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Welcome to my fiction thread, it includes all my dakka based writing from now on. There might be 40k stuff in the future but at the moment i am feeling pretty (original) fantastical.

Contents:
-'The Tower of the Lord' - Multi-part, fantasy. (to be continued)
-'War stories' - One shot, fantasy.

Here's some original fiction, have felt a little 40k'd out recently. This is probably a two parter however it may end up as a one-and-a-halfer after some editing. Depends on the reaction. I am going for a sorta lovecraft vibe maybe a little Stephen King. EDIT: Its a fantasy setting btw.

The Tower of the Lord
By the OP

'As you well know Mr Thulse there is but one way we can execute our enemies and it is very..... Public.'
He adjusted his collar, it was pressed immaculately, like parchment.
'So what is it then, prison?'
The other man, one Edwin Thulse was tying to keep his composure, there was still a glimmer of hope that he could talk his way out, or was it the hope of a glimmer of hope he thought. He winced as the binds dug into his wrists again. The Verrian Rector cleared his throat.
'No Mr Thulse, Exile'.
His nose picked up a pungent alcohol smell before he felt the rough hessian bag creeping down his forehead, slowly it covered his eyes. His last thought had been whether there would be books where he was going.

An early evening fuzz greeted his eyes, black fluttered over the vision as he blinked, giving it focus, or what little his near-sight afforded. A bedroom, it was not his own, it was far too pleasing to be his own. Its furnishings were elegant and antique, a mahogany table carved with Pellic scroll-work, high backed chairs with fine Mulger upholstery, the palette was opulent gold and rich claret. He had taken brandy in rooms like these, a plutocrat host would fill his crystal tumbler whilst perhaps asking his opinion on the classics, priceless leather bound copies usually lined a nearby bookcase. Edwin Thulse was a cultured man but the books he possessed were dog eared lithographs, the umpteenth imprint from a publishing house more like a factory. His copies of 'On the turning of spheres', 'Lyves of Grayte Men' and the myriad others were well thumbed and defaced with annotations. The most glaring omission from his library had a lot to do with him being in this unfamiliar bedroom. 'Love and Providence' or 'the Codex' as most had it known, the book of the Verrians, the only god-cult that had endured the slow march of time and reason. A line came to him in full veracity as he attempted to gain his feet.

Providence, without which we are lost. Providence, without which we are hopeless. Providence, without which we are beasts.

It had been in the last sermon he had heard, the last he had deigned to hear. After that he had absconded himself or made his excuses. There had been others like him, ones who spoke with more passion, ones who were flagrant and public when he was discreet and cunning. Orators and firebrands, demagogues and heretics, he had watched many of them roiling on the Trian, squat nails piercing their palms, sweat streaming over their breathless chests and tortured frames. It was a death sentence from an older time, long-fallen empires would Truscify rebellious slaves or seditious traitors. It was improper to see it now, flies buzzing around groaning nearly-corpses and their undignified soil. Those with the power to ban the practise left well alone, effete kings and impotent ministers would simply look away in disgust or wretch into a silken handkerchief. Worst of all, he reckoned, was that the irony of their sacred symbol being so barbarous and efficient a lethal implement was lost on the Verrians, they just droned on with their platitudes regardless.

Of course it had never been Thulse's intention to anger the Verrians it simply became his unfortunate reality. He hadn't done it for love, or idealism, he had done it for a book. 'The Variances of Matter', his find of the decade, his fortune. He usually dismissed it's particular brand of tripe, many closeted savants had released similar 'revelatory' texts and been laughed into embarrassed hermitage or suicide, the copies pulped for the waste paper they were. Variance of Matter however had that rare quality, the one any respected Tome-dealer, and Providence knows Edwin Thulse was one-such, looked for, it was ahead of it's time. Cheriun Malfonse, the author, had beaten many great intelli-crats to the punch, Thulse even had proof Brunser, the greatest natural philosopher of the modern age, had plagiarised a particular passage, the discreditor-dividend would have been substantial. Malfonse's understanding of coupling forces and matter-crumbs was total, he wrote like a man who took them for granted, obvious. A wise man had once told Thulse, over a fine Caravacian vintage, that to be one step ahead was to be a genius, to be two was madness. Malfonse hadn't just taken two steps he had run a steeple-chase.

