Storythread

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Very good work, user

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Thank you.

Do you have any critiques? Things I need to rework?

I mainly ask because this was an experimental piece.

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...Holy shit!

Only vaguely aware of the protagonist's movement's in the last post, though.
Is her body just a gun? Or is there more to her body we don't see?

It's the birth of sentience of a waffegeist.

Her consciousness, memories, etc are held in the bolt. The body, the things that give senses, is what you would consider the gun.

"And then, the augur o-" The priest paused. The girl had been quiet for a little while, turning his gaze down to her. "-are you paying attention, little one?" He mumbled, mostly to himself. The child looked up, blinking blearily. She seemed so tired. The candles had melted away, mostly, and the sun was hanging low in the sky, shining through the beautiful window at their backs. "I-I'm list'nin..." She responded, shutting her eyes as she clutched the soft toy in her hands.

He said nothing. It was plainly clear she wasn't listening. She must be so tired, to be falling asleep this early, it was barely late afternoon. He had considered it for a moment, but he decided that the stories and tales of the church could wait for another day. He carefully went to place the book down to the side, resting inkless the quill on top of it.

"Would you like to go to sleep, my child?" He asked, smiling. She nodded in reply, hugging the bear close, burying her face in its head. He rose to his feet, stopping for a while, before going to scoop her up, holding her tightly as he began to carry her off.

She was heavy. Well, to an old man like him, at least.

He carried her through the grand chapel, and she mumbled a few questions. "W-when's my mum and dad coming to get me...?" They weren't, of course. They had died. Of what, well, that was questionable, but they were found dead. She was the only one left.

"Soon enough, little one, soon enough...say, did I tell you about the good paladin of our holy lord?"

She shook her head. "No..."

"Well, it was a long time ago, a good few hundred years, in fact, and the lands were falling under an oppressive drought..."

He began the story. He knew so many, like this one, of the many figures from the priesthood. He had told a lot of them to her, after she was brought to him early in the day. It was something he loved to do, tell stories. Many of the acolytes had to sit through them, and they seemed bored out of their skulls.

Not her, though. She seemed to love them. He was happy about that, at least. He paused, stopping in his tracks. He thought to himself, going to continue carrying her.

"C-can I be...a pala'in?" She mumbled. He smiled, to himself, nodding.

"Of course, my child. Of course you can."

"...tha's all I...really...want."

He felt a deep melancholy, for the child who had lost their parents. But, still, he felt a spark of hope. He saw in her a great potential, a great light. The world could always use more warriors of good, ready to rise up against tyrants.

Perhaps, one day, this girl would make a great hero.

Just an incomplete thing that I've been working on for a while. No matter what I do, my phrasing just seems clunky and formulaic. Criticism would be greatly appreciated.
pastebin.com/X8M8BEWt
Pic unrelated, and mainly exists to encourage others to read this post.

I was more wondering how she could catch herself.
Is she self-telekinetic ala how Superman flies?

short and sweet, hopefully.
In all the panic, no one noticed the man in a nice suit with a briefcase, calmly eyeballing the beast.

He looked methodically to the left. Then to the right.

Opposition? One Giant Enemy Crab, and nothing else. And it seemed none too bright either. Strong, yes, but not smart.

Civilians? Not a lot-thank God it was just after rush hour- and they were all scattering instead of cowering.

Terrain? Small town, coastal marsh, so fairly flat terrain with only low buildings. Collateral should be minimal.

Any way to get into costume? None within eyesight. And he had VERY good eyes.

He snorted an annoyed sigh. Bruce was NEVER going to let him hear the end of this.

----

"Clark Kent, now revealed as Superman, refused further comme-"

The silver-haired detective thumbed the remote, and the flatscreen TV switched silently off. He turned to the mildly dressed journalist, who was looking unSupermanly stonefaced. "Clark."

"You try finding a fucking phone booth nowadays, Bruce."

>still no word from The Bard

It....well, it's a bit of Upotte! and a bit of homebrew.

She, while a weapon, is fully cognizant of the goings on. However, when she is a weapon, she can't do anything that a weapon can't.
When she becomes herself, when she comes to full sentience, she also becomes a geist. In so doing she is able to assume the form of a human girl.

yes I am a transplant from /k/ and from /writefaggeneral/

>Important author note:

This story takes place in the same world as this story: 1d4chan.org/images/5/5b/TheWhiteScarf.png

So it's best and or important you read it first as a way of understanding its world and context. Anywho, enjoy this next story that'd involve the White Scarf, the very first story I wrote for the storythreads.

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This was a bad time and or a bad place for the lowly beggar; Toby Bailey, to be having a train ride in this hour. Out of sheer bad luck and coincidence members of the "Demonium" gang.

The Demonium are the most feared gangsters of the North Splorstom District in the city of Farburg; which is also about three miles away from the city of Nearburg, in which both cities belong to the Twin Distance County.

But as of now Toby the Beggar picked a bad time and also the wrong train to be hitching a ride in. Because the train that Toby hopped on so happened to belong to the Demonium Gangsters due to the owners of the train station being associated and having ties with the gang. And it was also very late at night, about eleven thirty, which most people in Splorstom District are very much asleep and not out in public, save for law enforcement and people who work late at night. But the Demonium Gangsters know how to keep hidden and out of sight from the authorities in their home district of their home town.

Made even worse for Toby is that he does not even know who these gangsters really are. He was just a drifter who constantly traveled city to city and he was just done drifting around the city of Farburg and boarded this train in a bad time.

And the four Demonium gangsters noticed Toby the Beggar who was easily recognizable outfit that composed of cardboard cutout "armor pieces" and also the action figures he was fiddling around with and also he had a child's backpack.

"...Uhhhhh... Yeah? You wana talk to me? Could you spare any change?" Toby Bailey spoke softly to the three gangsters who noticed and looked at him.

Eh, whatever. It's /tg, it's already a madhouse.

Come on in. You can be our pet kangaroo.

>>Looks up Upotte
Japan? You sure you don't need some, ah, quality time?

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>tfw you will never forcefully rechamber Sako to 12 gauge

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The sad truth is that I've never seen the show. I've just read some of their stories (more than a bit devolves into sad fanfic) and decided to write how one was birthed in one set of circumstances, but it can also be applied elsewhere.

It can also be considered analogous to writing. Or creating any given work of art.

You form it roughly, then set it aside. You work on it more, then small chips and polishes. You finalize it, and it takes a life of its own.

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What are some good ways of getting yourself to write?

I've been trying to finish this story I started ages ago, I know exactly (most or less) what I want to do for the ending, but I just can't get myself to write it.

Ideas?

Pic unrelated.

Are you stopping the writing because you can't be assed to do it? Or because something doesn't feel right with the story? Or you aren't in the mood? Loss of interest in the writing?

Come on, bud. Be a little more forthcoming, because otherwise the answer is "well, fuck, just write."

Well, I stopped writing originally because I'd got most of it done and sorta ran out of steam.

Rest of the story feels fine, nothing I want to change about it (I think), I'm as in the mood as I could ever be...

It being super-NSFW doesn't help.

>ran out of steam
Sounds like you either needed to recharge or pull yourself away from it for a bit. It's like writing a 10 page essay overnight; you get the meat done, but the potatoes fall to the wayside unless you step back and work on it later.

>rest is fine, nothing needs changing, and you're in the mood
Well, at this point I would just like to say you would probably need a catalyst. Something that just gets you writing. Damn the story you're working on, you just need to WRITE.
>it's NSFW
Yeah, writing is what you need to start doing, not that other thing you probably have been doing with your hands.

>Sounds like you either needed to recharge or pull yourself away from it for a bit.
Well, it's been a couple of months since I last touched it, and I'm actually on my break now. Still got like three essays to write, but eh.

>Well, at this point I would just like to say you would probably need a catalyst.
You might have a point there. Could just be that I've come out of a grueling couple of months and have yet to fully recharge.

>Yeah, writing is what you need to start doing, not that other thing you probably have been doing with your hands.
I never mix work with pleasure. Not at the same time, anyway, it's just not practical.

Knock those essays out first. No, seriously. Don't have them hang over your head.
Next, during your more relaxing break (and trust me, it will be MUCH more relaxed because you finished your fucking essays), continue messing with your story in your head. Work on it but don't write it.
Lastly, you'll either get to a point where you jump at the chance to put this down in words...or you will literally make the time in your day to do so. When that happens, roll with it. You're ready.

Now, by that time, you may write your story to another point where you need a break again. Squeeze a little more out of your creativity and make it work for just a bit longer, then let it rest. What you're doing at that point is conditioning against exhaustion and practicing your craft in the face of a strong opposing force and desire to do anything other than write.

Keep going, man.
Maybe we could get a chance to read it one day, yeah?

I guess you're right about the essays. It's just that my break literally just started today, and I'm having trouble convincing myself to go back into it.

I've stuck what I've done up before, people don't really seem to read it. Just, y'know, not on here, obviously.

Regarding your a school shit, if you break your roll, it gets progressively more difficult to get back into the groove. Just get that shit over with.

Regarding that second half...well, what is it? Content? Now I'm fucking curious about it, and I'm supposed to figure out how to take what I wrote as a one-off and make it have a story.

(Okay, that didn't work for some reason, let's try that again).

Er, yeah, anyway, see for yourself.

docs.google.com/document/d/13IhJ3_M7eDSMFUoAilrnJHnzQWoZfNLbC_rxZ-Uff0o/edit?usp=sharing

--- Everlasting Riches ----

'Come on, hurry up.' Dekan hissed through gritted teeth. He almost slipped on the scree of the rubble heap he was climbing over, but managed to land somewhat unsteadily on his feet, on the smooth flagstones of the passage floor.

'I don't know what you're hurrying for.' replied Bokar, kicking aside a loose stone as he carefully made his way over the debris. 'There's only one way in or out of this place. If he's still down there then he's not going anywhere. And if he isn't then he's a long way from here by now.' But his partner was already off ahead into the darkness, and Bokar followed quickly.

Dekan was running along the passageway as fast as he could, but he was slowed by the condition of the tunnel. In many places stonework had fallen from the roof and sat as jagged stumbling-blocks in the dark. Guided only by the light of a guttering birch-bark torch he blundered forwards in his enraged haste, and the occasional muttered curse drifted back to Bokar as his partner failed to see a lump of masonry in his path. In several places the stonework had given way altogether, and earth and rocks spilled into the passage.

'I'm going to rip his weaselly little spine out. I should have known we couldn't trust him, Bo. We were the ones with the map, we should have ditched him back in Drover's Ford.' He had been carrying on in this vein for a while, ever since they'd woken to find the third man of their party had left their camp during the night.

'Yeah, well, hindsight's a wonderful thing.' whispered Bokar as he followed close behind. 'But he had all the mining equipment, and the knowing of how to use it, and we weren't going to find any replacement in that gods'-forsaken pile of mud and sticks. Now give it a rest, would you. I'd rather he didn't hear us coming.'

The passage, from its entrance halfway up the side of the thickly forested mountain, cut dead straight under the rock for two hundred meters at least. Despite the debris, it only took ten minutes for the two treasure hunters to traverse it's length; in many places they only had to duck past the crudely cut shoring beams they'd installed over the last two weeks of excavation. Dekan was a large man, and though Bokar was a little leaner he was still no dwarf, yet where the passageway was intact it was wide enough for them both to walk abreast, and high enough that they would have to jump to reach the ceiling.

They came to the archway, inscribed with flowing script unreadable now to all but a few. Bokar had tentatively translated part of it to mean 'House of Eternity', but he was no scholar and knew only as much of that ancient language as had been necessary to decipher the clues hidden in the map. It might be an accurate translation; the long dead Priests of Ga-moas'hlan were the sort to choose a more poetic turn of phrase over the more concise 'Treasury'. The colossal door stone also had inscriptions on its face, but it lay where they had left it, against the wall with its back to them. It had been loose when they found it, but even so it had been back-breaking to move, especially with just the three of them; the scars of the pitons they had used to anchor the pulleys were still evident in the stone walls of the passage.

Bokar put a finger to his lips and drew his long, curved hunting knife. Dekan did likewise, and they slipped under the arch, into the glorious, decaying treasure house of the long-dead Priests of Ga-moas'hlan. If Oddakar, third stakeholder in this robbery, thought that he could steal from his partners, he was going to be in for a rude surprise.

Just inside the doorway lay the skeleton, still exactly as they had found it two days before. It might have been laying there for thousands of years, ever since the Priests had last sealed the outer door. In the dry, stagnant air of the underground chamber it had desiccated as it decayed, so that the shrivelled skin was still stretched over the skull; instead of a skeletal grin its mouth hung open in an unending silent scream. Oddakar had wanted to get rid of it; it gave him the shivers. But Dekan had insisted that it was bad luck to disturb the dead, and Bokar had agreed. No need to invite ill fortune in a place like this.

At first, Bokar had thought it had been one of the priests; the end of the Holy Empire had been a violent time. But now he was starting to wonder whether they were the first treasure seekers to fall out over the spoils on offer.

Where the stonework of the passageway had been bare and functional, the interior of the treasure house was richly carved with depictions of the androgynous four-winged messengers that carried the Ga, the physical essence of divine spirit, into the world. Or something like that. Most of the lore of the priests who'd built the fortress-monastery that lay ruined upon the mountain's peak had been lost. The inscriptions that wove lazily up and down and around the subterranean walls might be able to shed some light on that, but Bokar hadn't bothered to take a look at them; they weren't here for archaeology, after all.

They stepped carefully through the next two smaller archways - these doors had been less massive, and they hadn't bothered to drag the doors away whole, instead simply shattering them with sledgehammers and stepping over the rubble. They paused to check the empty siderooms - still empty - and continued on. The main passageway led directly towards a third stone door, the one which Bokar thought guarded the treasure chamber itself. They had planned to break through it this morning, and had spent the evening before drinking in celebration and apprehension. You never knew what would be behind that final door.

That final door was in pieces. The sledgehammer still lay beside it.

'I knew it.' spat Dekan, unable to stop himself. 'I knew that back-stabbing rat had double-crossed us.'

'That door would have taken him a while.' whispered Bokar. 'He can't have had time to take much. And he might still be in there, so shut up and let's do this. On three... one, two, three!' They sprang through the archway, over the rocky remains of the door, into the darkness.

The two treasure seekers found themselves in a large chamber. A large, empty chamber. Although their torches could only cast dim shadows against the edges of the room it was clear that there was nothing there - no Oddakar, and no treasure. Not so much as a silver coin. Just dust, and darkness.

Apart from at the far wall of the chamber, where there was a rectangle of light. Silently, Bokar and Dekan approached it. Light spilled out of the wall, and accustomed as they were to their weak illumination of their birch-bark fires, the two companions had to squint as they drew near, so that they were only a few paces away when they finally saw what lay before them.

It was another archway, without a door, and beyond it lay another large chamber lit with what looked like a hundred flaming torches. The light from these cascaded through the doorway, and compared to the subterranean gloom they burned as brightly as the sun. But it was what they shone upon that caused the two men to stop dead in their tracks.

They chamber ahead of them was as large as the one they were standing in, and every inch of the floor was taken up by neat rows of chests, each on with its lid open. The majority were chests of silver and gold coins - but that was only the beginning. There were chests that held rubies, and chests that held sapphires, and one small chest that looked as if it contained nothing but diamonds. There were chests full of carved obsidian, and chests packed with silks, chests stacked with marble statuettes and chests that held glass goblets.

'Sweet gods above.' breathed Bokar. Dekan let out a great whoop of joy.

'We're rich!' He jumped straight up into the air, and then tackled Bokar with a hug that almost knocked him off his feet. 'Harlots and heavens, Bo, we're not just rich - we're the richest men who ever lived!' And with that he leaped towards the archway.

Bokar just managed to grab hold of the back of Dekan's jacket, and when he kept straining forwards Bokar locked his arms around his friend's body and dragged him back.

'What the hell are you doing?' exclaimed Dekan. 'Let me...' but Bokar hissed in his ear:

'What about Oddakar you fool? Had you forgotten about him? Get a grip on yourself and wait a minute. Something ain't right here.'

'What about Oddakar?' said Dekan, still struggling against Bokar's bear-hug. 'He ain't here. If he took a chest or two and ran off, so what? More fool him, 'cause that just leaves all this for us.'

'Did you ever think he might be hiding in there waiting to ambush us? I don't think he's the type to just run off and leave all this. He might be right inside the doorway there, waiting for us to to lose our senses at the sight of all that treasure and rush in like fools. We're this close, Dek...' Bokar said urgently, 'it's no time to start getting careless.'

'Alright, alright.' Dekan stopped struggling, and Bokar tentatively released him. 'So how do we play this?' He sidled warily to one side of the arch, knife at the ready.

'I don't know. Just let me think.'

'Come on Bo, there's two of us and one of him. If he's waiting, we can take him.'

'I'm telling you Dek, something ain't right here.' Bokar scratched at the dark stubble on his angular jaw. 'How can there be all those torches burning down here? Oddakar didn't bring them down, that's for sure. And there's not been anyone else down here for thousands of years, so how come they're still burning?'

'You thinking magic?'

'Yeah, I'm thinking magic. And if there's magic keeping the torches burning, what else is it doing?'

'Aw Bo... you don't think...' Dekan's face fell, 'you don't think it's all just an illusion do you?' Bokar didn't answer for quite a while. He looked like he was thinking.

'Actually...' Bokar's weather-worn face scowled, as a thought he didn't particularly like crossed his mind. 'I think it's a mirror.'

'What?'

'Look at that writing through there, on the far wall. I know you don't read much Old High Na-oba'hli, but can't you see? Those letters are backwards. Either someone very painstakingly carved the exact mirror image of every script in this room into that one, or we're looking at a reflection.'

'Yeah, but Bokar.' said Dekan, stepping in front of the archway. 'Notice anything wrong with that theory?' He waved his hand in front of the archway. 'If this is a mirror, how come it doesn't show us. How come it shows all that treasure instead.'

'I reckon it shows this room we're standing in right now, but at a point when there was treasure in it. Yeah, I know how it sounds. But I reckon there's a way to settle it.' He pulled a piece of flint out of pocket that he used for fire-lighting, and tossed it through the archway.

It vanished. Instead of bouncing across the floor to come to rest against a stack of gold ingots, it simply disappeared. Instead of the click-clack of flint hitting flagstones, Dekan's sudden intake of breath was the only sound.

'Aren't you glad I didn't let you step through that archway?' said Bokar matter-of-factly. 'I did a bit of reading about the priests who built this place, Dek. They had some weird ideas. Most of them are lost now, but the scholars say they thought that time was meaningless to the divine. They thought the god they worshipped, whatever that was, saw past, present and future as but a single moment. I think that mirror only ever shows a single moment in time, and I think if you step into it it takes you there.' Bokar fell silent for a moment, contemplating the mirror, and Dekan didn't interrupt him. At last Bokar said: 'Come on, let's get out of here. I don't know about you, but I don't feel like trying my luck going through, and I want to check on something.'

Dekan didn't argue, and together they walked back towards the first archway; everything was as they had left it. When he came to the skeleton, Bokar knelt down beside it and looked at it intently. Then he reached into the skeleton's mouth, which caused Dekan to take a sharp, involuntary step back. He pulled something small out, and tossed it to Dekan, who fumbled it and almost sent it flying away down the corridor before he got a grip on it.

Dekan opened his hand. In his palm rested a tiny, shiny object. He held his torch closer: it was a gold tooth.

'Look familiar?'

'You don't mean... come on, he's hardly the only one with a gold tooth.'

'Yeah, but it was in exactly the right place. And you remember how he kept whining that he couldn't carry a full load of earth because his leg gave him trouble, after he'd broken it a few years back.' Bokar brought his torch down, shining it upon the visible scarring on the skeleton's left femur. Dekan let out a strangled noise.

'You mean that's Oddakar?'

'Yep.'

'But that was here two days ago. Two days ago I was still having to listen to him prattle on about what he was going to do with his share of the loot.'

'It's been here for over a thousand years, I'd say. Because the mirror sent him into the past, back to when that room was still full of treasure. He must have been so pleased with himself when he thought he'd beaten us to it.' said Bokar grimly. 'He'd have rushed straight through the archway. And then he'd have realised that the archway behind him didn't show a dark, empty room. It always shows exactly the same moment. If he tried to step back through mirror would have taken him to exactly the point it took him first time. