Category Archives: Sci Fi

The Frozen

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The trenches were being dug for miles. Slaves broke the earth with shovels and mighty excavating equipment recently pirated from the Mechanicus on a planet far away. The tundra, that was made the unfortunate battlefield, began to look cracked and bruised by the industry of war. The war host had made planet fall days ago, immediately setting to digging in and preparing for a hard fight. The owners of the citadel they faced were known for not giving up their stock easily. Ranged before the mighty citadel fortress of the Black Templars was an army to behold, an army ran by the insidious Word Bearers. Though the Word Bearers were few, their slave army was vast. They did not come for material items, they came for the souls of the enemy Astartes. Four hundred souls would provide the key to a ritual that only they knew the purpose.

As the digging continued, a poor slave by the name of Olaf found something shiny. “Whats this?” he said as his shovel dinged on a metal object. Only a meter through the ice and he could go no further. His trench line was far from the command section and was only a fall back area. No Astartes came here and few slave wardens patrolled the area. They knew it was slow work with the ice and then the frozen soil. He waved a crew close by, “bring a tracked digger over here, I think I found something.” He shouted, as he slid back into the hole. Barricades had already been built along the ground level to shield them. Long rows of razor wire spanned out before that; and then the empty distance to the fortress. Had this been a siege crafted army, the ends would have been reinforced and heavily guarded, but the Word Bearers were few and cared little for their forces.

Olaf wiped his hand across the metal and noticed it was a helmet of some sort. The digger arrived and with one scoop, it dug down deep. The dirt fell away to reveal a horrific sight. The slaves fell to their knees. They had uncovered an Astartes, one they had never seen. His armor was ancient and corroded. He had servo arms attached at the back. As the dirt fell away, his body slid to a seated position, still half surrounded by frost and soil. “He must have been buried here for centuries, should we tell the masters?” said one of the slaves. “Yes, send word, I don’t want to be flayed alive for failing them. The Dark Gods will frown upon us desecrating one of theirs.” said Olaf.

Word was sent up but no one came. A corpse was no interest to the Word Bearers and they cared little for forgotten relics of other legions. The slaves continued their tasks and the body was placed in a corner of the trench, sitting in a dugout area like a statue. The slaves soon forgot him and sped to their chores. As they dug, more items were found. A bolter here, a broken strut there, parts of a Stormbird, the area must have been a crash site in a forgotten age. The Astartes was all that was found in one solid piece, frozen and immobile.

The war raged on and a few days later large artillery pieces were brought in to the ends of the trench line to help add to the weight being thrown at the fortress. They were having little effect and the Word Bearers were getting nervous. They had cut this region of space off and blocked all communication with their sorcery but they knew that someone would come along eventually. The Templars did not care. They were there to fight and hoped the traitors would come close so they could deal the Emperors justice. After three weeks of heavy bombardment, they had still not breached the walls and the Astartes within were unscathed.

The trenches began to heat up and the ice melted creating puddles. Where the tracked loaders crossed it became mud and as it was trampled on, it became sludge. The heat buildup allowed the slaves some comfort, as their clothes were made for this war, to survive, but not to be comfortable. It became night and a generator was placed close to the statue Astartes. Slaves had left trinkets by him to praise the dead. Water began to run off of his armor as the frost melted away. Olaf was walking along the line, patching the trench where the heat had caused the dirt to fall. He saw the statue in the corner and bowed his head for a second. When he raised it, he saw a faint red light growing in the eyes of the helmet, then it moved.

As his body began pumping blood again and his armor turned back on, he slowly twitched where he sat. His servo arm snapped forward, jerking as it was malfunctioning. He began to stand and the sludge and debris drained off of him. He stood tall and surveyed the scene unfolding around him. Other slaves noticed and stopped working. They fell to their knees. With a voice that had not spoken in what seemed like forever, he said, “Where am I?” Olaf fell before him and said, “This is planet Fador, my lord, we uncovered you.” The giant gazed around and said, “These are not the walls of my brothers, only a fool would build this trash. I am Warsmith Brontou of the Iron Warriors 37th Grand Company. Take me to your masters, so that I may show them how to war.” His servo arm then detached a weapon and placed it in his right hand. He raised his power sword high saying, “For the Primarch, I still live!”

The Warsmith took charge of the siege and within days the walls were breached. As the Word Bearers assaulted, one of their transports made for space. As he flew away he knew the Word Bearers would fail. The Black Templars would kill them all and crush their mortal army. In space he commandeered a warp capable craft. He looked out of the view ports at the world below and whispered, “Lorgar was a fool, but he has blessed me with life once more. His sons will die down there.” He turned to the captain and said, “Make for the warp, I must find my kin.” As he turned away, he glanced back at the icy planet and through gritted teeth said, “…and kill my Primarch.”

(Disclaimer: I do not work for Games Workshop or affiliated companies. This is fan fiction. All items associated are owned by Games Workshop/Black Library with trademarked items to the Warhammer 40K universe.)

The Work of Arn

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A vast warrior walked into the hallway, his axe slung over his right shoulder, thudding softly. He strolled through the open door into the cold room; the thick metal door closed behind him. The room was well lit, with a work table along the far wall. Machines for recording and data analysis were stored under the metal table. On top were all manner of tools and blades hanging on pegs fixed to the wall. Work lights hung down on arms and a large bright light sat in the center of the ceiling, illuminating the room. All was made of stone, minus the door and equipment. A voxcaster was mounted to the wall near the door and picters were affixed to the ceiling, part of the array of equipment needed. The walls were covered with traitors’ helmets, not the whole helmet, only the face plates. The helmets had the faces sawn off to only reveal the forward most portions. Every known traitor legion, even unknown chapters, covered the stone walls. He crossed the floor of the cell and placed his axe against the table edge. The center of the room held a chair and in that chair was another warrior.

What was left of an Astartes sat strapped in a cold metal chair. The Blood Claws that had captured him beat him within an inch of his life. His injuries were not healing and his black blood trickled from multiple wounds. His head hung low and his breathing was labored. He stared at the floor. He noticed it was stained and had a drain directly under him. He wondered how many of his kind had died in that seat. He saw the other warrior with a sluggish glance as he had entered the room but chose not to speak to this newcomer. This one was not like the others, not as feral.

After turning on a few of the machines, the newcomer turned and stared at the wall. His armor was a pale blue-grey and he wore no helm. His hair was cut very short but he had a long beard. He had the face of a seasoned veteran and his armor bore totems and many leather pouches; some with weapons, some with strange items. As he was staring at the far wall, he spoke, “My name is Arnor Bruni Brodrup. I am called Arn. It will be the last name of anyone you will ever see again.” Still staring at the wall, he placed his hands on his hips and rocked forward stating, “I care not if you speak with your mouth, I have tools to speak for you but know this, speak you will.” A smile then creased across his face and he turned around sharply to his work table. “You waste your time dog, I have nothing to say to you,” slurred the prisoner. He had been stripped of his red armor. Now it lay in a ramshackle heap in the corner. Arn stepped over to the pile of gear and pulled out a helmet. He held it up and studied it with a trained eye. “Oh, you have much to tell me filth of Lorgar, much indeed.”

Arn tossed the helmet onto his workbench and crossed over to the prisoner. He stopped in front of him and bent down. The prisoner spat on the ground before him. Arn shook his head, “poor taste, that foul blood of yours makes for dim wit as well. We will remedy that!” He laughed, stepping back to his bench, he reached down and turned on some black metal machines, each with blinking lights. “So it begins and I will do the talking. The other legions, always thought us to be barbarians, stupid, feral, and only good for a hunt. I will show you otherwise but you will not live to tell anyone else,” he said with a dark tone. Suddenly with a whimsical twist he said, “It is our way. We don’t want you to know,” as he smiled. He stepped behind the wounded warrior and put a metal band around his bleeding head. He attached sensors to his hands, arms, and chest. He plugged cables into the corroded sockets of the traitors black carapace. “You all think we don’t know, but we do, we watch and we record just as the other chapters do.” He knelt down and attached more sensors to the legs and tightened the restraints. He grunted as he straightened back up and leaned in front of the Word Bearer. “Two options, cooperate or don’t, I don’t care which you choose. Most choose to not, then I watch them drool and their brains boil. Win, win for me. What will it be Lorgar filth?”

He pulled out a dataslate and read the intel log, “Eos Tor, formerly of the Chapter of the Crescent Moon, an initiate upon turning traitor along with the XVII legion. You have been sighted on multiple raider runs, attacks on Ultramar, and the battle of Terra. The Allfather will not save your soul and before you spit any vile jibberish.” He hit a button and Eos was hit with a lethal amount of electricity. A normal man would have died, his heart stopped and his inside melted. Eos bolted upright, his muscles tensed and his jaw clinched. Arn hit the button again and the pain stopped. Smoke coiled away from Eos as his blood had boiled off, his head hung low once more. Arn picked it up and said, “Underneath those black stains of your filth brothers, are sigils. You know what they do? They keep your heresy in check. Unlike the other chapters, I don’t need any confession from you, only information. These machines will get that from your brain, the locations of your vile brethren. How do you think we hunt so well? We will put them to the axe but before that, I will turn your brain to mush.” Eos stared up, eyes in shock and disbelief, then the machine assaulted his mind.

(Disclaimer: I do not work for Games Workshop or affiliated companies. This is fan fiction. All items associated are owned by Games Workshop/Black Library with trademarked items to the Warhammer 40K universe.)

Shadow Lord (Episode 1)

The black ship known as the Grogan drifted through space. The voyage had been long but with little interruptions. The Grogan was one of the fastest ships the Dagmar ever built and housed weapons yet to be tested. In the vast command chamber, on a throne of shrouded metal, sat a slumped form. The Shadow Lord Vraylin thumped his fist in time to the plasma drives pushing the cursed vessel forward. Smoke tendrils coiled off of his thin shoulders. Banished from his kind, he plowed the depths of space for new prey. The far fringes of space held planets that were yet to be explored by any of the Rovers. He would make sure they did not find him this time.

Years ago he commanded a fleet of Dagmar warships. As a High Lord, he was tasked with protecting the trading lanes between two empires. Many cultures traded in this region but the Yasra wished to reign over all trade. Disputes went between the Dagmar and the Yasra that threatened the multiple cultural alliances of the Rovers. A young Vraylin was sent with a fleet to protect Dagmar ships. A new vessel had been built with no need for a crew, only a commander. It was to be the pinnacle of firepower and diversity. The ship was named the Grogan and Vraylin was to be the first to use it.

The Dagmar are a race subject to emotion. If they experience an emotion for too long, it will consume them. For many emotions, this is not a problem but they do not wish for war due to the threat of losing one of their own to dark feelings. Once a Dagmar has gone too far down a path, there is no coming back.

It began with rage. The Yasra attacked the Dagmar fleet and withdrew. The Dagmar pursued them and found that a colony of Gert had been destroyed by the Yasra. The Gert had no weapons and were peaceful beings. The Dagrmar were enraged by the devastation they had seen. They hunted the Yasra fleet and over many months they destroyed them. The vast crews of the ships were able to assist each other in returning their emotions to normal. Vraylin had no one else on his ship to see his state. The rage never left him. Once the rage was spent on the fleet and the hunt was over, he did not return with his fleet to the Dagmar. He drifted in search of enemies but found none.

His rage subsided and his body altered. He lost all emotions of good and corruption took his heart. He became pure evil. His body changed from the light shade of grey, to the darkness that surrounded him in space. Malice began to bleed off of him in smoke. Hate radiated from his core. His eyes turned to burning coals of cruelty. His mind only wished to bring suffering. He turned Grogan on anyone that came within his reach. Fire rained in his wake.

The Dagmar heard of his fall. They could not let his destruction continue but he was too powerful. They petitioned the Rovers to join and destroy him. A fleet was sent and many died. He was chased from their region of space but he was not defeated. The Dagmar built a new taskforce to hunt him down with new ships and new firepower. They felt responsible for his fall and would see the cause through to the end to rid space of such a terrible menace.

Once a High Lord but now called the Shadow Lord, Vraylin searched space for a new region to devour. He would raise a new fleet of the damned and purge the stars of all who opposed him. The Rovers had chased him far away from their region to an area he was not familiar with. A single planet with viable life stood before him. Through his ships communications relays he learned that the locals called it “Earth.”