Edwin had unearthed the book while appraising the library of a particularly demented widow, married into some provincial off-shot of the Jantengine dynasty, her dead husband was a fossil in an eyesore mausoleum. The chief manservant, Murshil, seemed to speak, hear and see for her. Thulse thought of him as the host to the old shrivelled tick he tended, to be fair he thought, she seemed to require little sustenance. The great house contained hundreds of first editions, thousands of rare imprints and even a healthy collection of banned erotica and obscene publications.

He had ended his search with a small pile of 'uncatalogueds', the ones even his eidetic recollection of text and poly-lingualism struggled to identify. He had to retreat to the university for a full appraisal, no doubt from his old, and alcoholic, mentor. Unfortunately, even more so given the turn of events, Murshil's milky eyes missed nothing and borrowing the books had not been a possibility.

While at the university and with a thorough re-evaluation of his notes he discovered the import of his discovery.

On the day of his return he was greeted by a great plume of black smoke climbing over Murshil's immaculate topiary. Next to the glass-walled Orchidarium a great fire burned. A dusty smell of smouldering paper had filled his nostrils, the books, charring in a great bonfire of knowledge. He had ventured as close as he could, Thulse's eyes had streamed from the smoke. Through his blurred vision he had spied a distinctive gold-rimmed volume in emerald leather, the fire had barely touched it. With a certain heroism, as he recalled, he had risked his finest brogues gently toeing the book out of the fire. Foolishly Thulse had snatched up the book, he quickly realised that the back was near charcoal, flecked with embers. He remembered hearing his hands sizzle briefly, the pain came after. Thulse had almost felt bad stamping it into the grass, but the revenge he extracted from the act had felt good. He gathered up the book and turned to the château.

Whilst the château was still there, on the lawn in front was the unwelcome sight of a gaunt Verrian priest, behind was the lady of the house in an invalid's bath chair. As he remembered she looked even more lifeless than before, he had seen corpses with more vigour. Murshil had been nowhere to be seen.

For a reason he struggled to recall or defend, he had fled with the book. He had not gotten far.

In the present Thulse took a moment to assess his surroundings, his eyes betrayed him as they wandered to a bookcase. This has to be some kind of sick joke he thought to himself as he picked one of the books off the shelf. He ran his fingers over the embossed title, gold leaf filled each letter on an emerald background.
'The Variance of Matter'
by Cheriun Malfonse
He threw it to the floor and examined the next volume, the same green, the same gold lettering,
'Examining the Variances in the Variances of Matter'
by Cheriun Malfonse.
He set it down carefully, his heart stirred in his chest, the next book fell into the gap the two had made, invited itself to be picked up.
'The Impossibility of Examining all Variance'
by Cherroon Malfonz
His heart took up the rhythm of fear, his mind was starting to race outside it's parameters. He skipped the next five books that filled the shelf and went for the last, it was nothing more than a manuscript, the paper was old and yellow and marked by water along the edge. On the cover page in a clear hand, despite the smudged ink, it read simply,
'He Watches'
by the Man Before His Time.

Thulse flicked through the sheaths of paper, his practised eyes never failed to spot repetition and this book seemed to do so every few pages.
'…....He watches as I wake........ He watches me in my smallclothes........ He watches me on the privy....... He watches as I search for him....'

Despite himself, he smiled, Thulse had always found the rantings of madmen little more than farcical, perhaps for the simple reason that he had read so much of it in his time. In this worryingly alien setting his mind rallied with this reminder of home. Things were starting to make sense in his head. He just hoped the exile would not send him insane like it had poor Malfonse. It was time to venture outside his room.

As the familiar soothing wave of the rational cleansed his psyche, Thulse looked to the window. He had not realised it was wide open, mostly because there had been no draft. What waited outside was much harder for him to rationalise.

Damn, this is good. You definitely captured Lovecraft's style, with your immaculate pose (I'm not sure if I'm using that term right) and the way you slowly built up towards the climax. Honestly, if I hadn't known that you'd written it, I would've thought he did.

 LoneLictor wrote:
Damn, this is good. You definitely captured Lovecraft's style, with your immaculate pose (I'm not sure if I'm using that term right) and the way you slowly built up towards the climax. Honestly, if I hadn't known that you'd written it, I would've thought he did.

This sums up what I feel to. Very well done

Thank you for the kind comments guys.

Just a quick update: I have decided to make this a 'Megathread' for all my One-shots and writing exercises etc. I may finish the ones i have started or just move on to the next one. Naturally i will make this clear in the posts.

Pretty Proud of this one. This has some pretty adult themes, it's a little GRRM but without the foul language. Massive edit.


War Stories.

It was the kind of dirt that got under the fingernails and deep in the creases of the palms. This dark patchwork of veins now covered his hands, making them appear older and more mean than they were. The kind of dirt it would take a brush to shift, maybe some soap. The smell of souring muck threatened his nostrils despite them being filled with stink of soil and sweat. He had dared not use their water to clean them and resolved not to risk his own supply, they stank as a result. A fleshy slap of the spade echoed as he took another bite into the soil, over the course of the last foot it had segued from loose loam into a tight clay. It made it far harder going, his sweating aped the fever his comrades had suffered but his ran hot and vital whereas theirs' stuck, stagnant and clammy. He knew how deep he had to go, deep enough that the beasts wouldn't sniff it out, a tall man's reach, a half dozen cubits. Men shouldn't be dug up by some mutt like a prize bone he thought to himself.

When the pit was just above his head he made to climb out, he slipped a number of times as his hands failed to gain purchase on the crumbling lip. He flopped onto the ground with a groan when he eventually freed himself. For a time he simply lay on his back, letting the warm sun leech the colour from his vision. Feeling what passed for refreshed he made to fill the pit and finish the job. He was still weakened from the flux but with each day that passed he felt more like his old self. Within a couple of hours, the sun falling into late afternoon, he had moved the bodies into their terminal rest. The last he moved had still maintained most of his healthy weight and he needed another few minutes rest before he covered them.

'Ahoy' came a nearing voice, along with crumple of fine clothes and jangling of a silver chain on mail; a Noble.
'Mi'lord' the man tersely replied, without yet looking up.
'I heard some bands had made camp a while away, you're the first i've found.'
The man turned to face the Noble, giving a slight bow,
'Come no closer, I pray Mi'lord, we've the flux', to his surprise there was no shock at the man's filthy appearance in the Noble's face.
'I know, good Yeoman, as have many'.
'Have' issued gravely from his mouth, it spoke of much death, indiscriminate of social standing.
'Did you pass blood Yeoman?'
Nobles often inquired candidly of their subjects but this still caused the man's face to redden a fraction.
'None came from me, the others started to bleed not long before they passed into fever.'
'As is the way of the Flux, how pray did you endure where your mates perished? It is of interest to me. I take salt and sugar in water myself when I feel the loosening.'
This Noble seemed a curious sort to the man, his face was soft with expectant curiosity and his manner lacked the token disdain. The man couldn't help but appreciate the Noble's honesty also, not many blue-bloods would even admit to making soil let alone being afflicted by the flux.

'Wine. I was mean with it after the battle and had saved a couple skins, the others drank from the stream.' He gave it a look, he felt a flash of hatred towards the babbling brook and quickly chided himself for the foolish notion.
'You did not share with your dying comrades?'
'We have our ways......'. Anger crept into his voice. '…We peasants, I did not have enough to refresh everyone and myself, I wouldn't begrudge it of any of my mates or them of me. It was too late anyways, by the time I realised' The anger tailed off into futile regret.
'Forgive my judgement good Yeoman, I often forget your bramble-bush practicality. I shouldn't really be shocked by meanness from one with such a mean life.'
'Aye, you shouldn't', the man agreed, his voice softening.

