the Primarch a respectful nod. He looks to his commanders on his left and right. They stand and march in lock step to the Primarch to receive his personal thanks. The Primarch looks out upon his Legion. Distracted. A sly smile creases Cassius’ lips as they reach him. It is when they are in arm’s length, they draw their blades…

[MrDarth151]

I watch as gold plates are gathered together, cleaned, looked over. There can be no imperfections. No mistakes will be made today.

Auramite is a difficult material to work with. Even so, as the suit of armour takes form in front of me, I can find no fault in it. It is immaculate. As if it was just forged.

If only all of His works were so perfect.

 

I glance to the side, to where He sits. My lord. The only one Legio Custodes will ever accept.

The True Master of this Galaxy filled with horrors and war.

“You have a question.” He says. I think I detect notes of melancholy in His tone, but who could say for sure? “Ask it.”

If this was a normal day, I would not dare. To question Him? Insanity.

It is not a normal day.

“Why?” I ask, quietly, but without any hesitation “Why do this, my lord?”

“Why…?” He looks at me, and I cannot hide anything from Him. He reads me, all my doubts, all of my disquiet at this venture. I am ashamed, but I do not back down.

“I suppose this is not a lesson you might appreciate easily.” He says, thoughtfully “You were made immortal. Powerful. Transhuman. All to serve my will.”

He is quiet for a moment. I do not rush Him. I do not dare.

“Every man, every woman and every child, has something more precious than anything in this world. They are given limited amount of time in this world, and a choice: How to spend that coin.” I listen intently. “And so many of them… have chosen to give it to me.”  

“You think it obvious? After all, you were made to support me. But so many amongst masses of Humanity have given me their most precious gift: Themselves. All that they were, all that they are, dedicated to my will.”

“The Imperium is a vast leviathan, but it is also vulnerable. I am its sovereign. My will is its will. But I am not self-serving tyrant of old. They were fools, and their reigns were short lived and disastrous because of it.”

“Loyalty, true loyalty, that of men who have given what they’ve had most precious, must be rewarded. They must be vindicated.” His tone hard now, full of power and conviction “If I am Master of Mankind, then Mankind is mine to protect. That is a duty I have taken upon myself. To fail to uphold it, would be to squander the will of trillions.”

“If I will die because of it, so be it! If I am reduced to lifeless cadaver, so be it! I stand upon souls uncountable and they will not be denied!”

“That is why.”

I see Him now, raising Himself to tower over me, clad in His magnificent panoply, and I am overwhelmed by most profound of realisations.

My lord truly deserves His position.

He truly is The Master of Mankind.

May His reign be eternal.

 

*********

Just something I cooked up when thinking of the Emperor on the eve of his duel with Horus.

 

Hopefully its not too bad.

Edited February 10, 2018 by MrDarth151

[Soldier of Dorn]

I remember when the angels descended.
I remember when I first spoke to a warrior of the Sixteenth.
He told me they believed in loyalty. Loyalty to the Emperor and his Imperium.
I respected that then, for I, too, believed in loyalty. Loyalty to my gang -- it was all I had, just as all the Astartes had was the Imperium and his Emperor. My Emperor now.
So, when they came for me, I did not resist.

I remember when I first fought at the side of my father.
He made me believe in loyalty. Loyalty to him, my Legion, the Emperor, and Imperium.
I respected him as no other, for I, as my brothers believed in him. The primarch – his blood ran through my veins, it made me all I was. He was
So, when he commanded me, I obeyed.

I remember when I fell on my brothers.
I remember when I first slew a Luna Wolf – a Son of Horus no longer.
He had lost belief in loyalty. Loyalty to our father and our Legion, in favor of the Emperor’s work.
I no longer had respect for him, for I had seen the Emperor abandon us. He fled to Terra, in silent solitude, and he did not deserve loyalty. My Emperor no longer.
So, when it was needed, I killed.

