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Due to previously unforseen circumstances, and a lot of IRL gak going on, this contest has been abandoned. Sorry for any inconvenience caused, but life has a way of getting the jump on you sometimes.

Latest Update: FAQs have been added to the end of this post, and the first judge has been found, so there are only two spots left! If you want to be a judge, drop me a PM!

It's November the 1st, and that means it's the start of NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, where hobbyist writers and aspiring authors alike challenge themselves to write 50,000 words in just the 30 days that is November. It doesn't have to be good, since it's the accomplishment that counts, but it got me thinking that Dakka could use something similar.

Before you ask, no, I'm not going to request that you drop and give me 50,000

During the month of November, I challenge you to write a piece of fiction based on either the Warhammer 40,000 and/or Warhammer Fantasy universe, of anything between 500 and 2500 words!

Depending on the amount of entries, there will be two categories: Warhammer 40,000 and Warhammer Fantasy.

I'm going to allow each person to write one piece for 40k and one piece for Fantasy, but if there are too few entries for the either one of the categories, they will be merged with the other, in which case anyone who wrote an entry for both will be asked to choose one of their two entries to go through to the judging stage.

There are four different themes to choose from, and you must choose at least one theme that your story will be based upon, but you may choose to include two, three, or all of them in your story! Just be aware that having all four themes represented could be tricky, and does not in any way guarantee that you will be scored higher simply because you took them all on; sometimes a lot of a little is better than a little of a lot.

The themes (for both for 40k and Fantasy) are: Justice; Fear; Fugitive and Bravery. You may interpret these themes any way you wish (within reason; I trust you to use your common sense when defining your chosen theme(s)) and, as noted above, you must include at least one of these themes, but you may include all of them.

Please post your entries here (ORIGINAL WORK ONLY, WRITTEN BY YOURSELF SPECIFICALLY FOR THIS CONTEST) using reasonable spelling and grammar (there are plenty of free spell checks around, and most word processors come with them built in, the same with word counters, so there's no excuse to be lax with these, and it'll only work against you in the long run if you are) as well as posting in a readable format (so use paragraphs and avoid walls of text).

For anyone who doesn't want to write, but is interested in judging the entries, please send me a PM before the 30th of November about a place on the panel, of which there will be 3 available (not including myself, as I will not be judging this contest). I must request that judges have no close connection to any of the entrants, but only you know whether or not you do, so I'm trusting in your impartiality; please don't prove that I was wrong to do this, because I'd like to know I can at least trust Da Kammunity.

Aside from that, all I can say is please follow the forum rules regarding posts, and try to keep them PG-13 wherever possible.

Enough rambling on, any questions can be posted here, and entries can be posted... no- wait for it... now!

FAQ
Q: My word count says I'm within the limit, but another one says I'm over by a few words, which should I believe?
A: Since I'll be checking entries using Open Office's word count, I'd firstly recommend downloading Open Office Writer (it's free) and checking there, but in case that isn't possible, I'll accept any entries that are a maximum of 50 words over the limit as checked on Open Office due to how varied word counters can be, so if, for example, your entry is 2499 to you, and 2549 to me, you'll be fine (only just, though).

Q: How many edits are allowed?
A: I'm allowing unlimited edits, so long as the story does not go over the limit, up until the deadline. Any stories edited after the deadline will be disqualified.

Q: What time is the deadline?
A: The deadline is midnight on the 30th of November GMT.

Q: Am I allowed to post my entry in a seperate thread?
A: If you wrote it specifically for the contest, then no, not until after the deadline. If you wrote it before the contest, well, you've already broken the rule about it being written for the contest, and it will be disqualified, as will any entries posted seperately before the deadline.

Q: Is it okay if I ask for people's opinions on my work?
A: Not really, no. Whilst I can't stop constructive criticism being given in person or via PM, I am trusting entrants to respect the fact that this must be their own work, with no outside help. Anyone found to be recieving outside help will be disqualified on the spot. After the deadline you can ask away, but until then, please refrain from asking for, or giving out, any sort of criticism, constructive or otherwise, as well as any advice, in order to give everyone a fair chance.

I assume entries needs to be posted here too? And that already begun tales will not be avaibal for making an entry. Or am I wrong on this point, anyhow I like your idea I dare say

Yes, entries are to be posted here, and thanks for prompting me about it being original work!

I see and no problem, looks like I am the first man to dare post my ramblings in thise fine tread then. I choose fear then.


In darkness




The world burns in the fiery flames of war and misery. In the shadows of burning spires and the smoldering ruins that forms the vast and broken landscapes of Hagia Prime, a merciless battle rages.
Guardsmen, PDF and the few surviving members of the Sisters Of Battle order attempts to quell the flames of heresy.

It began when a heresy most foul was committed, many of the noble houses had fallen under the influence of the ruinous powers. Many a long night they spent mustering their countless minions and building supplies while hiding in plain sight. When they rose up and set the world ablaze in the flames of war, a call for aid went out from the remaining loyalist forces on the world.
Help came in vast quantities, several regiments of Guardsmen and tanks came alongside the Sisters Of Battle to aid the beleaguered Imperial world.

