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[40K] Another Day to Die

30/06/2015 in Warhammer 40K

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The grav-tank shattered as though made of crystal and sank to the ground, graceful even in ruinous death.

“Tempest down, I repeat, Tempest is down,” the stormtrooper reported, already dropping his magnoculars and unslinging his long-las.

The Land Raiders rumbled from the cover of ruins and surrounding woodland, ten black-painted tanks heading toward the Alaitoc lines, nine Land Raiders bearing the heraldry of a distinct Chapter of Astartes along with the scars of battle-damage, a single tank bearing the stylised I of the Imperial Inquisition. This tank was the oldest of them all. Its twin-barrelled lascannon sponsons still glowed with the heat of discharge from its kill shot.

Human soldiers advanced between them; two hundred mechanised Guard infantry marching beside their Chimeras, the fighter-transports dwarfed by the Astartes battle tanks.

Inquisitor Drayke leaned forward to peer into the servitor’s driving compartment of his personal Land Raider, Bulwark of Scorn. His power armour hissed and whirred as it adapted to the Bulwark’s rolling motion. The holo-viewers in the driving compartment revealed a shimmering, bucking image of the Imperial city ahead: the tithe buildings were occupied by Eldar snipers, grav-tanks and weapons platforms rose from behind the buildings in so-called pop-up attacks, each of which killed Imperial vehicles and drove human troopers into cover.

“Gonna kick xenos ass,” trooper Dornis muttered from his seat in the troop compartment. The Bulwark‘s engine roared as if in agreement. Drayke grinned to himself. He was leading a contingent of battle-hardened Imperial Guard, every man and woman among them full of hatred for the fickle Eldar, sick of the xenos’ relentless attacks across this system.

The Alaitoc. The betrayers, allies of convenience, murderers of human beings and defilers of the Emperor’s domain when it suited them. What did those fragile, mincing bastards even want? To think, only two years ago Drayke had even fought alongside the treacherous scum – reluctantly, and purely at the request of the misguided Chapter Master Blenthis of the Firedogs Chapter – to repulse those strange metallic beings who had almost wiped out the colony of Nova III.

Now the Alaitoc were here on this civilised world, disrupting the collection of tithes and killing civilians.

More than this, Drayke was leading the Deathwatch, one hundred Space Marines from across the Imperium

“Save some for the rest of us, Dornis,” the Inquisitor said. His voice was startlingly deep. It was a voice that carried, that made people listen.

“It’s a good day to die,” a deeper voice rumbled.

Dornis turned. Brother Svenjar was a towering presence, his black Terminator plate decorated with feral-looking runes. One of the Space Wolf’s immense shoulder pauldrons displayed his Chapter heritage – a black wolf against a yellow background – while the other displayed his Terminator honours, in this case fashioned into the ornate emblem of the Deathwatch.

“Predicting a negative future again, my friend?” Drayke said with a smirk.

“I’ll be right one of these days.” The Wolf Priest chuckled. Drayke had never met another Astartes with a self-deprecating sense of humour. It shouldn’t have instilled confidence but Svenjar radiated assurance. All Space Wolves seemed to. The Inquisitor would never admit this, even to himself, but the Wolves were his preferred battle companions. Even the men, who were somewhat intimidated by the Wolves’ brutal charisma, exchanged pleased looks when they knew they’d be fighting alongside warriors of that Chapter. The Wolves seemed to remember what it meant to be human. Few other Astartes did.

“Any activity from their witches?”

“The Eldar have a powerful coven of psykers directing their formations from somewhere behind the city. There are other psykers spread thinly among their lines, directing ghost warriors and Titans.”

“Have they attempted contact?”

“No,” Svenjar said, stroking his beard. His massive bulk seemed immune to the Bulwark’s rolling motion. “They know I’m here, they just haven’t bothered to show me love.”

“Remind me to send them a stern missive,” said Drayke. “Ignoring Brother Svenjar, eh? One more thing to add to their list of crimes.”

The Land Raider column rumbled into the open space between the Imperial position and the Eldar-occupied city. Grey rockrete buildings towered. The Eldar invasion had done minimal damage to the planet’s infrastructure; most of the shell holes and battle damage in the unattractive hab-buildings had been inflicted by the Imperial Guard.

Guard troopers boarded their Chimeras while the transports were still moving at walking pace. They’d been drilled to perfection. Not a single soldier tripped, broke an ankle or found themselves left behind. The Chimeras fanned out, dropping slightly back from the more survivable Land Raiders. Bulwark remained in the lead, the irascible tank practically daring the Eldar to waste more shots against it.

A detachment of Deathwatch Rhinos emerged from the forests far to Drayke’s west, appearing as if from nowhere and gunning at full speed towards a distant building. Eldar las-fire flashed, either narrowly missing the speeding vehicles or impacting worthlessly against reinforced armour. Five Land Speeders raced past the Rhinos, circling and strafing one of the Eldar-held buildings.

Drayke and Svenjar watched in silence as the Bulwark’s holo-displays showed the tactical overlays. The Alaitoc had deployed atypically, hiding themselves within and between the buildings ahead of the human advance and waiting for the Imperials to come to them. Swarms of jetbike riders swept forth to attack specific Imperial detachments before suddenly changing direction and fleeing; they were like shoals of predatory fish, charging, swarming, then exploding into retreat.
The Bulwark lurched and gears whined in protest as incoming fire began to pelt the Land Raider company.

“Come on, old friend,” Drayke said, rapping a sidewall as encouragement, “we’ll avenge your wounds a hundredfold. Just please get us there.”

“Emergency!” one of the servitors shouted, something close to emotion in its voice. “Enemy Titan unscrambling ahead. Phantom-class. Primary armaments: thermal cannon, power fist. Secondary armaments unknown. Detecting buildup in thermal cannon.”

“Where the hell did that come from?” trooper Yann yelled.

“Open fire!” Drayke ordered the servitor crew.

The Titan was majestic, a living sculpture of bone and gemstones, the embodiment of the Eldar form escalated to colossal scale. It seemed to coalesce into existence before them, where previously there had been little more than motes of light dancing in the morning air.

It opened fire moments before the Land Raiders. The beam of focused heat punched straight through the frontal armour of a Raider wearing heraldry of the Crimson Fists. The tank exploded from the inside out. A devastating loss, for a Chapter accustomed to devastating losses.

“Unable to hit target,” one of the Bulwark’s gunnery servitors said. It showed no feelings at all. It might have been reporting from a training ground, rather than under live fire from a hostile Titan.

The Phantom danced around the lattice of laser beams sent against it. The Chimeras joined in: multilasers, autocannon, heavy bolters, even a heavy flamer from one over-enthusiastic gunner. Hunter-killer missiles flared against the Titan but were unable to lock on, their simplistic machine spirits foxed by some daemonry. Those few shots which found a mark against the Titan’s legs did no damage.

“Incoming firepower,” intoned the driver.

The Phantom Titan’s most distinctive feature were its arching wing-flues. These flues contained secondary weapon systems. Missiles, little golden stars, streaked down to burst among the approaching Imperial armour. Two Chimeras swerved, melting and in flames, and two of the Land Raider company were wreathed in plasma fire.

“Left lascannon sponson overheating. Increasing coolant flow. Right lascannon sponson overheating. Increasing coolant flow. Coolant flow unable to compensate. Reducing firing rate. Blessed in the Emperor and steady is our aim.”

A second shot from the Titan blew the left-side tracks from a Headhunters Land Raider. Six Stormtroopers emerged, coughing and shouting, leaving four men dead and burning inside. The wounded Land Raider continued firing with its single remaining lascannon, barrels glowing as they overheated, until a second wave of plasma missiles consuming it and its fleeing passengers.

“Primary armament offline: weapon temperature critical in both sponsons. Advancing to combat speed, collision course plotted. Brace for impact.”

“What the hell’s it think it’s doing?” trooper Folk said. “Inquisitor –”

“Hold your place, whelp,” Svenjar said, somehow sounding reassuring rather than insulting, another little trick that kept Guard-Wolf relations healthy.

“This bloody tank,” Drayke murmured, wondering what the Land Raider had planned. Had its ancient spirit finally succumbed to senility, preferring death rather than servitude-in-madness?

“Trust it, Inquisitor,” Svenjar rumbled. “We old-timers know what we’re doing, especially when it seems like we don’t.”

“We are attracting enemy fire,” a servitor said. “Brace.”

The Phantom Titan looked down at the Bulwark of Scorn, its Eldar crew – if crew there were, you never knew with these alien scum – paying scant attention to its own movements as it evaded Imperial firepower with an ease that bordered on ridiculous. It levelled its heat lance, the weapon locked rigidly on target despite the war machine’s capering dance, and discharged, the shot tearing the Bulwark’s dormant assault cannon free.

Drayke and the Wolf Priest remained on their feet but the stormtroopers were bucked in their seats, saved from further injury only by their restraints, though Sergeant Polens managed to knock himself unconscious.

Smoke filled the passenger compartments and the low lighting was replaced by red emergency lumens. A siren wailed.

“Armour penetrated: secondary weapon destroyed. Flashback to engine reactor… stabilising… beyond my ability to stabilise. Invoking blessed machine-spirit to self-repair. Oh Bulwark of Scorn, long-serving hero of the Imperium, survive that you may fight for the Emperor and Omnissiah, live so that your precious human cargo may live, endure that the Imperial Truth may endure…”

Drayke murmured prayers himself. The Bulwark was an old bastard, but it was brave and, so far as Drayke knew, the Land Raider had never allowed one of its passengers or crew to die in transit, no matter what hit them. It was thrice-blessed by the Saint of Agamemnon, it survived the barrage of no less than two Mega-Gargants when almost an entire Imperial army had been lain waste in the Valley of Carnage and rumours persisted that it had fought in defence of Terra during the forgotten horrors of the Great Heresy.

Its insane charge distracted the hostile Titan just enough for the Imperial Fists Land Raider, Meet Dorn’s Gaze, to land a penetrating shot that blew the Titan’s left knee joint out. Caught in a manoeuvre impossible for an Imperial Titan to emulate, the Phantom fell sideways, landing on its power fist. Wraithbone shards flew as the Titan’s weight forced it into the dirt.

Lascannon fire carved chunks from the fallen Titan’s body even as a shockwave rippled out from its point of impact. This time Inquisitor Drayke was thrown backwards by the unbelievable force and even the Wolf Priest shot an arm out to brace himself.

The Phantom Titan managed one final shot, evaporating Meet Dorn’s Gaze and bringing eight thousand years of heroism to an end. The Titan’s head loomed large before the Bulwark of Scorn; the Land Raider crunched, then jolted sharply, as its tracks bit into the Titan’s featureless face.

“Grind the bastard into the dirt,” Drayke ordered as he tried to clamber to his feet.

Today was a good day to die, but only for the Eldar.

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[NEWS] Working for The Man

28/06/2015 in Imp Lit News

1 vote, 5.00 avg. rating (94% score)

Greetings Imp Litters. Following our previous update many moons ago, I have been hammering away at my fiction. I’ve been recruited, along with nine other writers considered to be “top guns” over at, to write a story for an unofficial Horus Heresy anthology called Age of Horror. (What an awesome name!)

My entry features the Death Guard while they are still loyal to the Emperor, battling against a highly militarised species called the Klenikk, a xenos race who believe humanity is a pawn of the Primordial Annihilator and have declared war against the fledgling Imperium. This should appeal to anyone who’s sick of Heresy novels always being Space Marines versus human rebels, and anyone who, like myself, are wondering why the Death Guard are all but absent from the Heresy literature (although, in fairness, they were the first Legion to get their own novel after the opening Sons of Horus trilogy).

In the meantime I have also submitted samples of my writing to the Games Workshop in response to their open submission policy, so I should be getting my rejection notice from them in about three weeks or so! They have been dropping hints that some rejected writers haven’t been entirely dismissed, so for the next few weeks I’ll be engaged in reading and writing Heresy fiction to study the masters.

Hopefully I’ll find time to squeeze in more fiction on Imperial Literature over the coming days.

Peace out and count the seven,


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[NEWS] The future of Imp Lit

07/06/2015 in Imp Lit News

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Greetings all.

Currently updates to Imp Lit are still on hold. As I mentioned in my last update, I have finally commenced treatment for a rather severe case of ADHD, though this has been hampered and delayed by medical incompetence. Instead of beginning treatment in February I ended up starting it late April/early May.

I don’t know anyone else who’s ever had a diagnosis of ADHD, let alone commenced treatment for it, so I’ve been operating in the dark; nobody in the medical profession knew what dose of medication would help or how long it would take to start working, if it did anything at all. I was also diagnosed with asperger syndrome. The ADHD and asperger traits pull against each other quite often, which makes it difficult to know whether I’m coming or going, and it has rendered me unable to fulfill long-term or important responsibilities, such as running a once-popular website.

