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Rapid Fire Challenge: In/Affection - February 2020

Race Bannon

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Is Endless Cycle about an Emperor's Children member's attempt to make himself look like Fulgrim, Shinros?

Not exactly, fitting in the theme of this challenge he's trying to remake Fulgrim in a sense, specifically his head. Since Fulgrim has long abandoned the legion for centuries I thought it would be interesting to write a short where a member of the Emperor's children wished to remake a part of him to fill the void due to that abandonment. But as you know one can't just make the most handsome primarch. :wink:


He's fallen into an endless cycle trying to capture his dad's face, but the question is can he accurately recall it since it's been so long? Since I only had 500 words I couldn't show that part more. Plus since I am trying to write horror I added that slight bent to the story. 

Edited by Shinros
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This is not erotic fiction


Adoration of the Master



Oh, the pleasure!


To be gripped so firmly when he requires me.


And to be used as I wish to be used, so expertly and faithfully. To serve my purpose.


To be caressed so gently when he cleanses me of sin.


I am bonded to him by touch.


Oh, to be wanted! And, perhaps, loved?


I will not know. His mind is closed from me. His thoughts a darkness which no light can illuminate.


I place so much faith in the physical, but I am content.


I sense the affection and what can I do but reward it with gifts of protection and never ending youth.


I cannot see where the path we travel leads, but I go with you. My Farsight. My Love.


Edited by Rob P
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A Chance for Penance


          To love the Emperor is to hate the weakness within ourselves. The words dominate the heart of the Chapel of Redemption, carved as crudely into the white marble of the ceiling by someone with poor tools and an unsteady hand as they are. The chapel occupies a sparsely-tread wing of the larger Cathedral Vilennas, evident in the fine layer of white dust and cobwebs adorning the Imperial imagery wrought into the walls. On average, the space is used once every five years — the faithful flock of Father Grasier are rarely called to account for acts against the Emperor.


          Father Grasier is present now, but so is a guest of a rather more unusual nature. Sister Superior Severina stands at the pulpit, the priest looking uncomfortable at her side. With narrowed eyes, Severina stares at the man kneeling upon the dust floor before her, his worker’s garments filthy and torn.


          ‘Ser Gravenport, of the Factorum Principal?’


          The sister’s voice echoes around the desolate chamber, causing the priest beside her to jump slightly. He covers the involuntary reaction with an exaggerated shiver. Gravenport nods, his head lowered in shame.


          Severina continues: ‘You have been found guilty of heresy of the highest order. You have, against the will of Father Grasier and the Emperor, perpetuated the creation of a manifesto arguing against the proper order of the Factorum system.’


          Gravenport opens his mouth halfway, as if to respond, then remembers his place. The elderly man seems almost to shrink into the cold, weathered marble flooring.


          Father Grasier steps forward, his high-pitched voice quivering slightly.


          ‘Normally, the punishment for such heinous actions would be death, but Sister Severina has a choice for you. Do you love the Emperor, Ser Gravenport?’


          ‘Yes,’ the man replies, ‘with my entire heart, m’lord.’


          ‘He is no lord,’ Severina interjects icily, ‘but your answer pleases us and the Emperor too. As you may have heard, the war efforts in the Far Reaches are ongoing, and we have need of more men and materials to win decisively. The adepts of the Mechanicum have found a way you might yet contribute to the cause of the just.’


          Behind the kneeling Gravenport, a half-dozen figures in red robes slip quietly into the chamber. They surround Gravenport, who looks behind him for the first time. As he catches sight of the Penitent Engine, he cannot stifle a gasp of horror from escaping his lips.


          ‘Well, ser? Will you make the Emperor proud?’


          Gravenport swallows deeply and nods.




          Missiles and shells arc into the sky, the cultists firing their artillery pieces with wild abandon. Stomping through a hail of las-rounds and heavy caliber-bullets, the Penitent Engine closes with the first of the siege pieces, tearing into it with furious abandon. One of the gunnery crew hurls himself at the Imperial engine, a grenade clutched in his hands.


            Gravenport grins a bloody grin in his last moments.


            For the love of the Emperor.

Edited by Tarvek Val
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We's here in the box.  Again.


It's a rumbly, tumbly old fing, but it's home, like. Well maybe, I can't member too good.  I look over at Big At.

We means no 'arm like.  We calls 'im that cos he speaks ta the Empra about us and ovver people calls 'im Captin.  Captin's like an 'at, yur?

Anyways, when we do good, 'e tells the Empra and we gets extra rat-shuns.

Then, we beat stuff up.  What's not to like?


I can 'ear whizz-bangs, thumpin' cross the top a the box, 'orrible noise.  Don't need ta worry At says.  We's the first in, easy as breakfast.  I watch him fix 'is shoulders and fetch out 'is boomstick.  Puny fing, not like mine.  The gun I got is the same size as a grox.  Grox tastes good.  FInkin' bout it makes me tummy groan.


Big At looks at me, all stern like, cos he's 'eard me guts.

