30/11/2008 in Warhammer 40K
‘Who are you?’
Nate’s gun wavered in his sweaty hand. He was not at home with violence, not visible violence, not the kind that was close up, close enough to see the blood, close enough to be anything like a fair fight for his opponent. The trigger was slippery on his finger, the gun too heavy on his wrist. He licked his lips and repeated the question.
The man smiled.
by mediadave
24/11/2008 in Original
Manoeuvring out of the café’s French doors, taking care not to spill his mocha, Mark Johnson spotted a table and hurried over before anyone else could steal it. Gratefully he slouched into the blessed shade, and looked out at the world. London was enduring an unusual heat wave, and the suits in the city were suffering. As he looked out towards the gleaming spires of the square mile, he could see thousands of accountants and stockbrokers huffing back from their lunch hours, sweating in their expensive shirts. Not that he was wearing anything more suitable – a pair of combat trousers, a baggy sweatshirt that hung loosely from his gaunt frame and a pair of hiking boots he had found in his flat. He knew that he looked like he came from a housing estate.
Still, he would be in cooler climes soon, and he would need those extra layers.
by Lukas
17/11/2008 in Warhammer 40K
The fur-clothed Orks threw the screaming civilians high atop the brewing fire, the pile of corpses fuelling the raging inferno that the vile aliens stood around, warming their thick hands and roasting some kind of butchered meat in the roaring flames.
They burned crisply across the perpetual night sky, the vast fields of snow reflecting the smouldering embers like hewn encrusted diamonds and twinkling like a thousand coins in the warm glowing report of the bonfire. On the Imperial outpost that was the desolate ice wastes of Ersk, a polar sea of white blankets and shifting, glimmering glaciers, the Orks had struck hard.
by LIRR
14/11/2008 in Warhammer 40K
Damascus, veteran sergeant of the 1st Company. Ultramarine. Four hundred and sixty eight years old. Four and a half centuries of loyal service and constant warfare. Now naked. Arms and legs stretched to their limits, locked in chains with adamantium and arcane powers. Putrid worms slowly slid across the flooring, leaving trails of slime in their wake. Hooded and hunched figures moved in the shadows, just beyond the powerful and bright white cone of light aimed down at Damascus from directly above. The hooded figures reminded the Marine of Tech-Priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus, reminded him of a warped and twisted mockery of their ancient and holy technologies. The hunched and robed figures mutated and deformed, mocking the sacred bionics of Mars with blasphemous genetic deviations.
by Sholto
10/11/2008 in Original
It was probably the single most reckless and dangerous action in the history of man.
On the thirteenth of August 1812, in the port of Boston, Massachusetts, Theo Finlayson shot and killed his great-great-great-grandfather in the presence of multiple witnesses, and then, stepping back to allow his colleagues’ cameras to record the man’s dying moments, waited to see if the universe would end.
by Nemesys
10/11/2008 in Warhammer Fantasy
Sunset stains the village red, mingling with the shadows and blurring the harsh outlines of the foothills, wrapping them in shadow, hiding them.
Gradually the light fades, the gloom spreading in great slow tides, consuming building after building, swallowing the lonely streets yard-by-yard, boiling from the dark beneath the world.
It comes to reclaim the little township it had torn from the arms of life and light seven hundred years before. It had suckled the village, nurtured it, filled the streets with a darkness so inimical to life that not a single living thing could bear it. It had made the village its child, and every night as the light fled it crept out and made certain its beloved still lived there.
It will defend this empty, broken place forever. The village belongs to the darkness. It has become the darkness.
by General Kala
03/11/2008 in Warhammer Fantasy
Drugor surveyed his minions mustering before the palisade wall of Scharfenburg. The Blood God would be pleased this day. His Chosen Warriors would smash the wooden fortress to firewood and rampage through the pathetic little border fort. He could already feel the blood frenzy rising in his soul. Many skulls would be laid at the feet of Khorne this day.
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