But when the ones who had set about the heresy revealed their gore stained hands it became clear it would perhaps not be enough, spilling fourth from the dark catacombs that run like a honeycomb beneath the world came the Sons Of Muspelheim.
The former guardians of mankind fell upon the guard with grim determination, and madness burning in their eyes. Soon the would be liberators found themselves in a cataclysmic struggle of life and death.
The traitor Astartes came to claim this world for their dark gods. And to anoint themselves in the blood of the loyal and pure.

It was unto this cauldron of suffering we came, the ship broke out from the warp in a multicolored display of energy. As the gellar field flickered and dissipated our lonesome ship hung in silent orbit.
Around us other Imperial ships made way for our coming, those who had survived the initial battle for the skies did not want to risk their life’s by obstructing our coming.
The brass bell calls us to the gathering hall where the brother captain anoints us all for the coming campaign before leading us in prayer.

“Father of mankind, thy who sits on Terra. Hold your guiding hand above your chosen sons as we cleanse the unfaithful from your realm, keep our brothers safe from harm and grant swift death to our foes. Grant thy blessing to those who will not live to see its end.” the prayer that is said in a unison choir of deep baritone voices.

We rise in unison as the brother captain is the first to exit the chapel. His footstep’s sounds like the tolling of the bell of lost souls, he is followed by his closest and most trusted battle brother. A giant of an Astartes who is clad in a suit of amour that has seen more battles than most of us will ever see.

Brother Captain Arkangle and his champion Mordred leaves their brethren to tend to their last duties before the squad leaders are summoned to discuss tactics.
As the two Astartes walk side by side, anyone observing them can see the close bond between the two warriors, the kind of bond that only centuries of war and countless hours spent sparring and training foster. Where these two tread their footsteps and shadow signal the demise of the enemies of man.

“Curse these incompetent fools for not being able to purge that accursed rabble on their own, Emperor give me strength if I ever have the displeasure of getting my hands on the worthless worm who commands them!” the captain says in a voice dripping with resentment.



His comrade in arms nods but dose not answer him. He is used to this, the great warrior seldom speak but when he dose the centuries of experience he has is revealed. It is as much for his battle prowess as his steely tactical outlook he has chosen to make him his champion. And ultimately the one who will be his successor to the role as leader of the proud second company of the Death Hand.

“My lord I believe we are not alone when it comes to aiding this rabble, I have received word that fellow Astartes are in system and orbiting this very world! But alas we seem to be cursed with the foul mongrels of the Salamanders.” Mordred says and his face reveals more than his words what he feels about his fellow Astartes.

“Calm yourself brother! It is indeed unfortunately that we are forced to deal with them. But I would rather have them die than any of our own brothers.” the captain says as they enter the armory.

As hey enter the smell of weapon oil and other cleaning agents assail their noses, and the sounds of the forge producing ammunition and tech marines tending to equipment. Scores of serfs surrounded them and await their commands. When ordered the servants begin the processes of arming and preparing the two giants clad in power armor.

He felt energized as he gripped the sword that had served him for over two hundred years, the blade hummed with energy as he grasped its decorated hilt. By the almighty emperor this was a weapon truly fit for the sons of the father of mankind he thought and took a practice swing.
The blade seems to emit a thirst for war, and soon that thirst will be sated.

Two hundred Astartes stand ready for war, two hundred souls stands in the defense of the imperium and that it represent.
Let the heretic, the daemon and the alien cover in fear. The hands of death draw near for their bloody harvest.


Shells rake the imperial lines as a tsunami of heretics spill fourth and hurl themselves at the guardsmen. Hundreds if not thousands are shredded by heavy weapon fire and massive explosions as the big guns of the guard rains death down upon them.
A lone storm trooper stands firm in the face of this madness, his weapon spits death at his foes and his lips curse them as they swarm over the barricades. he is all that remains of the regiment guarding the bastion but he dose not flee or cower in fear.
He looks to the sky and prepares to sell his life as his weapon is all but out of ammunition.
Above him he sees fiery objects hurl towards the ground. At first he and all others who sees them think that its an orbital bombardment. But the objects draws closer and it soon dawns on both loyalist and traitor that the angels of death comes down from the skies to make war.

As the drop pods slams into the ground a shimmer appears in the air, and with a thunderclap the brother captain and his finest warriors comes onto the scene.

Mordred rams his halberd into the guts of the foul traitor and tosses him aside with a flick of his wrist. His weapon in drenched in the blood of the enemy and his hate burns in his veins.
With one massive hand he grips the axe that a overall clad heretic swings at him.

“Die mortal” he growls and rips the arm of, and with a downward strike spills him in two. Foul liquids and internist sploshes down onto the ground but he pays no attention to it, swinging in a wide arc he cuts them down like a scythe might cut the wheat.
Looking around him he sees the chapter banner rise proudly over the churning mayhem of war.

For the other imperial forces it seemed that salvation had come when Astartes from two different chapters came down to make war. But when the dust settled and it was clear that the battle was won for now the ugly head of disagreement arose between the two chapters.

