Rapid Fire Challenge: Reluctance - August 2020

[Race Bannon]

Prompt: Reluctance

Maximum length: 500 words

Deadline: 31 August 2020

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.

[Graceless]

Normally I'm last on these, nice to be first for once 

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Maxut Elgrin stared at the mirror, a stranger stared back. The face was his, young and clean, but the rest of the reflection was surely someone else. The shako, uniform, cape and his father’s power sabre. They all belonged to the stranger in the mirror.

 

The great and the good of Praksis were filing into the basilica below. He looked at his hands in their formal gloves, practice kept them from shaking but Maxut could feel the tremor hiding.

 

Heavy footsteps sounded from the other room, Maxut felt the floor shake at each stride, and the doors on front of him opened. Black armour polished to a mirror sheen, one pauldron brilliant white, a huge skull-helm the size of Maxut’s chest, a mace nearly as tall as him. He knew the all the forces that protected his father’s realm and a small part of his subconscious babbled to itself about Indomitus pattern armour, a Crozius Arcanum, Chapter heraldry and Company markings. All he could muster though was a sense of awe and fear at the huge size of the Astartes and the barely contained lethality of the warrior in front of him.

 

The Chaplain settled his gaze on Maxut. When he spoke his voice was so deep and so loud Maxut felt more than heard it.

 

“Lord Governor Elgrin.”

 

Lessons in etiquette and diplomacy asserted themselves.

 

“Elect,” his voice thin and childish after the marine’s rumble. “Only Elect, Lord Chaplain.” Had he really just corrected an Astartes?

 

The Chaplain conceded the point but snorted at the distinction. The sound was like a ground-vehicle backfiring.

 

“You are hesitant” he said. Maybe a question, it sounded like a statement, an accusation.

 

“I am,” Maxut admitted. “Not the ceremony, but it’s meaning, if I’m Lord Governor then…”.

 

“It is to acknowledge what has happened, that your father is dead, there is nothing but the harsh truth.”

 

Maxut must have looked surprised.

 

“We know no fear,” the Chaplain responded. “But we know loss and grief.” He placed his gauntlet on his chest plate.

 

“This armour belonged to my predecessor, donning it for the first time was to concede his death. Why else would I be wearing it?”

 

“Exactly so my Lord Chaplain, I am anointed Lord Governor at the loss of my father. I wish it were not so.”

 

“Such is the galaxy.”

 

“Such is my duty?”

 

“Indeed so Lord Governor.”

 

Maxut felt a sense of finality in the Chaplains choice to omit the ‘Elect’ of his title. He was the Lord Governor, ceremony or no.

 

“Now you are not hesitant.”

 

“No, now I am ready.”

 

In keeping with four thousand years of history, the next Lord Governor of the Praksis sub-sector advanced into the Basilica of the Emperor Triumphant preceded by his most extraordinary escort. The Astartes bellowed a challenge to the assembled masses; any who doubted Maxut’s right to rule were welcome to prove their point in trial of combat. There were no challengers.

[Shinros]

I really enjoyed writing this one, a rare instance for me that I'm happy with something. I might make a story out of this. I hope you all like it! 

 

Prospection

 

     The Silken Snake was strange home, to strange individuals who either dwell in the dark or light. The dark belonged to the battered slaves who tried to avoid the gaze of the masters above, they always seek to avoid the foul minded Astartes who only have wormy thoughts dwelling within their skulls.

     The foolish were the ones who reached up towards the light, hoping that with favour comes a better existence. These slaves were known as livestock, some pigs were prized, a young man known as Mateo knew this. He stood within the chamber of the monster who wanted him. He was naked and he found it difficult to focus, the environment was different. The lower decks smelt of oil, faecal matter and sweat, the kind that would prickle the nose to remind one of where they were.  

    In comparison the master’s room smelt sickly sweet. His mind screamed at him to run, to leave and forget, to return to the cold dark. But his heart told him to stay, it said to think of the rug tickling his feet, the warmth of the room and the fact he could spend the rest of his days here in bliss. He almost became lost in that wonderful notion until his mind shouted to look at the blood stains marking the rug, and to remember that this warmth, the wonderful heat belonged to one person alone. 

     Mateo winced, his nerves started to fray, he recalled the line outside, men and women entered and no one left. There were no screams, no shouts of protest, there was nothing. The blood belonged to the failures, it must be the case. Thinking of all the people being executed horrifically made him scratch his stomach, he forced his eyes upwards. The reason why was simple, the masters prefer the company of those who are confident. He has seen the soldiers, the favoured who they take into war, he dreamed of their fresh clothes, the white fur given to those who dwell in the light. 