I remember when we descended on Terra.
I remember when my brothers fell to the Custodian reaping through our ranks.
Loyalty, though I still kept it, meant little to me by then. I could respect the Custodes only then for his killing prowess and strength. The Warmaster promised strength. so was he my Warmaster.
So, when I was about to die, I fought.

I remember when my Warmaster, my Father, fell, and we fled.
I lost my faith in loyalty then. What was left to us? Our purpose was gone, destroyed.
Nor did I respect any such thing in the slightest. My fate became my own.
So, while my brothers fought for scraps, I left.

I was a pirate king then, a sovereign in blackened iron and steel, ruling over a broken kingdom subjugated by what remained of my brothers, when my former brother Abaddon came to me, and telling me of glory.
I did not respect him. I had thought him dead, and our former brotherhood meant nothing to me.
But he forced me to respect his strength.
So, when he conquered me, I knelt.

I remember when we broken angels descended once more.
I remember fighting at the speartip reformed.
I once more believed in loyalty. Not based in the old bonds, but in this new Legion, reforged in sable and shadow.
I respected this new Warmaster for his strength and vision. And what a vision it was., the Crimson Path, that he shared with us. My vision, I suppose.
And though we bleed, we revenge ourselves.
So this is what my loyalty has become.

Edited February 13, 2018 by Soldier of Dorn

[Daimyo-Phaeron Lenoch]

Bit of an experiment for me, wrote in the present tense as opposed to past tense (e.g. Sees instead of saw, leaps instead of leaping, etc), but I think it turned out ok. Critique welcome, and I hereby submit my entry for Rapid Fire Challenge #1: Loyalty.

 

The Titan awakes slowly, like a bear roused from a deep sleep in winter as some deep, underlying thump shakes her from her sleep.

 

It sees flashes, of her princeps—his laugh, his war-cry, his cool composure under fire. The younger moderatii who thought he was invincible, and who cracked jokes with the speed of the Vulkan that hung on her right arm, and all the power of a laspistol firing into a voidshield. The elder of the pair, who would always be the center of their little family, never faltering, never veering off course or aim.

 

The servitor that bumbled around in her lower decks, stuck, and only doing something useful when one of the rotating techpriests came and watched it like a hound.

 

The Princeps Primus of the Legio commending her family for the work they have done.

 

She sees the flashes and remembers. Then she hears the low bass of artillery fire leaping forth from the forest of Earthshakers to quake the ground the enemy advances upon.

 

A flood of these chitinous insects begins to crest the horizon as the first lines of Hormagaunts crash into minefields laid by the artillery scant hours earlier.

 

The biologics return fire, spore mines and acid globs starting to ever so slowly arc over the sky as shells and missiles flew from the Legio’s FOB.

 

The Titan has a brain to rival the best Administratum cogitators, and she could calculate the exact landing areas of each Tyranid spore and bomb. She calculates as she is able, and notices something very worrying.

 

The Tyranids are targeting the Titan crew barracks. Whether by deliberation or volume of fire, the entire living complex will die in a shower of fire if nothing is done.

 

Conviction swells in her spirit as she rises unbidden to take three mighty leaps to interpose herself between the artillery and the living quarters. She flys over an ordinatii minoris and a column of Baneblades in her jumps, letting loose fire and mass-reactive shells at the incoming attacks with her weapons.

 

She lands just as the first shells impact her shields, acid sizzling and disappearing as they eat away at thin air.

 

All goes well until something erupts from the ground and sprays poison over the whole area. It doesn’t affect the Titan. But she feels her crew die a slow death, scant meters from her access ladder.

 

She groans one final cry of despair before she falls to a knee, then another, as she does her best with her final conscious acts to cover their bodies. She is the Wolf Queen, she will protect her pack with every action.

 

Later, when the battle is done, it is suggested that due to her High Gothic name, she would very easily accept a new princeps and crew. She kills the next two lesser princepis that they try in protest, for she is loyal to her pack to the bitter end.