The Salamanders in following their beliefs had aided the guard while they withdrew, and failed to close the pincer that would have caught a large host of heretics between the two Astartes forces. This did not sit well with their fellow Astartes who had bore the brunt of the counter attack. Although none had died several brothers where severely injured and would not see battle again for many weeks.
But what made the tide of hate flow from the Death hands was the fact that their supposedly brothers in arms had chosen to aid the pity full guard instead of them.
The Salamander lord was greeted with noting short of barely concealed hostility when he meet brother captain Arkangle, the marine clad in pitch black power armor with silver colored trim radiated no wish to share words let alone discus anything with the stoic Salamander clad in green.
News about this reached the inquisitor and her retinue as they surveyed the aftermath of the battle.

Inquisitor Julia Everhearth stood surrounded by her retinue as the surviving Imperial commanders arrived for the joint briefing on the next stage of the war. She also noted the two Astartes commanders, one seemed to glare a wish for death for anyone foolish enough to approach let alone speak to him. And one stood and discussed the war with several officers.

The only man in the assembly who seemed to dare to speak to the towering Astartes clad in black was a equally unnerving man. He wore a long greatcoat and his gaunt features spoke of a long life spent fighting the enemies of man. He also had a bionic hand and a gas mask rested on his hip.
That man was equal to the devil she thought, curse the Ragnarokian regiment and their monster of a commander. But he and his men added something to their combined effort no other regiment present on this world could, and that was sheer weight of numbers and added to their expertise in dealing with such things as traitor Astartes they where a valuable asset indeed. No matter how unsavory they where.
Field-marshal Hendric S. Loki was a man who looked like he had been trough the warp, and lived to tell the tale. His body was a patchwork of scars and bionics. Only he could claim to be on a somewhat good footing with the less than pleased brother captain.

When the meeting ended she waited for brother captain Arkangle to leave before she approached him. She had not seen or meet an Astartes of the chapter this lord clearly belonged to, but something told her that they where far from common imagine of a heroic Astartes who would stand with his fellow servants of mankind.

“A moment of your time Astarte” she told him in a calm manner. The giant turned to face her and that was the first time since she earned the rosette she felt afraid.
His eyes radiated hate and barely contained fury, it did not help that his armor made him look like a black legionnaire, only the armor trim made him look different.

“Inquisitor” he says to her in a icy tone while his cold eyes gaze down at her. It is very clear to her that he thinks rather poorly of her. Knowing she needs to tread lightly she chooses her next words carefully.



“My lord Astartes, I am inquisitor Ambrosia. I come to ask for your aid in the continued liberation of this system. Secondly I noticed the less than friendly tone between you and the Salamander captain. I take it that it will not interfere with your effort in this war!” she says in what she hopes is a firm but well mannered tone.

Her answer is as cold as the winter storms on Fenris.
“ No Inquisitor trouble not your head with affairs between Astartes! And to give you the answer you crave, yes you may count on our aid. But know this.... do not try to use us to further your own goals. I will not let my brothers waste time on running errands for a mere mortal.”

With those harsh words he leaves her standing there alone in the damp hallway. When several towering warriors stride past her she realize they must have heard every word. She knows in her mind that those Astartes may be the source of a lot of headaches and worries.

As her second in command walks over she feels a tingling in her mind, and a voice that is marred by the passing of the centuries speaks to her.
“Excuse my Captain, he seldom plays well with others. Seek me out if you wish to speak with him when he is in a more favorable mood. Tell him that I Octavian sent you.”

And with those words she feels the pressure ease up and dissipate from within her mind. So the Astartes has a psyker with them it seems. Indeed this may prove a eventful task indeed.

“My lady? Are you okay” the man asks her and looks concerned for her well being, she waves him of and says to him.
“Tell me Andrew, have you ever been aboard a Space marine ship?

How convenient. I was already planning on writing a sci-fi story about justice, fear and fugitives, so I might as well fit it into the 40k setting.

That sweet taste of blood is something I have not tasted in some long time. As I glance down at my core I see it, I see what I had hoped not to see. I look back up at the sergeant; he is a Salamander Space Marine. I can smell his anger, I can hear his shuddered breath. His power sword is lodged in my torso section and so I pull it further in drawing myself closer to him gnashing my teeth fighting the pain off. I reach the hilt and I look into his eyes and whisper my prayer into his ear.

'Thank you... Brother... For freeing me' Disgusted he wrenches free his power sword and in a powerful swing cleaves my head in two. Dead before my mind registers I fall down and my vision blurs. Yet I still hear the sergeant and his men talking as they pick through the dead of my warband.

'He'Rean, are you alright?' came the abrupt question from a terminator behind the sergeant.

'I am, this one seemed to have tenacity sewn into its very being.'

'Remember He'Rean the Emperor protects and rewards the faithful'

'Aye he does Ma'Roan'

The voice inside He'Reans’ head was the first clue, my voice whispering to him, coaxing him with all the pleasures of the warp. The damned fools. The static on their Vox was the second clue, atmospherics they believed, no. No it was not atmospherics it was my hand that played with their Vox. The last clue was my body; it started with a small twitch and then became full animation. The sergeant noticed first and called out to warn his brothers as the half headed beast I am, turned to them and chuckled. First it began slowly and quietly then louder and louder until my cackle filled the fields.