     His heart fluttered at the thought, but his joy was dragged down to the iron floor as the side passage opened to reveal two individuals. One was his prospector, her name was Shiron, he remembered the white dress that was cut in the middle revealing a portion of her bosom. She kept a dataslate close to her chest and like her master her hair was white, but beneath there were waves of coloured light shining forth that played well with her dark beauty. Next to her, the master was monstrous.

     He was wearing a plain purple robe, his white hair was long and his nails were as sharp as knives, while Shiron’s beauty was soft, his was deadly. The master’s blue eyes tightened, they became slits as their eyes met Mateo's. Within them he could only see, feel three words. “Death and Agony.” Mateo began sweating, that was when he had second thoughts, but it was far too late. 

 

Edited August 9, 2020 by Shinros

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Excellent work, Graceless. Which Chapter is the Chaplain from?

 

Prospection is well-written, Shinros. Is it set aboard an Emperor's Children ship? Is the Master a Daemon Prince of Slaanesh, or is he still a (relatively) mortal Astartes?

[Shinros]

Excellent work, Graceless. Which Chapter is the Chaplain from?

 

Prospection is well-written, Shinros. Is it set aboard an Emperor's Children ship? Is the Master a Daemon Prince of Slaanesh, or is he still a (relatively) mortal Astartes?

Thanks and yes, it's set on an Emperor's children ship. The Astartes is still relatively mortal.

[Graceless]

Excellent work, Graceless. Which Chapter is the Chaplain from?Prospection is well-written, Shinros. Is it set aboard an Emperor's Children ship? Is the Master a Daemon Prince of Slaanesh, or is he still a (relatively) mortal Astartes?

Hi Bjorn, thanks for the feedback.

 

Somewhat egocentricly the Chaplain is from my home brew chapter the Shield Argent. I'm using these writing challenges to fill out more information/background to the chapter and the area of the Imperium they operate in.

I enjoyed prospection Shinros. Definitely left me wanting more.

[Shinros]

 

Excellent work, Graceless. Which Chapter is the Chaplain from?Prospection is well-written, Shinros. Is it set aboard an Emperor's Children ship? Is the Master a Daemon Prince of Slaanesh, or is he still a (relatively) mortal Astartes?

Hi Bjorn, thanks for the feedback.

 

Somewhat egocentricly the Chaplain is from my home brew chapter the Shield Argent. I'm using these writing challenges to fill out more information/background to the chapter and the area of the Imperium they operate in.

I enjoyed prospection Shinros. Definitely left me wanting more.

 

I'm happy that both you and Bjorn enjoyed the short piece, I'm actually working on expanding it into story. I also really enjoyed the dialogue between the Chaplain and Governor in your story. I'm very curious about what happened to the Chaplain's predecessor. 

[Graceless]

I'm very curious about what happened to the Chaplain's predecessor.

That was a purely throw-away line as I have this fellow to put together and paint at some point. Though maybe an explanation of why a company chaplain has terminator armour is required. A future 500 word challenge I think

[Mazer Rackham]

Something fast and loose.

-------------------------------------

 

The line charged up and over.  Five years the bastard war had dragged on, and having only seen three weeks of it in basic training, Luka wasn't terribly impressed.  His knees knocked and he was only barely holding his lasgun upright.  The bayonet rattled as his muscles shuddered.  A clack behind him made him peer to his right, coming to stare at the maw of .455 Imperial Guard special issue Bolt Pistol and behind it, his focus swam into clarity, alighting on the grizzled face of Commissar Morden.

 

"Would you die a coward, Whiteshield Karazov?" he didn't growl it - the tone was dangerously soft.

The second seemed to stretch, a long, long time.

Luka felt his lips flub the reply.  "I don't want to die at all, sir."

Morden's face darkened and his jaw worked.  The result was not the crack of a bolt pistol, but the bark of a laugh. "You have courage yet!  I will make you a soldier, Karazov."

 

The Commissar grabbed him by the shoulder and the Whiteshield snapped his bayonet into place.  The officer took a breath and even he seemed to stop for a moment before lumbering over the earthwork rampart, bullets snapping and lascannon beams sizzling the hair off both men's faces.  The distinct scent of crisped flesh reached Luka's nose.

 

"For the Emperor!" Morden roared, his voice defiant, louder than the bullets, than even Luka's thumping heart.

 

He joined the madness, the screaming officer and hurled himself over the firestep, into chaos and luck.

 

MR.

Edited August 10, 2020 by Mazer Rackham

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Good job, Mazer Rackham.

"Would you die a coward, Whiteshield Karazov?" he didn't growl it - the tone was dangerously soft.

The second seemed to stretch, a long, long time.

Luka felt his lips flub the reply. "I don't want to die at all, sir."