[Aqui]

The ending is more abrupt that I would have liked, but it is what it is :lol:

 

Penance:

 

I stood at the door and waited. The corridor was cold and dark, barely lit by a few guttering candles. I was a guest of the Order of the Dauntless Spirit and a Hospitaller of the Order of the Cleansing Water. I was seconded to them to assist in treating casualties suffered in the failed mission to free a world from a Chaos warband. So many Sisters were lost or maimed in the past year. Sermons were taken by the senior Celestian. The Canoness was not seen since planet fall.

 

The Battle Sister who guided me here, bade me enter. Her features were stern, but a sense of awe and deep sadness persisted.

I push the door and enter a room illuminated only by a few anointed candles. An incense burner filled with lavender fizzled in a corner. In the centre, a tall figure, naked stood with their back to me. The shock of red hair and the height of the woman let me knew who it was immediately. The Canoness, Saffron Sera.

 

“Enter.”

 

I did as I was bade and could smell blood. The room was thick with it, despite the incense. Stopping a respectful distance, I bowed to the woman. To the left was an initiate, who intoned the name of a fallen Sister from a very long parchment. After each name was read, the crack of a whip filled the air and welts of red appeared on the Canonesses back. Looking closer, there were so many, that most had merged into a network of lines. I notice that there were even more scars, some decades old.

 

God-emperor!

 

The woman stoically took each lick of The whip without flinching and in total silence. The Battle Sister who stood by the Initiate approached me quietly, so as to not disturb the penance.

 

“It would be a great service if you would treat the wounds of our Lady,” she whispered just loud enough for me to hear over the lash.

 

“As I have said so many times before, my loyal Sister,” the Canoness growled “My wounds will heal, or they will not. They will not be touched.”

 

The Celestian bowed leading me from the chamber. Questions formed on my lips, but I willed myself to remained silent. The Sister knew what I would ask.

 

“Forgive me. It is part of her way and part of the penance. I would summon a healer to her presence to ask for aid and she will always refuse. She vowed the day she accepted aid, she would renounce her position and join the Repentia. Today is not that day.”

 

“But the penance itself...” I start to ask, and I realise.

 

“Yes.” The Sister continues for me. “Each welt represents a Sister lost to us. Thus far, the Lady has received five hundred and sixty one. She atones for each one. She deliberately ensures each scar is pronounced and aches to remind her. Her loyalty to the Order and to Him on Earth is absolute.”

[golfdeltafoxtrot]

I’ve had to cut this down a little from it’s original incarnation, but I think it still holds up.

+++Lucian Vartas. Son of Ultramar. Bearer of two Iron Skulls. Veteran of the Deathwatch. What is your purpose?+++ crackles a voice from an unseen voxspeaker.

"To serve the Emperor," Lucian replies. He waits in silence for a response, but none comes. The dark is oppressive, even to his genhanced vision. The only sound is the sound of his own breath in his ears. An insidious cold begins to creep into his extremities.

Hours pass with no change to his surroundings. Again the voxspeaker crackles, the voice unidentifiable amidst the static. +++What is your purpose?+++

"To serve the Emperor," Lucian responds as before.

The silence returns, and the darkness persists. Lucian's sense of time tells him that over 12 hours have passed. This is merely a test, he thinks, and uses his sus-an membrane to enter a regenerative state. More hours of nothingness pass.

Many days go by in silent darkness, with Lucian's only outside contact being intermittent questions from the voxspeaker. He is asked about his purpose, about his goals, and about his strength. Answering truthfully and honestly each time, his responses are met only with silence. He passes his time with callisthenics, medication on memorised tracts of the Codex Astartes, and sus-an regeneration.

Weeks pass, and Lucian begins to falter. His superhuman physiology is starting to struggle to support him without water or nutrients, and his mind is as not as strong as it was on day one of his testing. A single glimmer of failure enters Lucian's mind, before a spike of pain slams itself through his forehead. The psychic probing is stronger than any Lucian has ever felt before, and he marshals every defence he has to repel it. His world becomes a struggle of pain and blinding light. He loses all track of time, and eventually passes into the welcome relief of unconsciousness.

