Rapid Fire Challenge: Defenestration - September 2020

[Race Bannon]

Prompt: Defenestration (informal definition: the action of dismissing someone from a position of power or authority)

Maximum length: 500 words

Deadline: 3o September 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.

Edited September 1, 2020 by Race Bannon

[Dumah]

Change of Command

 

“What is it, corporal?”

Waldek scowled at the guardsman, willing the boy to speak and be done with it. Instead, the boy looked at his boots and fiddled with the regulation head cover he clutched with nervous fingers. Waldek had that effect on people – all commissars did – and a healthy fear of the God-Emperor’s right hand was an important tool in his arsenal against the Enemy Within, in most cases. But this was not one of them. Waldek sighed heavily and laid down the reports he had been perusing. His camp chair squeaked in the morning humidity and the cloying stink of fyceline stuck at the back of his throat.

 

“You have something to report?” Waldek tried a gentler tone, recognizing the corporal for what he was: a coward. He would bear watching once the las beams started flying; the commissar had a bolt shell with the boy’s name written on it. The boy nodded and Waldek raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Go ahead, son.”

 

It sickened the commissar to coddle this poor excuse for a soldier. The God Emperor did not suffer fools or weaklings. But when he had executed the regiment’s commander, the colonel’s many responsibilities had passed on to him. It was a burden that he neither savored nor took lightly.

 

“Orks sir,” the boy all but stammered. His eyes widened as he said it and Commissar Waldek felt his pulse quicken.

“Show me.”

 

**

 

There was only one. And no sign of impending attack.

The corporal whose name he hadn’t bothered to learn, along with an escort of four guardsmen, had accompanied the commissar to an out-of-the-way valley on the extreme western flank of the front lines. No sign of the enemy had been reported in this sector and so it was only lightly patrolled. In the distance, echoing strangely through the morning mists, he could hear the distinctive thud of Scout Sentinels.

 

Waldek turned to his escort.

“This is the incursion you reported?” He gestured dismissively at a crevasse in the hillside. A split in the rocky foundations of the lowlands had created a shallow depression with steep, nearly vertical, sides. Currently wedged at its most narrow point, some ten meters down, was an Ork dressed in garish purple fatigues. It stared at the guardsmen through bug-eyed goggles, bellowing menacingly through bloody tusks and gesturing with ham-sized fists. The brute had been in the process of gnawing off its leg when they arrived.

 

The commissar drew his sidearm and aiming it at the corporal. “You shouldn’t have wasted my time,” he growled. Another guardsman moved to block his shot and, belatedly, Waldek recognized him as the most senior officer to escape his disciplinary purges. “Captain-”

“And you shouldn’t have shot Colonel Drummy…”

“…or Long-John,” another trooper added bitterly.

 

The commissar would never know who it was that shot him; he would only wish that it had been fatal. Instead, he went numb and fell, tumbling into the crevasse where the Ork took its time pulling him apart.

 

THE END

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Good job, Dumah.

[Dumah]

Thank you sir! Looking forward to reading other people's entries.

[Harlan Skorus]

It was time. With a final dismissive flick of his hand, Tyvan turned on his heel and marched out of the dressing room, throwing the doors open wide to greet his ever-expanding retinue. No small amount of hangers on were always seeking to attach themselves to the his retinue, although usually with more exuberance than today. Today they watched muted, quietly fretting and whispering behind the line of advisors that seperated them from Tyvan. Their eyes were fixed anywhere but on him, but not in subservience or awe. His juve-enhanced vision noticed the clammy sweating, the light shaking. Afraid. And not of him. Maggidono Phanti, the oldest of his servants, stood forward and bowed his head. "Your guests await in the council chamber, Generallisimo. It would... I would council you to make their wait a short one."

 

He grunted in agreement, turning to march along the short hallway. The rustle of fabric on marbled flooring followed in his wake. Tyvan paused at the ornate doors of the council chambers, remembering the moment eighty-seven years ago when he strode through them to assume leadership of the planet. He took a deep breath as others stepped around him to push the doors open, heads still bowed.

 

The deep crimson of the chamber floor stretched out before him, interrupted by silvered pillars rising to a high ceiling. To his left, the glass wall opened onto a panoramic view of Lamaggiore, his capital. To his right, the large golden throne was the only chair in the room. His chair. The chair of Tyvan diMenchadi, Ascendant Scion of House diMenchadi, Bearer of the Rosa Propenta, Lord Governor-Generallismo of Cormo-IX, First Hand of the Aquila.

 

His chair was taken. Bulky armour, half black and half white, made it look preposterously small for the Astartes that occupied it. Tyvan's jaw would have dropped if his facial motors had allowed it. The Astartes fixed two burning red eye lenses on him as he stepped slowly, uncertainly forward, trying to find his voice.

