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by NoPoet

[40K] Marneus Calgar’s Barmy Army: A Christmas Calgar (2012 Xmas Special)

09/12/2012 in Warhammer 40K

5.00 avg. rating (98% score) - 4 votes

“Confound this fething thing,” grumbled the Master of Ultramar as he struggled to retain his dignity. “I shall have to get that bodge-jobber of a Tech Priest to look it it. For the wages I am paying him, I should prefer him to be looking at my armchair rather than Necron porn. MILO! Come hence and clean up this mess forthwith.”

It was then the reality of Milo’s death hit him.

“Bollocks, now I must employ another wretch to do the cleaning,” Calgar mused. “Servitors! Fetch me a new Tanith!”

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5.00 avg. rating (98% score) - 4 votes

Banners Held High I – Recruit

05/12/2012 in Warhammer 40K

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BANNERS HELD HIGH I – RECRUIT

A Warhammer 40,000 story by RedPen1089

Over the smoke and the screams, atop even the mighty canyon pillars of the hive city’s incomprehensible heights, he could make out the banners.

The hab-lighting had been cut out or shot out.  From his crawlspace, under the largest single-iron lumin-pole, the dim figures clustering at the artery’s mouth was legion.  Beyond number.  Thousands upon thousands of figures, pressed together in a line two dozen men wide, and easily just as deep.  The Evernight of Mordian’s habitable half gave the milling figures presence.  Even at two kilometres, the roared commands and boot-thumps reached his frayed, dirty ears.

He couldn’t tell what time it was.  None of the decaying city-slum quarters had chronometers.  The buildings he sheltered beside weren’t full of the twinkle and glow of the Upper Echelons- they were dark, rust-ensnared shells of industries long dead, long decayed.  Faint cogs adorned the kilometre-high black-grey superstructures; the leavings of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

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[40K] FORGED IN FAITH: A story of the Imperial Hammers

05/12/2012 in Warhammer 40K

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“Arkus Prime was once a shining beacon of hope, in the dark endless void of space. It was a shrine world, and every inch was sacred and devoted to ‘Him on Earth.’ It was once one of the most sacred places one might ever make a pilgrimage to, apart from Holy Terra herself. As brightly as it once had shined,  it was now as equally desecrated. Blighted and fouled, Arkus Prime is now a charnel house. The world’s population down to the last man, woman and child, lay slaughtered in the defiled temples and chapels throughout the single continent of ArkusPrime…sacrificed in an orgy of death and blood in the name of Khorne.”
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by Pixo

Grabba Hatemoof

06/10/2012 in Warhammer 40K

4.00 avg. rating (85% score) - 1 vote

Grabba Hatemoof

::::

The Orks are the pinnacle of creation. For them, the great struggle is won. They have evolved a society which knows no stress or angst. Who are we to judge them? We Eldar who have failed, or the Humans, on the road to ruin in their turn? And why? Because we sought answers to questions that an Ork wouldn’t even bother to ask! We see a culture that is strong and despise it as crude.
– From Culture vs. Kultur: Thoughts on Orkish Society by Uthan the Perverse, a controversial Eldar Philosopher

::::

Private First Grade Orton Redpath was asleep when the alarm siren sounded. He startled and sat up. The siren wailed and yellow hazard lights flared. The barrack-sergeant hustled into the dormitory, wearing only his boots, hat, Guard issue underpants. He started yelling at the top of his ample voice. “This is not a drill! Move it! Move it!”

Redpath was not worried. The bunk-sarge always yelled the same thing. Also, they ran quick-reaction training every ten-days, so this was not unexpected. By now, he knew where he had to go, and how long it would take him. He yawned and swung his legs out of the bed. The others in the barracks did the same, while they moved quickly, no one rushed.