Lucian awakens to find the cell door open, and a power armoured figure standing above him. "Brother Vartas. The Watch Commander is satisfied," states a familiar voice, that of Watch Captain Erioch. Lucian rises slowly, every muscle group aching with cold, his head still pounding. "98 days is, I believe, a new record," the Watch Captain says. "No-one has ever held out for so long and survived as wholly as you have." He leads Lucian outside into an adjacent chamber. The light of the passageway is almost blindingly bright to Lucian's eyes, and it takes some time before he can see again.

"This is yours, Keeper of the Deathwatch," the Watch Captain says, indicating Lucian's wargear. "You were tested, and found to be sufficiently strong of mind, body, and purpose. By taking on the mantle of Keeper, you pledge yourself forever to the Deathwatch. You will never return to Ultramar. You will never again fight alongside those in the blue and gold of Macragge. You are a Keeper, and you will serve the Deathwatch until called to serve at the Emperor's side. Do you understand this?"

"I do, Lord."

Edited February 15, 2018 by golfdeltafoxtrot

[TheBlindPrimarch]

Here's my entry, from the point of view of Amarthanar the Blind, Primarch of the Eighth Legion in the War of Light AU-

 

-Excerpt from “The Musings of a Blind Sage.”

 

Loyalty.

 

Such a lofty virtue for one to strive for, yet one with so many various degrees and definitions that it is nearly impossible to truly define what it means, to be truly loyal.

I thought I knew what it meant, thought the code by which I lived made the answer to the question so clear, so simple. I was loyal to the code, to my fellow Knights, to my people and my kin, adoptive though they might have been. When he and my brothers first found me, and I bended knee, I granted my loyalty to him and his Imperium, and gladly left my home and family to pursue his Great Crusade. I truly believed myself a scion of that virtue for so long, but know better now.

 

To claim to be “loyal" is not enough, it is far to complicated a virtue to be so simplified. A man can be loyal on so many different levels, and being loyal in one aspect does not inherently mean he is loyal in all things. He can be loyal to another, his liege, his kin, his fellows, his people. He can be loyal to a group, a Herth, a kingdom, a planet, or even an empire. And a man too, can be loyal to an ideal, a code, a belief. In my long life I have been loyal to all of those things, I have fought for, and lost so much that I hold dear in the name of loyalty, and yet...And yet would I claim to be loyal? Here at the zenith of my impossibly long life?

 

I cannot say…

 

You see, loyalty changes. It can grow firm and unyielding for years, only for one action, one mistake, to shatter it completely. So it was when my Creator, the Emperor of Mankind, who I had knelt before and sworn my loyalty to, who I had killed for, and sacrificed brave sons for, was able to dash my unbreakable conception of loyalty like the pieces of a Regicide game thrown from the field. My loyalty, which like a perfect mirror I had held so dear, was cracked the day my beloved sister was so unjustly murdered by him, our Creator. This crack was the first, but it wouldn't be the last.

 

Next came my loyalty to his ideals, which while I had always been somewhat disturbed by his sometimes more uncompromising tendencies, I had believed was worthy of my support. Soon after went my loyalty to his Imperium, which I would ultimately declare war against, and plunged the galaxy into a conflict over ideologies that quickly spiraled out of control. The last crack in my perfect delusion of what loyalty meant truly hurt me the deepest, and shattered my false concept completely.

 

I knew some of my kin would side with our Creator, would call me, and those that sided with me, traitors, oath breakers, but are we really? Perhaps not.

Edited February 16, 2018 by TheBlindPrimarch

[Dosjetka]

There is some very good writing on display here. :tu: Keep it coming!

[Soldier of Dorn]

Felt like writing another one: something like this was what I was originally going to write, but couldn't make it work then. Had a flash of inspiration today.

 

 

Loyalty. A curious ideal.

I stand at the edge of oblivion, the harsh wind sweeping over my crimson armor. The drop doors of the Satres-pattern Storm Eagle are open to the hurricane of death below us, the fires of the Imperial Palace sending up midnight dark smoke in gusts thick and heady.