 

"...Pardon, Lord of the Astartes, but..."

 

"MORRICUS LEITES," the vast figure boomed without moving. "YOU ARE TYVAN DIMENCHADI." The sound was deafening, and he shrunk away a little, his followers evaporating to the side of the room.

 

With a deep breath, Tyvan drew himself up. He ruled over this planet. It was his.

 

"Yes, that is I. I welcome you t-"

 

"YOUR PLANET IS UNDER ATTACK. I AM TAKING IT, TYVAN DIMENCHADI."

 

The room was silent. Tyvan spluttered, knwoing he would have no time to draw the ornate laspistol at his side, if it even worked. "No-"

 

When the Astartes moved suddenly, Tyvan didn't have time to react. Bearing down directly on him, the swift movement of the massive figure was hard for his eyes to follow, but he was in the grasp of the warrior, and he was being carried for a second. Then there was the sound of glass shattering, and all Tyvan had left to feel was the fall towards Lamaggiore as his planet and rulership was ripped from him.

 

[Race Bannon]

Egads: 507 words Harlan.

[Dumah]

 

It was time. With a final dismissive flick of his hand, Tyvan turned on his heel and marched out of the dressing room, throwing the doors open wide to greet his ever-expanding retinue. No small amount of hangers on were always seeking to attach themselves to the his retinue, although usually with more exuberance than today. Today they watched muted, quietly fretting and whispering behind the line of advisors that seperated them from Tyvan. Their eyes were fixed anywhere but on him, but not in subservience or awe. His juve-enhanced vision noticed the clammy sweating, the light shaking. Afraid. And not of him. Maggidono Phanti, the oldest of his servants, stood forward and bowed his head. "Your guests await in the council chamber, Generallisimo. It would... I would council you to make their wait a short one."

 

He grunted in agreement, turning to march along the short hallway. The rustle of fabric on marbled flooring followed in his wake. Tyvan paused at the ornate doors of the council chambers, remembering the moment eighty-seven years ago when he strode through them to assume leadership of the planet. He took a deep breath as others stepped around him to push the doors open, heads still bowed.

 

The deep crimson of the chamber floor stretched out before him, interrupted by silvered pillars rising to a high ceiling. To his left, the glass wall opened onto a panoramic view of Lamaggiore, his capital. To his right, the large golden throne was the only chair in the room. His chair. The chair of Tyvan diMenchadi, Ascendant Scion of House diMenchadi, Bearer of the Rosa Propenta, Lord Governor-Generallismo of Cormo-IX, First Hand of the Aquila.

 

His chair was taken. Bulky armour, half black and half white, made it look preposterously small for the Astartes that occupied it. Tyvan's jaw would have dropped if his facial motors had allowed it. The Astartes fixed two burning red eye lenses on him as he stepped slowly, uncertainly forward, trying to find his voice.

 

"...Pardon, Lord of the Astartes, but..."

 

"MORRICUS LEITES," the vast figure boomed without moving. "YOU ARE TYVAN DIMENCHADI." The sound was deafening, and he shrunk away a little, his followers evaporating to the side of the room.

 

With a deep breath, Tyvan drew himself up. He ruled over this planet. It was his.

 

"Yes, that is I. I welcome you t-"

 

"YOUR PLANET IS UNDER ATTACK. I AM TAKING IT, TYVAN DIMENCHADI."

 

The room was silent. Tyvan spluttered, knwoing he would have no time to draw the ornate laspistol at his side, if it even worked. "No-"

 

When the Astartes moved suddenly, Tyvan didn't have time to react. Bearing down directly on him, the swift movement of the massive figure was hard for his eyes to follow, but he was in the grasp of the warrior, and he was being carried for a second. Then there was the sound of glass shattering, and all Tyvan had left to feel was the fall towards Lamaggiore as his planet and rulership was ripped from him.

 

 

I enjoyed it! I especially appreciate the literal take on defenestration. 

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Good job, Harlan Skorus. Does your story depict a Sons of Malice warband (as the Astartes' half black, half white armor suggests) seizing control of a loyalist governor's planet, or loyalist Astartes (maybe a Black Templars Fighting Company or the Dark Angels Deathwing) seizing control from a governor whose incompetent leadership would've cost them in the coming war?

[Harlan Skorus]

Egads: 507 words Harlan.

 

Before you turn me into a servitor for my error, my word count (Hemingway online site) has it at 499?

 

 

 

Good job, Harlan Skorus. Does your story depict a Sons of Malice warband (as the Astartes' half black, half white armor suggests) seizing control of a loyalist governor's planet, or loyalist Astartes (maybe a Black Templars Fighting Company or the Dark Angels Deathwing) seizing control from a governor whose incompetent leadership would've cost them in the coming war?