Why would they? Durram was nothing. About as common a world as you find in the Imperium.
He yawned again and pulled on his boots and loosely tied them, then trotted over to the row of tall lockers. He turned the handle and pulled out his trousers and shirt. He took hold of his lasgun, and grabbed his flak vest. It was heavy, and smelled funny, like old cheese. After a moment, he returned the body armor to the locker. He did not want to put it on, only to wear its twenty-two kilos of weight for a mere twenty minutes. He’d rather have his ear-chewed off by the sergeant.

He blew out his cheeks, slung his lasgun over his shoulder and trotted to the door.

The moment he stepped outside he knew everything was wrong. The night sky. It was on fire.

The sergeant had not been kidding. This was no drill.

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4.00 avg. rating (85% score) - 1 vote

[40K] Service in His Shadow

31/08/2012 in Warhammer 40K

5.00 avg. rating (97% score) - 2 votes

Jorawar1’s comment: This gentlemen and ladies is the best fan fiction available on the web. which in my humble opinion is better than the original.

Cain & Abel: Service In His Shadow

A Warhammer 40,000 epic by Mike Stormm

-Ariel Abel

“Like any newly-commissioned young commissar I faced my first assignment with an eagerness mixed with trepidation. I was, after all, the visible embodiment of the will of the Emperor Himself; and I could scarce suppress the tiny voice which bade me wonder if, when tested, I would truly prove worthy of the trust bestowed upon me. When the test came at last, in the blood and glory of the battlefield, I had my answer; and my life changed forever.”

-Ciaphas Cain, ‘To Serve the Emperor: A Commissar’s Life’

ONE

I must admit, at first, that the thought of scripting my own memoirs had not crossed my mind until I casually glanced through the pages of the autobiography belonging to my long-time colleague, and Hero of the Imperium, Commissar Cain. These days, it seems as though every guardsman, commissar, and officer who manages to reach retirement with enough of their brain still functioning to string a few coherent sentences together invariably throws together a story and calls it their memoir or autobiography. I never really thought my military exploits were enough of a story to be worthy of telling. Mostly, I think I simply feared they would be overlooked. However, looking back on nearly a century of gallivanting around the galaxy stomping on the heads of heretics, xenos, and unholy terrors alike, I realized there is probably some sort of lesson that could be learned from it all. Somewhere in all the bloody warfare, profanity-inducing horror, closes brushes with the hand of death, and near-blasphemous deeds that made up the clusterfrak that was my career, there is something that can be passed onto the next generation of men and women that somehow make it all seem worthwhile. Damned if I can figure out what it is though.

Maybe those guys at the medicae temple really can do wonders and breathe life back into the dead.

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[40K] Writer’s Workshop – Untitled Guard Story

30/08/2012 in Warhammer 40K, Writer's Workshop

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NoPoet’s comment: This was Drakdylon’s entry to the Feb/March Writer’s Workshop, “It’s Cold Outside”, where the theme was that it had to be COLD – preferably a winter setting. Other than that it was up to the author. Let’s hope Drak returns to edit this excellent piece, which is currently unfinished.

Untitled Guard Story by Drakdylon

Cadet Commissar Titus Hadrian kept his cap pressed firmly against his head with his left hand, and with his right he gripped the casing of a valuable data-slate. He wasn’t exactly sure what kind of information the slate might contain, but he guessed it was important from its level of encryption.

Holding his hat tight to his scalp to keep it from being blown away by the buffeting winds so common on this world, he strode down the alleyways marked out by the tents which reared on either side. When there was a full-blown blizzard up, the whitish tents disappeared and the camp was rendered almost invisible by virtue of the ubiquitous arctic camo that decorated everything the eye could see.

Hadrian hated it here. He had been raised and trained on a hive-world, a place where the temperature never dropped below a balmy fifty-five unless the planetary governor wanted it to. It was an unnatural feeling, being thrust onto a world swathed in ice. Especially on one’s first field assignment.

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by NoPoet

Service In His Shadow

02/02/2012 in Warhammer 40K

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An Imperial Guard story by Jorawar1

– Ariel Abel

“Like any newly-commissioned young commissar I faced my first assignment with an eagerness mixed with trepidation. I was, after all, the visible embodiment of the will of the Emperor Himself; and I could scarce suppress the tiny voice which bade me wonder if, when tested, I would truly prove worthy of the trust bestowed upon me. When the test came at last, in the blood and glory of the battlefield, I had my answer; and my life changed forever.”