Some among my cousins of the Seventh would claim that loyalty lies with service. They are not... incorrect. But to say that loyalty is service, is to say that painting is color, or that music is sound. Not wrong. But not right.

My lieutenant taps me on the shoulder. The 65 Airborne was forged in the ashes of Signus, and most I had barely known before the traitor Warmaster dragged us into the burning ruins of his war. They were my brothers all, but Khamael Morikan is a brother who had served with me since we were first inducted into the Legion on Terra.

It would be closer to the truth to say that loyalty lies with love. The Emperor’s Children before their fall served with love. We Blood Angels serve with love. The Legions serve with love – love for the Emperor, love for their primarch, love for their Legion.

“All ready, Captain.”

I nod, the dip of my Crusade-pattern helm almost imperceptible as the Storm Eagle banks, grey wings dipping to bear with pride a crimson stripe and golden blood drop through the haze, a flock of near-identical dropships following on our wing.

We sons of the Angel exhibit this truth greater than most. My brothers love the Angel. They love him as their father, and he loves them. They aspire to the virtue he exhibits – his nobility, his honor, and his humility. And well should they. The Lord of the IX is an aspirational figure.

Signis-lights on my HUD ignite as we approach our drop zone. The glow of 20 helms within the darkened Storm Eagle subtlety shift in kind with mine, and I know that my brothers too are receiving the same notification.

Prepare to Drop, the runic identifiers read.

As for me... I do not love my father. Nor he me. Never since the day I met him in the skies of Baal. We both understood this.

So, am I loyal? If I do not love him, how can I be loyal? How can I live in his name?

The drop-runes tick from red to green as I step forward and into the void, leaning into freefall, my demi-company dropping in my wake. Thunderbolts of red and black, screaming to terminal velocity to strike the traitors in return for all the pain they have caused.

The solution comes to me then. Shockingly simple.

I cannot live in his name if I do not love him.

I draw my blade and boltgun, and plummet towards earth, an instrument of the Angel’s vengeance.

So, I will die for it.

Edited February 21, 2018 by Soldier of Dorn

[Papewaio]

I watched the storm come in. The driving rain spat itself into the twisted narrow streets outside our apartment, the wind screaming a shrill song through the alleyways. For all that, however, the clumps of what could generously be described as humanity still shuffled through the labyrinthine slums, for the tithe collectors did not care for delays of weather.

 

'My love, it is nearly time.'

 

She wrapped her arms around me, hot skin eager to begin, pulse racing. I stayed like that, for just a moment to appreciate the contrast of her warmth to the cold of outside.

 

'We wait for the signal. Go back inside, make sure everything is ready. We won't have a second chance at this,' I chide gently, resting my gaze on those shapely legs as they go back indoors. It wouldn't be long, and as long as -

 

I spot a hard lump moving through the crowd. No gaggle of slumped workers returning from their shifts, this group bore body armour and ceramite helmets. The crowd was batted aside by riot shields, and a path formed to the neighbouring apartment block. A twist of fear wormed into my chest. This was not meant to have happened.

 

Backing into the house, I lock the door and roughly throw the curtain shut. We have perhaps three or four minutes. Precious little, but enough, and the slight taste of fear is perhaps just an appetizer.

'Essana.' She looks up at my voice, and those ruby lips surve into a lasvisicous smile.

 

*

 

We are perhaps three-quarters finished when the knock at the door comes. The tension is exquisite, and builds for a few seconds before the Arbites ram down the door. The heavy thump of armoured boots is dull, a short monotonous beat for Essana and I to come close to the climax. And then...

 

'What in Holy Terra...'

 

We twist from our writhings, feeling the unknown, the fear that the shotgun blasts might come too soon, but the three officers are staring at out contortions with a mix of disgust and fear themselves. Another two are overcome by the scent of our candles burning, and are throwing up overtop our chalk circles I chuckle at the sight.

 

One of the less queasy officers seems to remember his duties at that, and snaps up his weapon. 'What are you doing, citizens? Desist, now, in the name of the God-Emperor!'