Well the good news is I’ve been taking a medication called strattera (atomoxetine) which has had a profound impact on me. Being an aspie, I can only tolerate a low dose, too low to completely break the hold autism and ADHD have over my behaviour, but more than enough to boost me into building a new life. I haven’t been taking my current dose for long enough to see maximum benefit. Consequently, I have days where I am fearless and inspired, and others where I just can’t seem to get anything done.

The benefits of strattera have been unexpected. I haven’t suddenly developed laser focus, or become mega-popular (although I definitely get on better with people now), or churned out three novels in a month. It’s gradually helping me to take control over my thoughts and feelings in a way that I simply couldn’t conceive of before. I am developing an intense drive to get out into the world and experience what I’ve been missing. This new sensation has actually taken me further away from my writing as I now want to experience life first hand, rather than sit at home writing about it.

So I still intend to work on Imp Lit and get new stories up, and as Gideon helpfully pointed out the story section needs work so that people can actually view things by category. This will happen – but I have got a long way to go in my personal life, there are still a few things that need fixing there before I can return to Imp Lit and fix that too.

Thank you for taking the time to read this and thanks for your continued patronage of Imp Lit.


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[NEWS] February 2015 update – user registration

05/02/2015 in Imp Lit News

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Greetings all. It has been many moons since I promised new stories. Unfortunately, real life has had plans for me and I have barely got anything done since the beginning of January. I also haven’t been able to do anything to try to restore Imp Lit to its former glory.

I’m concerned that some members are being blocked from registering or re-registering, or even just posting on the forums, by Imp Lit’s spam software. There is plenty of legitimate traffic to the site, just no posts, so there’s obviously something going wrong.

I had to install heavy-duty anti-spam software due to relentless spam attacks throughout 2013 and early 2014. If any members are reading this and are having problems, PLEASE EMAIL ME on and I will investigate.

I have caught several attempted registrations from long-standing members who have been barred, without my intention to do so, by the spam filters. These should have all been corrected but I simply do not know if it’s worked.

From mid-February 2015 onwards, and for the first time in my life, I will be receiving support for ADHD which I was diagnosed with at the end of 2013. I have been told that the personal benefits of this treatment could be significant and I should hopefully be more productive, better able to focus on bringing Imp Lit back to life. It may be a gradual process though, I’m venturing into the unknown here.

An email will be going out to all members soon asking you all to confirm whether or not you are able to post and/or re-register (if required) on the forums.

I’ll also be investigating new options for spam blocking that won’t prevent members from returning or signing up.


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[40K] Marneus Calgar’s Barmy Army: Calgar’s Kidney Stone (part 2)

25/12/2014 in Warhammer 40K

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“Where’s that bloody tech marine?”

Dick had had to enlist three other Ultramarines to help him give a chair-lift to Marneus Calgar. The fat, complaining Chapter Master had point-blank refused to strip out of his armour for the journey. He was paranoid about “That new girl seeing my nipples”.

They’d worked up a fine sweat by the time they reached the transport bay. Unfortunately the bay, which was more of a circular, open-air arena which perpetually stank of promethium, was almost empty. The floor of the bay was streaked with black stains. Above them, the winter sky was a brooding presence.

“He’s uninstalling Firefox from all our computer systems, sir, and loading Opera in their place.”

“Why in the name of Bob Hoskins did I ask him to do that?”

“You need to work harder on those memory tests, sir. The Inquisition declared Firefox to be more bloated than Nurgle’s colon and you were sick of having your computer freeze for five minutes every time you started Firefox up. Said the waiting made your bollocks retract into your hips.”

“Tech-Priest Nerdingham is the laziest, most unmotivated slob in the region,” said Calgar without irony. “The first time he ever does anything I ask him to is the day my kidney goes kamikaze. He was supposed to be working on the Rhinos today!”

“You put the fear of Guilliman into him, my Lord, by threatening him thus: ‘I don’t give a flying feth about the tanks, mate, you either install Opera or spend five minutes in the nerve glove, pain level ‘watching the European intro to Gran Turismo 5.'”

“That’s quite a good impression of me,” Calgar said, not sure whether to be impressed or go into one of his tantrums. “You even pronounced our Primarch’s name correctly. Hardly anybody does that.”

(Unfortunately, dear reader, even I don’t know how to pronounce that name, and I’ve been taking it in vein for more than a decade!)