-Ciaphas Cain, ‘To Serve the Emperor: A Commissar’s Life’

ONE

I must admit, at first, that the thought of scripting my own memoirs had not crossed my mind until I casually glanced through the pages of the autobiography belonging to my long-time colleague, and Hero of the Imperium, Commissar Cain. These days, it seems as though every guardsman, commissar, and officer who manages to reach retirement with enough of their brain still functioning to string a few coherent sentences together invariably throws together a story and calls it their memoir or autobiography. I never really thought my military exploits were enough of a story to be worthy of telling. Mostly, I think I simply feared they would be overlooked. However, looking back on nearly a century of gallivanting around the galaxy stomping on the heads of heretics, xenos, and unholy terrors alike, I realized there is probably some sort of lesson that could be learned from it all. Somewhere in all the bloody warfare, profanity-inducing horror, closes brushes with the hand of death, and near-blasphemous deeds that made up the clusterfrak that was my career, there is something that can be passed onto the next generation of men and women that somehow make it all seem worthwhile. Damned if I can figure out what it is though.

Maybe those guys at the medicae temple really can do wonders and breathe life back into the dead.
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by Pixo

Vultures of the Imperium

13/04/2011 in Warhammer 40K

1.00 avg. rating (55% score) - 1 vote

Uglys, the Vultures of Beligarso

Chapter I

* * *

Pukes!

-Tradition Beligarso word of insult

~ I ~

“Put up alongside that building and float around it,” said the gunner.

“We’ve got to be quick, we’re getting some interest from the west,” returned the pilot over the intercom, even though he sat above and behind him.

“I just want to have a quick look,” the gunner replied.

The pilot maneuvered his Vulture gunship up near the towering, ruined building. The building was abandoned and derelict. The late day sun reflected off the few pieces of glass that had managed to survive the war, in the reflection the pilot caught a quick glance of his aircraft.

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WAGS

23/12/2010 in Warhammer 40K

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WAGS

With a roar, the guardsmen erupted over their trench like a tide of Imperial righteousness, lasrifles hurling beams of burning death towards the approaching Ork horde.

The greenskins responded with defiant bellows, returning fire with their shootas as they pounded across the distance between them and the humans.

The two armies collided, man and ork battling to gain ground amidst the churned mud of the crater strewn battlefield, countless numbers from each army falling to die beneath the feet of their fellows.

On a hillock behind the trench lines of the Imperial Guard, the glint of field glass lenses marked the position of an engrossed observer.

“Oh, there he is! I can see his scarf!”

Juliana bounced excitedly in her folding chair, almost knocking her iced tea from the table with a kick from one of her expensive high heels.

Still holding up a pair of high-powered yet dainty binoculars, she flicked her immaculately styled hair away from her face, revealing features too smooth and perfect to be natural.

It paid to be the wife of an officer.

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A Little Sleep

21/04/2010 in Warhammer 40K

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Yevenov shuffled through the mud.  He was nearly blind in the pre-dawn gloom.  The sky was just starting to lighten from midnight black to the ruddy grey that promised a light drizzle for the foreseeable future.

He was exhausted to the point that he occasionally fell asleep while the column of troopers slogged their way through the murk to their next fighting position.  Despite the uncomfortable helmet, the sling of his lasgun cutting into his shoulder, his cold wet feet, and all the other minor annoyances that are a standard part of the infantryman’s life, he still managed to doze off while keeping his feet moving, one after the other.  Sometimes he would bump into the man in front of him.

Even when he wasn’t sleepwalking, his eyes would cross with fatigue, leading him to stumble on the uneven ground or bump up against another trooper with the clack and clatter of equipment.  He wasn’t the only one, and occasionally the sergeant leading the column would turn and swear quietly at them to keep the noise down and pay attention.

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