 

Essana and I scream with delight, as the rush finally takes us. Our Lord is a bountiful and giving one, indeed...

 

*

 

Inquisitor,

 

The entire hive was burnt to the ground to eliminate the taint. Nevertheless, I suspect there is more foul heresy lurking on this planet, and with your blessing have begun the trials and subsequent purges of neighbouring hives. I predict an 85% execution rate, for surety.

 

Yours,

Nutha Inis

 

[Race Bannon]

The Genestealers pounced on Sergeant Pavor; five monstrous creatures clawing upon each other and the armored soldier attempting to tear at the soft insides of the Terminator Armor. The storm bolter belched in any direction, Pavor’s sword jabbed and sliced both air and living shell. Where projectile and blade struck the alien, dark blood splattered with squeal of pain. With every screech, Pavor continued his struggle to survive. He knew he was winning, until ichor splashed across his visual sensors.

“Someone feed a visual, I can’t see out of my helmet!”

Stalking nearby, Brother Kahlas of the Raven Guard checked the locator runes superimposed on the map of the Spiteful Demise. He was not far. Turning into the corridor, he strained trying to bring his Terminator suit into a run. Lifting his weapon, Kahlas prepared to finish the fight, confident Pavor would not survive, and yet hopeful he would.

Kahlas heard the dying scream of a Genestealer around the corner ahead and he twisted to face the fight. He collided into a wall to stop, crushing the bulkhead. A creature lay eviscerated and writhing a few meters ahead on the floor. His Storm Bolter barked a few rounds, exploding chitin and misting blood. A few meters more thrashed the other creatures on top of Pavor, who battled for his life.

The Sergeant coughed, “Brother, shoot!”

Kahlas hesitated and a claw slashed at Pavor’s chest, leaving deep scars across the holy Aquila. If he fired into the swirling melee, a round may find purchase onto Pavor. Kahlas didn’t want to chance killing a fellow Brother on accident.

“By Corax, shoot!” Pavor raised his sword and skewered the head of a Stealer. Its final instinct caused limbs to slash armor, chitin and walls. The momentum of combat toppled Pavor and the remaining aliens into a chaotic pile of living and ceramite armor.

The strained order from Pavor forced Kahlas into action. Pushing off the wall with his Power Fist, Kahlas locked his arm forward and he squeezed the trigger. Explosive rounds sprayed against the Genestealers, causing them to dance from impacts. A few rounds struck Terminator armor, leaving craters. The clip emptied and Kahlas pressed a rune, releasing the exhausted ammunition case to fall onto the floor.

Pavor slowly pushed aside a steaming carcass. Servos whirred noticeably as he stood. Kahlas couldn’t tell if blood or oil was leaking from a few joints in the Sergeant’s armor. As if in frustration, Pavor swiped his sword against the body of an alien at his feet, cutting it open. Pavor stepped into the wound, crushing exposed organs before he continued toward Kahlas.

The other Marine snapped a fresh clip into the Storm Bolter and looked to the battle-worn Sergeant, fully expecting deserved admonishment for his trepidation to follow an order without question.

Pavor checked the ammunition count on his own weapon, and then turned around, his back to Kahlas. “Good aim, Brother. Maintain your patrol; this ship must be cleansed of the alien. Stay alert.”

Edited February 26, 2018 by Race Bannon
Words, more words

[Dosjetka]

Three more fantastic entries. :tu:

 

Two more days until we have a new thread and theme!

[Gentlemanloser]

(556 words, slightly over. )

 

Gannon widened his stance, settling his centre of gravity a touch lower as he reversed the grip he held on Eos, one of his paired Anointed Nemesis Falchions, holding the blade now backwards down the length of his forearm.  The baying horde was fast approaching, but Gannon’s duty was clear, his determination resolute.  Behind him Brother-Captain Drusus stood immobile; his entire essence bound tight in a sorcerous battle with the malign will trapped within a vast altar.  An altar dedicated to the profane and the primary objective of this mission.