There was a familiar buzzing crack; not of the lord Calgar’s flatulence for a delightful change, but an incoming lasgun shot.

“Look out, sir!” Dick yelled, almost flipping the Chapter Master out of their grasp as he tumbled the group of Ultramarines sideways.

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[40K] Marneus Calgar’s Barmy Army: Calgar’s Kidney Stone (part 1)

23/12/2014 in Warhammer 40K

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Marneus Calgar’s Barmy Army: Calgar’s Kidney Stone

A Warhammer 40,000 parody by NoPoet

Synopsis: Gasp and vomit your way through this insulting, lavatory-humour farce in which the Lord Calgar, whom my Windows Surface tablet thinks should be called “Marines Calgary”, is menaced by a nasty kidney stone… oh, and an invasion of Nurgle. All Calgar wanted to do was use the toilet…

The Marneus Calgar’s Barmy Army Official Anthem

With special thanks to the track author, Dummy, and OC ReMix


Calgar’s Kidney Stone


Calgar’s Discomfitting Kidney Mishap


Marneus Calgar: A Profane, Blasphemous and Intelligence-Insulting Anecdote of One Man’s Unfortunate Circumstance



Welcome to Macragge, home to the most pious Imperial servants: an entire Chapter of devout warrior-monks, heroic noblemen whose lives are constantly on the line so trillions of robe-wearing minions can scribe things that someone else chucks in the bin. Macragge is a rocky and cold world, a place where dwell men of legend… and their glorious leader, Marneus Calgar.

“OW!” roared Lord Calgar from his uncompromising squat on the Crapper of Macragge. “My fething piles are playing up. They’re throbbing like alien brains in a B-movie.”

“Then stop sitting down with a thump, sir!” Dick called from outside the door. “Remember what the apothecary said: don’t provoke the piles!

“I’ll provoke the little bastards when I pop them with a power sword and cauterise them with a hand flamer! Even if it itches like a fething bitch, it will be a blessed relief compared to this! I feel like I stuck my arse in a nerve glove set to ‘exterminatus’. Or maybe ‘exterminanus’.”

“My Lord?”

“It was bawdy lavatory humour, Bannerman. You can feel free to laugh.”

“Oh,” Dick said. “Ha. Ha.”

“Nobody ever gets my jokes,” said Marneus Calgar as the toilet strained beneath his podgy rolls. “You know something, Number Two? These aren’t just piles. They’re rancid visitations. Every time I try to push, I get a stabbing pain in my lower back.”

“You might be wiping too hard, sir,” Dick offered. “We can hear bog roll tearing and shuffling in there for twenty minutes every time you have a crap. It’s bound to play havoc with your ring region.”

“You may be right, Number Two,” Calgar conceded. “Oh, speaking of bog roll, some silly tosser used the last of my Andrex. Fetch us a couple of rolls, will you?”

“Which kind, my Lord?”

“Er… natural pebble, because their marketing executives called it that with a straight face. Fair play to them, their will is clearly stronger than mine. And tell the lads to stop pinching it, I’m supposed to be the only person who comes in here at stopping-off time.”

“You are the only person who goes in there, you big fat bog-roll wasting bell end,” Dick muttered as he headed for the pantry, where Calgar hid his Andrex.

“Oh, and Number Two?” Calgar said.

“You shouldn’t really use that nickname when you’re in there, sir,” Bannerman said, coming back. “I never actually know if it’s me you’re talking to.”

“I do apologise, Dick. I’m only the Chapter Master of the Ultramarines, who am I to address my underlings in the manner of my choosing?”

“What is it, sir?” said Dick, wisely changing tack.

“Can you explain to me the function of Lyman’s ear?”

“Er, no, to be honest. Do you still want that toilet roll? Only, Milo and I are organising a Forza tournament -”

“The Lyman’s Ear, you great blasphemous tit, allows me to hear everything you say within a football field’s radius, even above the constant, squeaking, gaseous emanation of my ablutions. So the next time you accuse me of wasting toilet roll, get ready for the nerve glove, pain level ‘Listening to the theme tune of classic British sitcom Dear John through headphones, on constant repeat, for five hours, without alcohol or other anaesthetic’.”

“Anything but that!” Dick cried. “My apologies, Lord Calgar. I’ll attend to your toilet roll emergency at once.”

TOOT! replied the Lord Calgar’s arsehole. It echoed for some seconds, trapped between a clogged u-bend and Calgar’s fat, spotty backside.