Morden's face darkened and his jaw worked. The result was not the crack of a bolt pistol, but the bark of a laugh. "You have courage yet! I will make you a soldier, Karazov."

 

The lack of blank lines dividing the paragraphs, makes them a difficult-to-read "wall of text." I advise further editing (and in the future, proofreading before you post).

Edited August 10, 2020 by Bjorn Firewalker

[Mazer Rackham]

Thank you Bjorn.

 

I appreciate the advice, will bear it in mind for next time.

 

MR.

[Harlan Skorus]

His eyes prized themselves open in the dank, dim light of the undercroft. Six figures stood before him, silhouetted in the dust dancing across rare shafts of light. He recognised two; the Emancipator, and the Pacifier. 

No, he had said. I will not. This is too far. 

“The Sentinel ensures we are safe.” The shrill voice cut through his pounding skull.

He had stood, pointing a trembling hand in accusation.

“Should you not be with him?” The Emancipator’s voice was baritone, rich with familiar warmth. 

“This is madness. We fought for freedom!”

“I have other purposes for the Screamer. She stays.”

“Freedom from the ever-revolving wheel of oppressors and tyrants that plague us!”

“As you wish, Giftgiver.” 

“Hex your gift. Hex your Giftgiver. I will not.”

His lips and face were crusted with something warm. The Pacifier spoke next. “We should attend to our guest, Brothers and Sisters.”

The blow came from behind him, feeling it without seeing it, then seeing nothing at all.

“I present to you the Highling Dat Mol, most revered cousin of Governor-General Pax Thun.”

He barely felt the bindings being tightened around his wrists.

“This one is the one who refused?” A new voice, female, filled with pride and brimstone. 

He awoke, knowing that time had passed.

The one they had called the Giftgiver approached, kneeling before him. Dat Mol tried to spit blood at him, but his strength failed. The red gob slithered down his chin. 

“You are resistant. I understand, Highling. Your task is a grave one, but necessary. We will never release ourselves from this cycle without strength of arms.”

He coughed out the words through a dry throat. “You will kill them. You will kill them all.”

“I will uplift them.” The Giftgiver’s green eyes glittered in the dark. “I seek only their release, Dat Mol. I will pass them a gift-”

“You will kill them!” His voice grew to a whine. “You’re murderers, mad. I won’t have any part in it.”

Rough hand grabbed him, dragging him to his feet as the Giftgiver rose. They were both short, slight men, and stood eye to eye. “All serve their duty, Dat Mol. Willing or not. Perhaps a taste of our gift will sway you?”

He barely tracked the blow in the half-light. The palm took him forcefully in the chest, knocking him backwards to the floor as the breath left his lungs. 

“Rejoice, Dat Mol, and carry our gift.”

He writhed, feeling movement in his lungs, a scratching in his throat. 

“Be free of pain and fear.”

Something fought to escape the young noble’s mouth, scratching at his lips. He opened his mouth to scream, but could only emit a thin, wheezing wail as his airwaves filled with life. A fat fly, coated in mucus, flew from his gaping maw. 

“Go and be proud, Dat Mol. Go and spread our gift.”

Half-mad with pain and terror, Dat Mol was cast back onto the low streets of Korgan Hive.

[Shinros]

Got another one, kinda happy with this one as well. 

 

Tied Hands

 

Wavering hands were useless, tied hands lead to hesitation. Xyben swirled his shot glass to his personal mantra, he avoided making eye contact with the barkeeper, he tried to make himself as small as possible within the den of alcohol and lho-stick smoke. Years have seemed to cross him by in an instant, what was a small cloistered community has now touched the rest of the city. What was meant to be an outburst of support to the expansion was only met with weary eyes and hesitation. 

     If he had his way, he would say frek the rules, toss them aside like the sins which pile to make a new dawn. Xyben drained his glass, he grunted as he felt the fluids hit his system. He quickly grimaced in frustration, he couldn’t even get drunk on the piss they call alcohol. 

     Eager to get away from his issues he placed his shot glass on the counter, he didn’t ask for a second round, instead he left behind payment for his drink. He decided it would be best to leave before he acts upon his irritation. Regrettably as soon as his feet landed upon the pavement outside he saw his taxi being smashed in by youths with crowbars. ‘What the hell!?’ Xyben shouted. His outburst caused the youths to flee, but he wasn’t done. 

     He sprang forward and flipped over the car, he grabbed one a male with black short hair and ruddy features. The youth gnashed and wailed as Xyben turned him around so they were face to face.

     Xyben drew his hand stubber, he planted it upon the hoodlum’s forehead causing the fool’s eyes to widen.       