 

It's actually meant to be the Ravens Exultant, a renegade (but confused, but renegade) Raven Guard successor that was one of the Chapters I dreamt up in the great founding of 2014. They have a prediliction for swooping down on Imperial planets under threat about 2 years quicker than the Imperium can manage, and doing whatever it takes - military coup, for example - to make sure said planet is prepared for whatever is coming. Then they vanish before the Imperial force arrives and finds Governors ousted, rampant conscription and economical change, etc etc etc. The Governor in above story, in my head, is not a good person; the original opening paragraph that was intended to show this got cut becuase too many words.

Edited September 12, 2020 by Harlan Skorus

[Race Bannon]

:tu:

[Aqui]

The door holding was his only hope. It was old. Possibly as old as the Ecclesiarchy itself. Images of Him on Earth were lovingly carved into its surface, the patina taking it from a light brown to something that almost resembled stone. It shuddered, making the man inside tremble and whimper in fear. Outside was retribution, manifest in the most terrifying forms. He had faced many horrors over long decades. Heresy at Mondasia minor. Uprising during the last Hunger war of Seltas II. Even faced down an impertinent Marine Captain of the Steel Wings Chapter...

But this? This was far worse. On the other side, was someone whose wrath burned as bright as the sun. Someone who had shoved a Chainsword, and her arm with it, into the slavering maw of a Bloodthirster and lived to tell the tale...

She was horrifying. She was Sororitas. And she was coming for him. The door was slammed again, this time enough to make the dust covered hinges groan. It would only take a little while longer. Scrambling towards his ornate desk of Tanith Narl wood, he almost tore a draw open, pulling out an ornate pistol. It was perfectly balanced, and he knew how to use it. If it was him or her, he would make sure he made it hard for her to take him alive.

The door finally shattered, a pair of servitors standing aside for the real threat. Dust and splintered wood filled the air, making him choke. He could see an outline, a figure getting closer. He fired. The recoil fouled his aim, hitting his target on the shoulder. A heavy metallic sound boomed in the sudden silence. It was deafening.

The figure finally stopped walking, standing over his still prone form. Looking up at her, he saw she wore no helm, her left eye glowing with malevolence at him. But it was her human eye that make him whimper again. The pure hatred froze him to the core.

“Arch-Deacon Vitributus, you are charged with and found guilty of corruption, consorting with Heretics and ...” she paused to sneer at his pathetic attempt at assassination “An attempt on the life of a servant of Him on Earth. Your sentence will be carried out immediately.” He noticed the metal arm. It was engraved in the entire scripture of Saint Lucia. All fifteen volumes. The effort to do so must have been monumental. She noticed his gaze.

“I am Her retribution! Her wrath! Before me, I cast out all Heretics!

“Including one as pathetic as you!”

Vitributus didn’t even have chance to raise his hands in supplication. The bolt round obliterated his head. His corpulent torso hit the ground with a wet smack. The servitors whined on rusted limbs to drag the body away. Holstering her Bolt pistol, Saffron Sera of the Order of the Dauntless Spirit knelt in supplication. Hands forming the Aquila she uttered under her breath.

“Lucia exspirantis lucis!”

Lucia carries the light.

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Excellent work, Aqui. I will advise you to put blank lines between your paragraphs, to differentiate them, as the tabs typically used for this purpose are automatically omitted when a *.txt or *.doc file is converted to *.html. Instead of posting it like

“I am Her retribution! Her wrath! Before me, I cast out all Heretics!

“Including one as pathetic as you!”

Vitributus didn’t even have chance to raise his hands in supplication.

Post it like

“I am Her retribution! Her wrath! Before me, I cast out all Heretics!

 

“Including one as pathetic as you!”

 

Vitributus didn’t even have chance to raise his hands in supplication.

To make the story easier to read.

 

Note:

Scrambling towards his ornate desk of Tanith Narl wood, he almost tore a draw open,

I think you meant "Scrambling towards his ornate desk of Tanith Narl wood, he almost tore a drawer open," (emphasis mine).

[Aqui]

I'm using MS Word on my phone at the moment, as I'm in no mood to alleviate my laptop's machine spirit (it'll take hours to sort out and I simply can't be bothered xD) I had put in a space line between paragraphs, but the BnC site seems to think otherwise when I copied it over! It previewed okay :huh:

 

The drawer typo...ugh. one always gets away! :lol:

 

But thanks for reading in any case ^_^

[Urauloth]

Isn't it "nalwood", unless there's a reason for the different spelling? A linguistic shift over the years and/or light-years, maybe, depending on where and when this is. Anyway, nice work.

[Aqui]

I couldn't remember how it was spelled and I wasn't gonna dig out the books from out of a big pile of boxes to find out. I could have googled I suppose, but it didn't occur to me :lol: Thank you though. It took me about 30 mins to type it out and post, which considering I haven't written anything in at least two years is quite good I suppose, mistakes and typos aside.