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[40K] Rise of the Tau (parts 2, 3 and 4)

10/11/2014 in Warhammer 40K

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A Warhammer 40,000 epic by Revenant

Reposted from



‘This is distasteful.’ Berolinus snarled.
Codian had to agree. He glanced at the others and he could tell they were of the same mind.
‘We sully ourselves while ever we remain in the alien’s presence.’ Berolinus continued. ‘I say we kill it and take the ship as our own.’
‘And can you pilot such a ship?’
‘Perhaps Laenar could.’
All eyes turned to the Techmarine. The warrior shook his head slowly.
‘As far as I am able to tell, this is a Demiurg Stronghold ship. We may be the first humans ever to set foot on such a vessel. Demiurg technology has always been a mystery to the Adeptus Mechanicus. I am not even sure how he manages to pilot this vessel alone.’

Codian turned his attention away from the stars beyond the viewport and moved to join the others, sensing their collective discomfort.
‘Brothers, this is a necessary evil. It is our duty to return to the Imperium in its hour of need, and the only way we can do that is to allow this creature to carry us to the Imperial borders. We are Astartes and it is our duty to aid the Imperium we all swore an oath to serve. Duty must take precedence above all else.’
The others agreed bitterly.

‘Hmm. I’m not deaf.’
Grungi turned away from the vast control banks of the bridge, his augmetic eye twinkling. His mouth was curled into lopsided grin.
‘Your engineer is correct about the Grudgebearer. She’s a Stronghold class, the best in the galaxy. The ships of the Mont’ka Kor’vattra have hunted her for years without success. As for taking her as your own, there are quicker and more effective ways of committing suicide.’

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[40K] Rise of the Tau (part 1)

20/10/2014 in Warhammer 40K

1 vote, 5.00 avg. rating (94% score)

A Warhammer 40,000 epic by Revenant


Time most distant, future’s zenith.
In tears, the star-sea mourns.
Isha’s children lament. All is lost to arrogance, grand designs soured by success, dreams are dust.
Shattered and done, the progeny set sail for the forever-beyond, flight borne on the tides of shame.
To dwindle and expire, forever denied.
The New Star burns too intense to douse, unchecked, untamed. Gods despair.
Tide surges, the end time is come.

Future’s path runs red as Khaine-blood, Hate-Winter rages, the portents scream their siren song. The song of Ulthanash is silent, Isha’s eye closed in slumber. Asuryan’s Shrine-light flickers and dies. The Cosmic Serpent reveals the truth and sheds his final skin. The Rebirth is denied. The Doom of Eldanesh comes to pass, the Red Moon rises.
The Rhana Dandra is come, let young and old cower before the chaos of the end.

The New Star will rise unprecedented, all the dread despoilers of the old kingdom quail beneath its fire.
Dead-King shivers on his maggot-throne as the Tide assails his walls, his kingdom lost.
Locust flees, no longer to plague creation-fields, feast denied.
Slave-puppets, once free, now lie in chains, conquered anew, rebellion’s essence bound in blood.
Long-Dead are exhumed, tombs razed. There shall be no flight, no peace in death. Their gods shall tremble.
Damned Shores become bastion as Dark Souls return. Exodus-flight before the rising swell. Denizens of Under-Kingdom cower behind its gates as the Tide surges.
Shame-Kin be damned in the bowels of the Webway, vermin scuttling in filth and terror, afraid of the ragescream storm above. Let them gather souls in shame and desperate haste, past sins quail as the All-Thirst is quenched. The brightest hope may lie amongst the darkest of shadow, the Learned Mongrel-Soul exhumed to see a destiny fulfilled.
Many Mighty Kings shall offer their swords to the Tide. None shall escape. None shall escape.

Skeins divided, hope defiant. Light and darkness heed, else collide and be damned. Fractured is as death, no other path leads to hope.
Existence-Tree be razed to its roots, bitter leaves cleansed. Then can hope’s light flicker. All forgotten to the core of creation. Then can hope’s flame catch the breeze.
Let the Lost Princes of the Young gather, shoulder to shoulder they alone may weather the Hate-Winter’s wrath.
Bright Hope’s flame still burns deep in the shadows of the Dead Land, too powerful to extinguish forever. Soul Beacon, the Horn of Kurnous will sound the call to war. They shall gather, let but some of their names be known.
The Revenant. The First-And-Ever Lords of War. The Lost Princes. The Wrathful Masters. The Reapers of Light. The Stolen Giant. The Prophet. The Last Avenger. The Entombed Ancient. The Oracle. The Blazing Rebel.
All these names and more shall stand ready as the Rhana Dandra dawns and the light of the Final Day casts her glow upon armour and weapon.