     ‘I-I’m not s-scared. I run wi-’ 

     ‘With who? some no good frekers who think they're tough?’ Unknowing to the masses, hidden underneath his jacket was a third arm, Xyben drew his second stubber and planted it on the youth’s groin. His resistance turned into weeping tears. The action was so sudden Xyben didn’t realise he did it, he was so absorbed with vetting his hatred he has forgotten what this act could do. Thankfully pedestrians were minding their own business.

     ‘P-Please..’ the youth stammered. 

     ‘Wavering hands were useless.’ Xyben hissed. ‘Tied hands lead to hesitation.’ He removed the safety on the gun planted on the idiot's head. He was about to blow his brains out, he wanted to but killing someone here might cause unnecessary questions. He cursed and spat on the ground beside him. ‘What’s your age boy?’ 

     ‘N-Nineteen...’ The youth replied. 

     ‘Young enough to still be an idiot, old enough to know better…’ Xyben murmured to himself. He pushed the boy down while keeping a stubber trained on him. ‘Get out of here. Now.’ The firmness, the heat of his words caused the youth to quickly get to his feet and run away. Xyben grunted he shoved the stubbers back into their holsters; he had a feeling he was going to get an earful later for this stunt.    

 

Edited August 12, 2020 by Shinros

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Is Tied Hands a sequel to another story, Shinros? The story hints that Xyben has a history and a position within an organization, as the line "he had a feeling he was going to get an earful later for this stunt," indicates; but it doesn't provide any clues as to what his history, his position, or even the organization are, other than the implication they deal violence, as Xyben's two guns imply.

‘I-I’m not s-sacred. I run wi-’

Emphasis mine. Did the youth mean to say, "I'm not scared," or is he actually denying his divinity?

[Shinros]

Yes it was a typo can't believe I missed that. It's scared, can't change it now since I am on my phone. I'm also going to expand the short story, Xyben is part of a very large group. I've been finding writing to be far more easier after some advice I found. The two shorts are the results. Edited August 12, 2020 by Shinros

[Graceless]

 

Unknowing to the masses, hidden underneath his jacket was a third arm

 

 

So is he a mutant, a genestealer-hybrid or is that third arm cybernetic? My vote is hybrid.

[Shinros]

 

 

Unknowing to the masses, hidden underneath his jacket was a third arm

 

 

So is he a mutant, a genestealer-hybrid or is that third arm cybernetic? My vote is hybrid.

 

Yup, right on the money. 

[Urauloth]

I hurry through the halls of the command post, my precious cargo of despatches clutched tightly. The staff step aside to let me pass. Some still respect my Major's rank, but I know that most, now, simply respect my role as messenger to the master of this place. And what a place it is - for our new forward command we seized no less than the very palace of the city governor, its riches now stripped out to rot in the burning streets, its lounges given over to strategium tables and banks of ticking logic engines. After years of grinding deadlocked warfare, our recent gains seem miraculous. They are miraculous - I remain staggered by the intrusion of the numinous into the dust of our miserable, all-too-human conflict.

 

I take the stairs two at a time, descending to the armoured bunker below the palace where the governor thought himself safe only a week before. Mechanicum constructs still labour to refortify the outer doors. The inner door is open, and it is here I hesitate. The parchment of my despatches curls at the edges in the damp, close air. I see a spidery bloom of mould ghost over a hand-inked artillerist's chart. This is the new way. It is still strange to me. It is not what makes me falter, though. It is the sight of him.

 

I have always known of the Angels of Death. I never truly expected to see one, let alone to witness a host of them come down from the stars to make war. It is hard to adjust to. Perhaps a man simply cannot get used to their presence.

I do not know the name of the one I serve. I call him lord and master, and this suffices. He is, as I understand it, a champion among their kind.

 

He is colossal. Inspiring, yes, but more than that he is terrifying. He is still now, but when he moves the servos of his ancient armour snarl like fighting beasts, and his reactor thrums and belches acrid smoke, and the din adds to the terror. That armour is impossibly worn, pitted with rust and scarred with the wounds of centuries. In places it is alive and jutting with horns that grow from the metal. Spores drift gently from between the joints, disturbed by small squirming movements. On his pauldron is an emblem of three skulls, and these leer at me as I hesitate at the threshold. He is poring over a wall of charts like those I have brought for him.

 

Mastering my awe and my terror, I step into the chamber.

"My lord."

I kneel. I avert my gaze as he begins to turn towards me. It is not simply out of respect that I do this. I know his knightly helm is rent and cracked, and I have glimpsed, just once, the face that lies beneath it.

I do not believe I could endure to look upon that face again.

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Excellent work, Urauloth. Is the "Lord and Master" a Plague Marine?

[Urauloth]

Thank you! Yes he is. I'm hoping to write more about them before long. It's harder than I expected to describe things in 500 words!