 

In addition to his Brotherhood’s Champion, Gannon, Brother-Captain Drusus had bought with him a squad of his finest Grey Knights, all clad in ancient Tactical Dreadnought armour.  They had performed exquisitely, bringing the Emperors justice to an enclave of the Warp, just to reach this Altar.  But the price had been high.  Of the 7 to leave the orbiting Battle Cruiser, only the two now remained, and Gannon vowed silently that none would pass him to reach his Brother-Captain.

 

“My armour is contempt.” Gannon intoned, allowing the Vox unit of his artificer armour to carry his words towards the creatures bounding towards him, creatures just the sight of which would shatter the mind of any mortal who happened to view them.  But Gannon had been trained for years on the moon Titan, indoctrinated into the Grey Knights, heart and soul fully tempered to resist the taint and corruption of the Warp and its denizens.

 

“My shield is disgust.”  As the creatures billowed out to surround him, Gannon edged backwards towards his Brother-Captain, making sure to cover as much of his exposed body as possible.  Gannon tensed, dipping the point of Nyx, his other Anointed Nemesis Falchion, towards the ground in front of him.

 

“My sword is hatred.”  The slightest command, slightest release of mental power, sent sparks of sorcerous energy flooding through the silver hexagramic wards suffused into his skin on to the circuitry of his Aegis suit and out to active the nano-filaments of his Falchions.  Eos and Nyx began to blur, Sanctic power humming through their twin blades.

 

“In the Emperor’s name, let none survive!” Brazenly, one of the Warp born spawn plucked courage yet seen in its brethren, eager to by the one to kill the Champion on front of them, and surged towards Gannon.  The creature, a mass of bone and muscle, gripped a wicked looking jagged sword in both hands and cried out in murderous rage as it swung towards the Knights neck, attempting to sever his head form his shoulders in a single powerful blow and a gory spray of blood.

 

Gannon was quicker, catching the Daemonic weapon on the blade of Eos and deflecting the blow up over his head.  In retaliation Nyx swept upwards, catching the Daemon on the thigh and parting flesh with a ripple.  Sanctic power flooded into the creature, its material form starting to fracture from the wound on it leg.  Wasting no time, not letting the Daemon recover, Gannon twisted his body, bringing Eos down behind him, skewering his opponent through the sternum.

 

Eos ripped free as the Brotherhood Champion turned to face the rest of the horde.  As the body of their comrade dissolved back into the Warp, they fell as one upon the Knight, howling and cursing for blood, death and destruction.

 

(Browser Issue.  Chrome worked)

Edited February 27, 2018 by Gentlemanloser

[Barabbas Sogalon]

That’s a wonderful question, darling. Who is the crazy mistress of 2nd Warhost willing to die for?

 

Family? My weakling parents can rot in Hell for all I care, and I’ve already helped my short-sighted brothers on their journey there. Perhaps my little sister… who is either squeezing out fresh cannon fodder or lying dead in a ditch somewhere on Terra. The word “marriage” has always made my skin crawl. Ugh. Besides, what sane soul would want a pretty wife who’s also a cheating, compulsive liar? I’d probably end up murdering the unlucky bastard on our wedding night.

 

Wanting to die for your home is a popular delusion. There’s a reason I left that pit to kill people across the stars when I turned fourteen. Maybe if you’d asked me a thousand years ago, long before the Emperor broke the Northern Way and knocked us Nordmen down into the dirt to fight for scraps like dogs. At least that place taught me the importance of strength and cunning, and that trusting others will only get you killed.

 

Ah, the Regiment! My comrades in arms! Please, sweetie, you know the Varyags as well as I do. 4th Northern is nothing more than madmen, thieves, murderers and kinslayers declared dead in the eyes of our people; half were already insane when they popped out of their mamas, the rest go to war high as an Imperator Titan. I might have a thing for depraved lunatics, but I’d sacrifice them all in an instant if it ensured my continued survival. How do you think I got my own Warhost? The best way to climb the ranks is to let others take the bullets meant for you. Consider that today’s lesson, darling.