"Soz, At."  I say.  I mean it.


'E looks at me and I can 'ear the box ready ta open - I's glad coz it's dark in 'ere an I dun like it.  Fresh air is good says Big At.

"Gratthog?  Do you love the Emperor?"

"Sure fing," I says and give me chest a smack.  It 'urts. This flak-jacket itches and t'aint no good.  It got 'oles in it.

Dere's this funny noise starts, them Eldar are loud, mefinks.  Probly the pointy-eads with the sharp knives that like to jump around a lot and shout.  Big At smiles, nice and wide.  Not sure I like it.


"Deploy your squad, fight through the building.  Do not stop.  Understand?"


"And it's double rations tonight."  He pats me on me shoulder - or tries to, as he's only little, like.

The box opens and I shoot a flimsy pointy-ead in the chest.  Me tummy rumbles.  This is gonna be easy as breakfast.


I love the Empra.


And Big At, but don' tell 'im I says so.  E's funny about it.



Edited by Mazer Rackham
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High praise, from good storytellers like yourself, Tarvek Val :smile.:


Thank you very much, glad you enjoyed it - it was fun imagining the next episodes in my head!



Edited by Mazer Rackham
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Well, let's write! Not even going to plug into a word processer for word count, just gonna write til the end!


A song spilt from his lips as he brought the hammer up and down, tiny tings ringing out in time with the forge-cant. Flames roared up around him, as the forge answered his calls, and sparks flew from each impact of the hammer on the bright-hot steel. Few things filled his heart with joy like forging did. Here he was made pure. Here all was made pure.

Days passed, and he continued without stopping for food, water, or rest. Nothing would distract him from his task, his chosen duty. What else was there? There was nothing else, save the Emperor, who was here in the fire with him, giving him strength and vitality. He welcomed the flames. Even unarmored as he was, they did not harm him, such was his faith and love for the Master of Mankind.

As the time passed, the steel was melted and reforged, melted and reforged, again and again to enhance and strengthen the blade.

As he worked, components were slowly added to the blade and the hilt, fortifying it with power fields, minute relics, and the personal touches that made his weapons so valued to the chapter.


He plunged the blade into the water for the final time, and when he drew it out he was rewarded with a glinting, flawless blade, already thirsting for the blood of man's enemies. Truly a work of art, in his mind.


He loved this work.

Edited by Daimyo-Phaeron Lenoch
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We launched upon the pilgrimage to the Shrine of Urukan.  The great Hetman of the Desert Lions had summoned every able-bodied person of our province, the Kaipursh, to come and join the Sky Emperor and learn the secrets of life and death as we crossed the Golden Plain.


As always, it is fraught with danger.  Pirate bands, thieves and more - in the great desert lie the rusting hulks of the Battle of a Thousand Shells, machines given over to the heat and sand, weathered down to nothing, their bones broken open, a feast for the mutated scavengers, who some say still live from that terrible time, when our fields were green.


Our small sand-skiff launched as soon as night fell, just I and my brother.  Our wheels were taken from an Imperial aircraft, bartered with silks, which also made up our sails.  The sands were still hot and anyone who fell on them would soon be parched and burned.  We wrapped ourselves in the Warrior's garb and Hiran tied on our fathers' tulwar, which had slain many enemies of the Sky Emperor.  I was in control of the rudder and felt the Khamsin, the desert wind without mercy, pick us up and carry us off into unknown peril.


We passed for several days without seeing anyone else, for the Great Sands are vast and swallow men easily.  On the fifth day however, our luck changed and the Sky Emperor demanded my brother's life when we were becalmed.  A foul mutant with fingers where his lower jaw once lurked led a band of his blasphemous, hideous tribe down on us and Hiran fought them.


"Run Kassar!"  He roared.  He sounded just like our father.


"The handsss takess..." the foul beasts slathered.  Hiran met their rusty knives with steel, and to my shame, I ran.


Midday.  My thin shoes were not proof against the sand as I pushed my skiff into the wind and grit; the soles of my feet scorched, smelling of seared meat.  I didn't stop my craft until I reached the other side of the Great Desert, I could not lift myself from the boards of our once magnificent craft - now nothing more than a plank on rickety wheels.  Thus I arrived at a Way-shrine, where a man stood in the shadow.


He unwrapped the covering from his head and face, making a sling to drag me into the shrine and he laid me in the cool.  I could see his skin was darkened by years of sun and his eyes were old. He brought water and I saw the markings of the Sky Emperor.


"You have suffered," his eyes softened as he held a sponge to my lips, "my heart is heavy.  Tell me what you have learned."


"That the desert has no memory, great one," for this was the Hetman, a warrior beyond measure, "and that my kin loved me."


He pressed his hand to his chest, sincere. "I welcome you in their name."




I've written this in honour and memory of the author Clive Cussler, who passed away recently.  His novel Sahara, inspired my own work.


I'll meet you over the next horizon Clive, where the winds blow and forget our sins.  Where the desert has no memory.



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