Rising up I picked up my Daemonblade As'Gra'Xrx'Thrax and I took my first step looking closely with my one eye into the squad that had butchered my men. I drew my hand to my face and felt the jagged edges where my face should've been. I look at the blood and lick it off my hand and look deep into the eyes of the sergeant.

'Brother, you've failed me?'
Looking into the sergeants’ eyes I threw a punch which connected to the sergeants’ helmet, cracking his head back. He stumbled back attempting to bring his plasma pistol up to snap fire off at me. I saw his intent and lunged at him. Grabbing his plasma pistol we wrestled back and forth. Two titanic figures pressing all the might on a single point. I forced the plasma pistol to the sergeants’ head slowly. It was nearly a half an inch before I could have a clean kill. The sergeant used quick thinking and jutted his leg into my groin flipping me over him. He flipped off the ground and snapped off a shot of the plasma pistol.

A lucky shot seared through my shoulder guard separating my secondary arm from the torso. As the arm severed and hit the floor my wound cauterized itself instantly. Things blacked out as I went into an animalistic rage. This contained quick decisive thrusts and bloody slashes. As I performed my dance of death limbs were maimed and sent skittering onto the field. I could not see anything yet I could see their emotions within the warp which gave me a clear as day picture of my targets. I saw the Sergeant was lying on his back choking, He had a mangled face and his jaw was horribly dislocated setting itself nearly 5 inches to the left while the right mandibular fossa was completely torn off. He gurgled blood and choked on his words before he managed to get out a short sentence.

'Here...tic you wi.. burn' The sergeant looked at me and spit a curse. I looked down in joyous delight as his men lay dead next to him and the field was burning and filled with the harrowing screams of the dying.

'You're service will not end here brother, no.. You are mine!' I reached down and snapped his neck. Whispering a dark prayer to the Pantheon, I asked for the gift to be given to this one. I spoke the words into his ear slowly.

'Drath mengar ndurak maj nduk klehj' The dark words forming a black wispy cloud of air that flowed into the sergeants mouth. I stepped back and drew out the sacred blade and slit my hand open dropping black ichor onto the corpse. A few seconds passed with nothing, and then a small twitch and a shudder brought life back to my prize. With a deep gasp, as someone who has been held under water too long might, He'Rean rose from the realm of the dead. Touching at his jaw he tore it free and tossed it down.

'Master I serve you.' the words brought an unholy grin to my face as I looked at the abomination which would be my attack dog.

'Mongrel, let us walk we have much to discuss.'

'Yes Master let us walk'

As we walked through the plains I found numerous more dying that I could save with my dark gift. At the edge of the field I had found nearly 20 marines dying and many more mortals who could be useful we had a sturdy start. The Mongrel made growls at any who got too near to me. One marine began talking to me and the Mongrel put a shell through their skull. He is an obedient dog. I shall keep him near me.
'Haurvatat Arash, your soul is mine.. You can run the universe over, topple the imperium, be lord over all domains, and you will still be but a dog to me' The Lord of change crooned at me. It's billowing robes flowing around it ensconcing it in a sorcerous haze. The giant beast looked down at me and continued speaking its hawk eyes leering over me all the while. 'I was there when Prospero burned Haurvatat. It was I who saved you, you were dead by all rights, and I saved you plucking your lifeless corpse from the void and breathing my gift of life back into you. Now you go about claiming you are master of your own soul. No Haurvatat... YOU ARE MINE' ]

The daemon was stopped and peered off into the distance as I looked to try and follow it's sight at the end of the plane I saw Prospero burning, as if it was happening at that very moment. I saw where I had been skewered through the eyes of my enemy. Looking at my body I saw my face and in place of my face was a distorted mass of flesh. I saw my body slowly drop to a knee and crumple down. This was my first death I was damned from the day I was born, I will never be allowed the warm embrace of deaths kiss. I saw my soul leave my body as it flitted away pulled by some dark force. Cursed with the dark gift I been forced immortality by the daemon, it spoke life into my corpse and cursed me to roam the universe blessing others with the dark gift. Or was I cursing them? Doomed souls cursed to roam endlessly throughout the remainder of time as monsters of my own creations.

I woke screaming from my night terrors. Looking around my quarters I had been operated on as I felt a new arm and my head had being dramatically reconstructed through the extensive usage of bionics. Although my sight was gone completely I was able to see the emotions of those around me. Mongrel was standing in the corner of my quarters holding a gigantic axe. He looked at me and nodded

'Master.. I carried you to the dropship and we fled from the planet... What would you have me do?' I looked at him and thinking of what I could last remember it was all a wild blur,

'Where are we Mongrel?'

Master we are at Lobontii prime in the Lonbontii system'

'How many are we Mongrel'

'Master we are quite small in numbers, there are 26 rubrics and nearly 200 cultists, what would you have me do?

'Tell the Navigator to direct us to the dead moon in orbit of Lobontii prime.' As I said this, the air locks disengaged to the door and Mongrel slipped through them into the hall. The airlock slammed shut with a loud hiss of air and I found myself once again in the dead silence of my quarters alone. I leaned back to my bed and sat down. The silence hung in the air and there was an eerie feeling about the room. Leaning back up I spoke out.