[Mazer Rackham]

Kneel now in shame,

I reject your tribute,

Lord of Monarchia.

 

- The Emperor.

Edited September 26, 2020 by Mazer Rackham

[Harlan Skorus]

In your abject shame,

I reject your false idolatry,

Kneel, Lord of Monarchia.

 

- The Emperor.

I'm a bit sad, because I thought this was a haiku, and then I counted on my fingers and it isn't a haiku. Not at all.

[Mazer Rackham]

 

In your abject shame,

I reject your false idolatry,

Kneel, Lord of Monarchia.

 

- The Emperor.

I'm a bit sad, because I thought this was a haiku, and then I counted on my fingers and it isn't a haiku. Not at all.

 

 

It was my first attempt.  I hope now that it is more satisfactory!

 

I couldn't  mar the great writing here with something not up to scratch, so to everyone to provides feedback comment and content, please keep contributing as it only elevates and drives us all.

 

Mazer.

Edited September 26, 2020 by Mazer Rackham

[Graceless]

Bit last minute this month, too busy with (boring, boring) work!

 

Had to do this on my phone so hopefully the formatting won't be awful... I'll try and edit if it does.

 

Graceless

 

 

 

 

Thanks to the records maintained by the Priory of St Allius we know an unprecedented level of detail surrounding the events of the Retaking of Raenus IX and the death of the traitor Linat Detaxis, the former Governor.

 

We know that Detaxis was killed by Dovydas Vilimas, the Lance-Sergeant of 2nd Lance, 4th Host, of the Shield Argent Chapter. We also have a remarkably detailed account of his war-gear at that time.

 

His chainsword is called “Sentium Ira”. The weapon dates to the Great Crusade and has killed more of the Imperium’s enemies than some Guard regiments. The sword has been carried by Lance-Sergeants, Captains and Banner-Guard champions. Etched into its body-work are notable foes the weapon has dispatched; the Ork Warlord Grek’uk Red-toof, the arch-traitor Caddolius Grail of the Word Bearers Legion, the alpha mind-leech of the “Endless Enslavement” in the 37th Millenium, and no less than three Aeldari warlocks killed, single-handedly, in the same encounter. Despite its pedigree at disposing of the Imperium’s many foul enemies, the Governor would not be added to this impressive tally.

 

His side arm, a Mars-pattern plasma pistol, is far newer; freshly forged when presented to Vilimas upon his knighthood. Since becoming a Sergeant, the pistol has had the names of every marine who has fallen under his command engraved upon the casing. The weapon has a particularly high energy output reducing the volume of shots that can be fired without overloading the coils but meaning each shot is notably more powerful. Chapter lore records that Vilimas has, amongst other shots, decapitated a hive-tyrant, cored a traitor terminator and detonated vehicles, all with single shots. In Governor’s chambers however, Vilimas’ pistol had long since over heated and thus was not used.

 

His armour is a mix of marks, all maintained to the highest standards by Vilimas’ own hand or that of the Chapter’s tech-thralls and armoury serfs. No part of Vilimas’ armour is anything less that 400 standard years old. Though oft repaired and supplemented with replacement components, at its base this armour has served in the defence of mankind for centuries. The newest part, his Mk6 helmet, has been worn into conflicts the length of the Expanse for 402 years by three different Astartes. The helm was damaged beyond repair by a glancing melta-blast during the fighting on Raenus IX, probably during the initial assault on the Palace. For his achievements in the battle, Vilimas would be presented with an arco-tech helmet of unique design dating back to the 33rd Millenium.

 

The window frame of the governor’s privy chamber resembled ornate stonework but was, in fact, merely painted wood. The force of Vilimas’ throw would still have sent the Governor through the aperture regardless. We know from his screams that he was alive following the ejection as he fell over 900 feet to the Plaza of Imperial Martyrs. It was, therefore, the ground that killed the Governor; a fitting end for the tyrant who once ruled the entire planet.

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Good job, Graceless.

His chainsword is called “Sentium Ira”.

"Feel Angry"?

 

Nitpick:

We know that Detaxis was killed by Dovydas Vilimas, the Lance-Sergeant of 2nd Lance, 4th Host, of the SHIELDS Argent Chapter. We also have a remarkably detailed account of his war-gear at that time.

My suggested correction is in allcaps. Surely the Chapter has more than one Marine.

Edited September 28, 2020 by Bjorn Firewalker

[Graceless]

Hi Bjorn

 

It *should* mean The Sense of Wrath but I admit my high gothic is a bit rusty...

 

Your nitpic is well spotted but my original was as I meant it. The whole Chapter is the Shield Argent (not the individual marines are shields).