 

As for the Emperor… Apart from destroying my home in the Unification Wars, what has He ever done for me? How is killing for Him any different than gutting a bastard for looking at me the wrong way? Corpses are corpses, doesn’t matter whose name I screamed when I pulled the trigger. Can’t say I like this vision we’re supposedly fighting for either. A unified Mankind ruling the bloody stars in an Age of Enlightenment and Endless Prosperity? I don’t see any fun in that. I wasn’t born for utopia, unless it involves wine, debauchery and daily bloodshed, but that’s not what He’s selling. Do you find that shocking? Don’t know if your naïveté is adorable or alarming. Sure, I’ll sing the Imperium’s praises, I’ll even write a damned poem in His glory if it keeps me alive, but I’ll never believe. I’m too busy tending to the golden-haired goddess bearing my name.

 

So, I’d say I’m a very loyal and devoted person. Loyal and devoted to myself and my own survival.

 

Though, my dear Archivist, I might think a bit more… favourably of the girl who’s going to fetch me another drink. Now, please.

 

- Chief of the Assault Lana Karelion, 4th Armoured Assault Regiment Northern Way, when asked to define loyalty, 998.M30.

 

[Warpmiss]

Can't believe I finished this on time, and I'm happy that I finally was able to write something about my Iron Warriors warband.

 

Khryseol regarded bitterly his entombment in the sarcophagus but at this moment he was glad to be back in the safety of the amniotic tank.

 

“There is the last piece” proclaimed Warpsmith Denarus as the carapace was re-sealed. As if to assess the veracity of his words, the dreadnought moved his clawed arm tentatively but he was quickly stopped by several of the Warpsmith’s mechadendrites. “Do wait this time, though. I have to verify that your systems are fully operational before you stride out of here.”

 

“Where is he?” Khryseol asked curtly.

 

“Delivering the requested Obliterators to our fourth legion brothers” replied the Warpsmith without stopping his analysis. “And, before you ask, he is unharmed thanks to your timely, albeit disorderly, intervention.” He paused expecting the dreadnought to say something, when a moment passed and he didn’t, Denarus continued. “This is not the first time you rush so foolishly to his side but you should realize that the means to maintain a Contemptor in the traditional way become ever more elusive.”

 

“Enough.” Khryseol interrupted. “We have already talked about this. I will not be one of your hellish engines. When you finally deem me irreparable I will accept demise.”

 

This was indeed a tired topic but it resurfaced from time to time in these situations. For the Warpsmith, Khryseol’s stance must have been an illogical choice. Their warband was known as the Iron Flesh since they had turned their old legion’s motto into almost a reality when they had become part of the Obliterator cult centuries ago. Nowadays, they mainly operated as Obliterator manufacturers for other warbands but their favored client was still the IVth.

 

This included the request Lord Proxeus was handling right now. They had received an urgent message from a world in direct supply route to Medrengard that currently found its forges under greenskin attack. Their Lord obliged by not only delivering the requested asset but also awakening his dreadnought companion and several of the Warpsmith’s daemon engines. However, while Proxeus lead the vanguard with the Obliterators, an unexpected enemy horde had surged to face them and, when the tide of battle seemed to be turning against their Lord, the dreadnought had disregarded his orders to cover the Warpsmith and charged to protect his once shieldbrother which had almost resulted in a fatal encounter.

 

“No one monitored you while you worked on me.” Khryseol said. “Why not modify me?”

 

“Lord Proxeus asked me not to.”

 

“That hasn’t stopped you from trying the Obliterator virus on your devotees before” retorted the dreadnought.

 

“Those were willing subjects even if Lord Proxeus chooses to ignore it” the Warpsmith shot back.

 

“Even so, why? Many in our warband would rise to your call if you so desired, yet you choose to bend to Proxeus’ will.”

 

“I am no leader, Khryseol. My reasons are the same as the one that drives Proxeus to still dote on the fourth and probably the same one that makes you constantly rush to his aid: Loyalty.”

Edited February 28, 2018 by Warpmiss