'You are quite the assassin, what are you Callidus? Ah yes only you are able to hide yourself from me in the warp. But that is how I can find you. The lack of a presence gives you away. The assassin moved forward and drew out its blade ready to spill my blood and fulfill its assignment. I could not see it's movement quickly enough as it ran me through with its blade, my skin sizzled and melted to the burning hot touch of the sword. It gave its position away and I used it to my advantage finding the emotion, I heard the assassin loud and clear his thoughts were simple and few

'Did I kill him?' Using his thoughts I whispered to the assassins’ heart playing to his desires and amplifying his biggest fears. He feared his dead brother more than anything. Using this as my alibi I cast an illusion onto his mind and I appeared as his dead brother to him.

'Brother.. why...' The fear in the assassin's eyes cast deep emotions which I saw. I took my chances and toyed with his mind and the illusion of his brother. The assassin began to shake and dropped his blade. He took steps back from me trying to make sense of the situation but not being able to. He back up to the airlock door and released it opening the door with a hissing moan. Taking a single step back, a black sword slid through his back protruding through his flesh. The wielder drug the sword upwards through the assassins’ chest and ending below the head. Kicking off the body Mongrel stepped into the room and rushed to me.

‘Master we are under attack’

‘You noticed?’ I was about to continue when the claxons of the ship started and the Vox picked up.

'ALL HANDS TO BATTLE STATIONS WE ARE UNDER FIRE, BOARD IMMINENT.' I went over to my armour and began suiting myself with the help of Mongrel. My thoughts were rushing a mile a minute. I ignored my worries as I armored myself and readied my mind for the coming battle. I can see their fear gathering like moisture in the air.

I looked at my company commander, a grizzled war veteran who's led us for 12 years faithfully. Earning himself high honors in many fights. Captain Markos Layd of the Sertisian 103rd was paging through a devotions book and muttering prayers to himself. Commissar Irin looked at my rank stripes noticing I was just an ensign he spoke up.

'First time boarding boy?' The sentence hung in the air for a few moments until I caught on. I nodded slowly unsure of what to reply.

'He has the look of a child, he must only be 18 years eh Irin?'

'They get younger and younger most can’t even grip a lasgun.'

'The emperor protects boy, because you sure as hell are going to need something more than that flak armour.' Commissar Irin then made some wheezing sound that had me befuddled for a moment, I realized he was laughing and Captain Markos was too. I smiled weakly and clenched my fists around my lasgun, I quickly checked it over again and strapped up my helmet. I looked over to Rafardson, one of my close friends from training camp. He was shaking and his knuckles were white from how hard he gripped the flamer.

'Emperor protects Raf, Don't worry.'

'Tillman, I don't care about the emperor.. I just want to get this over with.' The words were out before Raf could reel them back in. Commissar Irin looked directly at him unsnapping the button lock to his laspistol and starting towards him. My stomach hit the floor; I knew exactly what came next.

'...I...Irin I didn't mean that..'

'Private Rafardson, cowardice in the face of the enemy will not be permitted, God-Emperor forgive you, because I cannot.' Commissar Irin brought the laspistol up and squeezed the trigger, a bright light bored it way through Rafardson's head, both inflicting massive internal bleeding and cauterizing it at the same time. His head smacked against the back of the wall and he slid down, unmoving.

'Private Tillman, grab the flamer, you've been promoted.' slinging the lasgun up on a rack, I shouldered the flamer tanks and picked up the flamer. I closed my eyes and shot a prayer to the emperor. In the dark of my mind, I can see it burning. The vision dissipated as our boarding vessel came under intense fire shaking the small craft violently. Inside there was a metallic rattle of two things clanging together coming from somewhere not too far off a trooper ten down the line closed his eyes shut and held tightly onto the brace before loosing the contents of his stomach in one violent expulsion.

'Steady men of the Imperium we are almost there, no matter what happens, you will die with the Emperors’ word on your lips. Into the depths of hell we go, and we will destroy these heretics! Private Tillman to the front!' Captain Markos had a charismatic look as he paced down and walked to his brace fastening himself in. I blinked, and then gulped down the last assured breath of air I was promised. Over the comms I hear the impact countdown start.

'10.... Let the heretic burn..'
'9... Remember your place..'
'8... We serve the God-Emperor..'
'7... Steady your aim Tillman..'
'6... I can see it burning..'
'5... Let my aim be true..'
'4... For Sertisia..'
'3... Let it be done..'
'2... Emperor protect me..'
'1... Or Death take me..' The sudden rush of it was exhilarating, all so quick the floodlights shot off and the boarding tip blasted through the chaos flagship Tyrannus Rex. Showering the inside of the breach with a storm of metal, Markos was first into the breach calling out to the 50 men behind him. 'Forward for the Emperor!'