'Tell me of these men, so we can share a simple prayer. We're they friends? Cousins?'

'Ha, some were no friends of mine but they were good lads, by the by.'
The yeoman gave a smile and a smirk at some remembered jape, the noble replied with his own small one, trying to hide the fact he did not completely understand the levity.

'Fatur, my oldest mate, could drink a Northman under the table, a blackguard with his fists. During that tour we rallied under Count Hasul...'

'The Campaign into Serrokell, I remember it well.' Now it was the Noble's face that flickered with reminiscence.

'..We..' The Yeoman stopped, a blush crept from his neck into his cheeks.

'No need to censor yourself good yeoman, i'll wager you were whoring.'

'Aye' He admitted with a rueful grin, despite himself, the noble caught the contagious smile adding his own wink of complicity.

'We were leaving a Serrek Night-Den, blind drunk, when he spies a fidgeting Ass, he seemed to fancy some jape or other. I couldn't say if it were fight from the drink or randiness but I can say the donkey kicked him dead for two days! He thought it was the worst hangover of his life when he finally roused.'
The man couldn't resist and burst into peals of laughter from the memory. After as much time as his dignity would allow the noble joined him.

'Borin, my cousin, was an especially good fighter, Arms like Oak trees. You know during the battle passed he spitted one of the Prince's C'nights, a Named-man on his spear?! Right from his Jacksie to his Nape'.

'A vicious fellow.'

'Aye...But... Afterwards.... He says..... He says....' The man struggled with snorts of amusement, the words spluttered into laughter each time he tried to make them.

'That'll be...... That'll be 6 months penance and 10 lashes for buggery!' He finally managed in a resounding punchline.

They laughed for what seemed like hours, until their sides ached and tears ran down their faces. Perhaps the joke hadn't been that good but the resonance was all too clamouring to ignore.

An hour or so passed as the man named the other half-dozen and shared a clutch more baudy tales. The Noble even added a brace of his own to the banter. Opening up fully to the lowly peasant. When it came to name the last the Yeoman took on a different tone.

'Then there's Rathe, a bonny lad, golden hair like a wenches'.' His voice grew solemn, the last of the laughs ebbing away.
'When my girl Rosie first showed the signs of his seed in her belly, I wanted to throttle the fiend. Beat him black and blue I did.' Another rueful grin sneaked unto his face.

'He made an honest woman of her though, didn't need any persuading; give him is due, and when I saw my grandson for the first time, a fine healthy babe, and the happiness in Rosie's eyes I forgave the blackguard. He 'came like a son to me, bloody wife giving me all daughters after all. He had taken a small wound during the battle, aught but a scratch but he hadn't the strength to stop the festering 'cos of the flux. I don't look forward to telling sweet Rosie the news.'

'Aye, I envy you not good mate. Thank you for sharing the lives the of these men. If you please?'
The noble dropped to his knees making his hands into the holy symbol. The man joined him without hesitation. Each whispered a different prayer, one in the original ancient language the other in a coarse venacular. When the prayer was done and the men were buried the noble rose to leave, not before signing the Yeoman's deed of entitlement to a sum of coins, a paymaster as he revealed himself to be.

'Finally, good Yeoman' His voice had reverted to a more official tone since he had revealed his vocation.

'You're Guwell of Plutten correct? Serjeant in Duke Petter's militia? How many years has it been?'

'Twenty, from bowman to Serjeant. Is it important Mi'lord?'

'The war is won, the Duke has won his Principality. The Duke, that is, Prince, has need of honest men and wishes to reward the common men who have aided his victory. Along with your payment, I have a deed, to land. Guwell, you are a landowner.'

Guwell looked only shocked, in that moment he missed his men prodigiously, perhaps in Fatur's case he missed the opportunity for a good gloat, he also imagined ruffling Rathe's golden hair.
'I don't have the words, I am grateful mi'lord give the Du... Prince.... My thanks if he'll accept them'.

'Why the long face Guwell Friend? your grandson will want for nothing, he could be a C'night!'