Maelstrom, life and death gather for war, old and young collide beneath the Red Moon. Origin revealed, too sour a taste to accept.
It matters not, what is, is.
Gods splintered reform in deed to counter the twilight. The children rise, menagerie gather in bitter winds of division’s death. Choice is murdered for all time, no longer sustainable in revealed irrelevance.
Diversity is power, the only power left unconsumed. Youth’s vigour an appetite insatiable above all else, desperation will rule the firmament. There can be no more old-thought. Every shadow will shift, writhe with hidden stirring. Life’s last breath must be deep.

Let them stand on the Final Shore as one, faces turned to the Tide. I have seen future’s zenith. I have seen crux and apex. Past, present and future united. Enmity is not survival. History rewritten at its very core, primeval puzzle complete.
One must tell the tale. Paths cannot be altered, only destinations revealed.
Unity. When the ash-wake clears, no more division, only Unity.
The Great Unity will prevail.

–Translation of ancient eldar tablet found on Cadia. Artefact thought to be the oldest example of eldar archaeology yet discovered.–

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[40K] World Eaters (part 2)

20/10/2014 in Warhammer 40K

2 votes, 5.00 avg. rating (96% score)

A Warhammer 40,000 story by LoneLictor

Chapter Two
One Of My Turns

Beneath the ironclad boots of Lord Kaalek of the World Eaters 3rd Company, corpses squelched.

Many of Lord Kaalek’s brethren had seldom put much thought in their daemonic allegiances. They just saw Chaos as a means to an end; the Pleasure God would empower them to indulge every whim and desire, while the Blood God would empower them to strike down their enemies with inhuman strength. The Rot Lord and the Change Lord would empower them to truly live, driving them to greater and greater heights. These Astartes, which were especially prevelant among the Undivided Legions, rarely considered the perspective and thoughts of the Gods. Many didn’t believe the Gods to be sentient at all, viewing them as forces of nature. “The warp”, they called it, not Chaos. No, just “the warp”. Even those who acknowledged the Gods referred to them by mortal names with shocking disrespect. “Khorne,” they said, as if a single syllable could express all that the Blood God was.

Kaalek was not one of these Astartes. When the Blood God had first whispered to the World Eaters, Kaalek hadn’t immediately consigned himself to damnation. He refused to act as mindlessly as the men under his command did, allying themselves with Chaos without even the slightest understanding of what it was. Kaalek had required persuasion.

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2 votes, 5.00 avg. rating (96% score)
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by NoPoet

[40K] World Eaters (part 1)

07/10/2013 in Warhammer 40K

3 votes, 3.67 avg. rating (77% score)

A Warhammer 40,000 story by LoneLictor.

This story originally appeared on and is presented here with permission from the author.


We must no longer concern ourselves
with the God Emperor’s
disapproval regarding our methods

In the service of Lord Khorne, we have found the perfect outlet for our rage

-Chaplain Xabreith of the XII Legion

Chapter One
The Long War

According to a series of papers written by the late Inquisitor Thrax, the armies of Khorne fight for the thrill of battle and the pleasure of vanquishing one’s opponent. This is not entirely true.

Slaughter Brother Erezak was a sight to behold. His armor was the vibrant blood red, brass edged plate of the World Eaters. Hydraulic tubing ran about his form, plugging into outlets that were carved to resemble the eight pointed star of Chaos. Skulls, some human and others daemonic, were mounted on trophy poles and swaying from rusted chains. The brass icon of Khorne and the outlandish symbol of the World Eaters, a verdant blue and green world caught in the maw of some sort of fanged beast, were built into every facet of his armor. In one hand he clutched a whirring chainaxe, it’s rending teeth stained a dark, gore red from 10,000 years of slaughter, and in the other hand he held an archaic bolter pistol, fed a by a belt of warp cursed ammunition.

He and a thousand other Berzerkers just like him came crashing into the Imperial Fists’ position, screaming bloody praise for their mad God.

Subtlety was not the World Eaters’ strong suit.

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3 votes, 3.67 avg. rating (77% score)