I was second through the breach followed closely by Commissar Irin, The men of our company were seared down in droves by auto-lock rifles and other crude weaponry. A man I knew was shot in the head, time slowed as the bullet hit his head and it slowly fractured and exploded. I moved on there was no time to mourn the dead. To my direct left was a dark hallway. Seemed empty, and so I followed Captain Markos, He was thundering into a large group of cultists, a wild man in combat hacking and slashing through bodies in wild blazing arcs. A cultist managed a lucky jab with his bayonet and stabbed through the Captains thigh as he left his guard down. They swarmed over Markos in a blur and I couldn't tell if he lived, so I let loose on them with the flamer, scorching them in a mad torrent of flame. The gunner lenses over my eyes were protecting my view I saw the heretics dying by the droves, inspired I screamed out to the men around me who were fighting,

'Give them hell men!' I turned back to see where I was flaming, A crude club smacked into my face punching me to the floor. Knocked unconscious by the sheer force of the impact I laid motionless, barely breathing, I can see it burning.

I might wait to see if there is a bit more interest first. However you can pencil me in.

@Trondheim. I think the OP says it has to be written 'Specifically for the Contest'. Although Avatar has, so far, not said anything so who Knows.

The soldier shivered, anticipation running up and down his spine. He was troubled, worried. Beneath his helm he bit his lip, trying to contain his worry. His eyes darted. The soles of his feet tingled, sweat ran from his palms. Hi hands trembled. Trying to avert his worry he clutched his lasgun tight, There was nothing to do but wait, nowhere to run but into the arms of the enemy. His face contorted, tightened, as he tried to suppress a sob. His chest felt like a great cavity, eating away at him. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, composing himself. Feeling calmer, he looked about himself once again.

Red light bathed the area before him, throwing the men and women around him into a deep crimson glow. “Like blood” murmured the man, before repressing the thought. Now was not the time for superstition. The red light reflected from their steely helms, and blended with the vermilion combat fatigues they all wore. The coppery lasguns all looked like they had been soaked in the vital fluids of a thousand men. The soft bluish glow usually emitted by their helmets was negated by the overpowering red glow. The soldier leant back in his harness, feeling the rumble of the engines shake him. The noise of the Valkyrie was overpowering, drowning out all else and the turbulence shook the light craft like a flake in a snowstorm. Every lurch the craft gave sent the man’s heart into his throat, thinking it might be enemy fire, hoping it was not.

For the most part, those around him looked to be no more comfortable than he was. Even the grizzled sergeant, with his bionic arm, remained silent. Death lingered over the squad like crows over a field of battle, and no sane man relaxes in the face of death. No sane man would leap out of a speeding aircraft into the guns of a relentless foe either, but he had no choice. He had been conscripted, and it was certain death before a firing squad, or near-certain death on a battlefield. The latter would at least give him the privilege of being remembered. He had understood little of the briefing, and remembered even less. The enemy had attacked the hive city and captured half, and they were being deployed to break the defenses around a strategic vantage point, at any cost. With little under a weeks training beneath his belt, he was unsure as to whether or not he would survive the landing.

In the blink of an eye, the red hue of the compartment blinked out, and was promptly replaced by an orange one. “Everyone UP!”, shouted the sergeant, unbuckling himself from his harness. As the rest of the squad followed suit, the soldier fumbled with his own, the fear that he had fought down rising up in him, surging within him. He retched. Fighting his bodily instincts, the man freed himself, collapsing to the ground. Lying the the oily floor of the craft, panic set in. The shivering returned and he felt cold. The noise around him died down, seeming dim and far off. Things began to grow dark as a storm of panic raged within him.

And then he was standing, roughly pulled up from the ground by the sergeant, the metal hand clasping his shirt firmly.

“Not now!” shouted the sergeant over the din of the engines “Time for that later, after the battle!”

The soldier tried to speak, only to find that his voice had failed him. He nodded instead.

“Good.” came the answer, as the soldier was pushed, stumbling over his own feet, to one of the doors.

“THIRTY SECONDS” shouted the pilot over the speaker in the cabin, which distorted his voice, giving it a distorted and hollow ring. SIlence reigned over the compartment, as reality set in. In under a minute they would be falling towards a field of death at terminal velocity.

“Rendezvous is the main Plaza - it’ll be the one with the highest concentration of AA guns shooting at us!” bellowed the sergeant once more. “Good luck!”

The light blinked, replaced by a green one. The side doors and rear ramp opened automatically.

Had it been in a time of peace, the night sky could only have been described as “beautiful”. It was a rare night of clear skies above the hive, and one or two stars could even be glimpsed by the attentive. As it was, death filled the air. Flak and shells tore holes in the sky, fireballs screamed across the heavens and a rain of men and machines fell upon the middle tier of the great city. A thousand anti-aircraft emplacements ripped at the Valkyries above them, reaching great fingers of glowing death into the heavens. Screams and shots rang from the streets far below, where it looked like hundreds of tiny ants were battling, snapping beams of light and streaks of glowing metal at one another. Here and there, larger objects stalked through ruins, laying waste to small bunches of the ants systematically.

The soldier gaped. His senses were overloaded by the scene of terror before him, and he froze. It was too much to take in, horrifying and fascinating all at once.

“MOVE!” came a yell from behind him.

He jumped.

Time passed both very slowly and very quickly, as a multitude of snapshots burnt themselves into his memory.

He was falling, uncontrollably.

Someone screamed. It may have been him.

The wind surged against his body.

A humanoid fireball tumbled from a Valkyrie hit by tracer fire.

The ants on the streets grew bigger.

The ground rushed at him.

On instinct, he activated the Grav-chute.

A ruin loomed out of the blackness before him, and he landed in it, his chute slowing him, granting him a safe landing. Deactivating the chute, the soldier thumbed the safety on the lasgun. He had landed on a field of war.

@The Obsidian King - you may want to cut your story down a little - it's over the current word limit.

 Perkustin wrote:
I might wait to see if there is a bit more interest first. However you can pencil me in.

@Trondheim. I think the OP says it has to be written 'Specifically for the Contest'. Although Avatar has, so far, not said anything so who Knows.

The OP does indeed say that, so I think anyone that has read it should know

Perkustin wrote:I think the OP says it has to be written 'Specifically for the Contest'. Although Avatar has, so far, not said anything so who Knows.

I'd class this as "saying something":

Avatar 720 wrote:(ORIGINAL WORK ONLY, WRITTEN BY YOURSELF SPECIFICALLY FOR THIS CONTEST)

Trondheim wrote:already begun tales will not be avaibal for making an entry.

The Fugitive

He ran, he ran until he tasted bile at the back of his throat, he ran until his veins pumped lactic acid, he ran just to live a little longer.

The baying mob of men and women chased him through the darkened streets of the Hive and into and out of the unlit alley ways, all the time shouting and hounding their quarry with words like justice!, murderer! and scum! as they pounded the pavement after him.

Why they chased him he did not know, only that to stop and reason with them would be death.

He began to tire as the adrenalin that had fuelled his flight thus far began to ebb and fade as his body began to protest at the demands that he had already put it through. His steps became shorter and his breath laboured and true fear and terror started to set in.

He knew that time was short, and he pushed his body to the maximum in a last desperate bid to escape his pursuers who had chased him for what seemed like an eternity, and ducked into the nearest side street that he thought would hold his salvation when he had put a corner between himself and the baying mob with faces twisted with hate.

He ran a short distance down what turned out to be a dingy rubbish choked alley and slipped into the shadows trying to control his breathing but panting hard as he hid behind a grubby overflowing waste bin. He heard the rush of soled feet race by the entrance to his hideout and the sounds recede into the night and breathed a sigh of relief as the last one passed by.

It was short lived, he heard a shout in the near distance and foot falls could be heard coming back up the street as the mob had realised their prey had gone to ground close by and doubled back to root out the fugitive from his bolt hole.

He fearfully poked his head round the bin in time to see one, then two large imposing figures appear at the top of the entrance, and call for the rest of the mob once they're keen eyes had spotted his head sticking round the waste bin in the gloom.

He began to hyperventilate with terror and franticly scanned the alley way in hope of a open window or doorway to use as an escape route, but found none as it dawned on him he was in a dead end and all hope fled from his body sapping his strength to resist the hands that eagerly grabbed him.

Fists, feet and makeshift clubs rained down onto his body and he felt his bones fracture and break under brutal beating. They spat on him and shouted out ridicule and scorn even as they beat him, someone jabbed something sharp into his left eye and he felt it burst and the fluid inside leak down his battered face, but he could still see their blood flecked faces and clothes and all he could do was lay there and helplessly watch from inside his broken and rent body. He stayed conscious through another five minutes of intense pain and suffering, until mercifully he blacked out from the multiple injures, slipped into a coma and died.

Eventually the mob realised that he had stopped moving, or even breathing, and with their blood lust quenched they finally stopped the fatal beating. No longer a mob they begun to drift away from the gruesome scene in ones, twos and threes, some disgusted with what they had done while others beamed with twisted pride in their accomplishment, until there was only two men let standing over the barely recognisable human being in the puddle of blood, urine and gak at their feet.

"Do you think he was the one?" Asked the smaller of the two.

"I'm sure of it" Replied the other confidently as he swung his boot in for a final dig to the mangled face.

"Should we not at least inform the patrol to come and pick up the body?" As if trying to justify what they had done.

"Let him rot, let the rats feast on his flesh, I care not...Besides let the God-Emperor judge his soul worthy of redemption" And strode off into the night with his accomplice in tow.


Not sure this is enough words to qualify, but I felt inspired to write this short story, so if it's not enough enjoy anyway and p.m me if you think it's any good. Cheers

AlexHolker wrote:How convenient. I was already planning on writing a sci-fi story about justice, fear and fugitives, so I might as well fit it into the 40k setting.

I'm glad I managed to time this contest so well then

The Obsidian King wrote:*snip*

As Rabtorian has already pointed out, your story is over the 2500 word limit by about 200 words. Due to the variations in free online word counts, and since I'll be checking most using Open Office's Word Count, I'll allow a maximum of 50 words over the limit by Open Office's count, so if you find an online count that says 2499, and Open Office says 2549, then I'll still accept it, but anything that varies by more than 50 words will have to be reduced.

what do you think to mine then Avatar 720, does it pass muster?

 shrike wrote:

Perkustin wrote:I think the OP says it has to be written 'Specifically for the Contest'. Although Avatar has, so far, not said anything so who Knows.

I'd class this as "saying something":

Avatar 720 wrote:(ORIGINAL WORK ONLY, WRITTEN BY YOURSELF SPECIFICALLY FOR THIS CONTEST)

Trondheim wrote:already begun tales will not be avaibal for making an entry.

Waste of a post. You've also managed to Misquote Trondheim.
The point remains. Trondheim has already posted 'in Darkness' in the thread titled 'In Darkness', So does that mean i can enter something i have already posted in a thread as an entry? Is the word 'not' missing from the OP before the word 'Specifically'?

Waste of a post - Do you mean me there Perkustin?

No. I absolutely Do not.
I meant shrike

Ignore this post please.

 Perkustin wrote:

 shrike wrote:

Perkustin wrote:I think the OP says it has to be written 'Specifically for the Contest'. Although Avatar has, so far, not said anything so who Knows.

I'd class this as "saying something":

Avatar 720 wrote:(ORIGINAL WORK ONLY, WRITTEN BY YOURSELF SPECIFICALLY FOR THIS CONTEST)

Trondheim wrote:already begun tales will not be avaibal for making an entry.

Waste of a post. You've also managed to Misquote Trondheim.
The point remains. Trondheim has already posted 'in Darkness' in the thread titled 'In Darkness', So does that mean i can enter something i have already posted in a thread as an entry? Is the word 'not' missing from the OP before the word 'Specifically'?

Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I'll contact Trondheim and try to clear this up.

To make it absolutely clear, entries must be your own original work written specifically for this contest, as mentioned in the OP. Entries that do not follow this rule will be disqualified, and the poster will be dealt with on a case-by-case basis.

Ignore this post please.

 Themanwiththeplan wrote:
I guess nobody is going to answer me then?

Please be patient, your post hasn't been ignored but there have been other things that required more immediate attention

I'll give your story a once-over soon, and you'll get the thumbs up or thumbs down shortly after. Remember, though, that I'll only be judging whether or not it abides by the contest rules, and I won't be offering any advice or criticism.

Ok, cheers.

Never mind then.

 Rabtorian wrote:

 Themanwiththeplan wrote:
I guess nobody is going to answer me then?

.

I realise that I was amending the OP at the time, but please could you edit out this post until after the deadline had passed? If one writer starts getting feedback then I'll have to allow it for everyone, and then there might as well not be a contest.

Will do.

 Themanwiththeplan wrote:
He ran, he ran until he tasted bile at the back of his throat, he ran until his veins pumped lactic acid, he ran just to live a little longer.

The baying mob chased him through the darkened streets of the Hive and into and out of the unlit ally ways, all the time shouting and hounding their quarry with words like justice!, murderer! and scum! as they pounded the pavement after him.

Why they chased him he did not know, only that to stop and reason with them would be death.

He began to tire as the adrenalin began to wear off and his body began to protest at the demands that he had already put it through, and true fear and terror started to set in.

He knew that time was short, and he pushed his body to the maximum in a last desperate bid to escape his pursuers, and ducked into the nearest side street when he had put a corner between himself and the baying mob with faces twisted in hate.

Trying to control his breathing but panting hard as he hid behind a waste bin, he heard the rush of soled feet race by the entrance to his hideout and breathed a sigh of relief as the last one passed by.

It was short lived, foot falls could be heard coming back up the street as the mob had realised their prey had gone to ground close by, and doubled back to root out the fugitive.

He poked his head round the bin in time to see one, then two figures appear at the top of the entrance, and call for the rest once they spotted his head sticking round the waste bin.

He franticly scanned the side street in hope of an escape route, but found none as it dawned on him he was in a dead end and all hope fled from his body, sapping his strength to resist the hands that eagerly grabbed him.

Fists and feet rained down onto his body and he felt his bones fracture and break under brutal beating. Someone jabbed something into his left eye and he felt it burst and the fluid inside leak down his battered face.

He stayed conscious through another five minutes of intense pain and suffering, until mercifully he blacked out from the multiple injures, slipped into a coma and died.

Eventually the mob realised that he had stopped moving, or even breathing, and finally stopped the fatal beating.

No longer a mob they begun to drift away from the gruesome scene in ones, twos and threes, until there was only two men let standing over the barely recognisable human being at their feet.

"Do you think he was the one?" asked the smaller of the two

"I'm sure of it" replied the other confidently as he swung his boot in for a final dig.

"Should we not at least inform the patrol to come and pick up his body?"

"Let him rot, and let the rats feast on his flesh, I care not. Besides let the God-Emperor judge his soul worthy of redemption" And strode off into the night with his accomplice in tow.


Not sure this is enough words to qualify, but I felt inspired to write this short story, so if it's not enough enjoy anyway and p.m me if you think it's any good. Cheers

The word count checks out, and at least one theme is there, so it's fine.

Thank you Avatar 720

The first judge has been forcibly removed from their home been found, although I have requested that they not make their rank known, not even to any other judges (should they somehow be revealed).

There are now only 2 slots left to fill (hehehehe) for judges, so get those applications PMed!

Seing how my entry caused quite the spektackel I am offering to withdraw from the contest if it will mean I can not continue the story outside this contest.

I may have to enter something.

I found myself in an exam today (after I had finished, but still in an exam) jotting down an outline for my idea. Theme will be fugitive with a dash of fear (since it is pretty hard to do fugitive without involving fear of some kind). In the time honoured tradition of uni students everywhere, it'll be on here at 11:59 November 30.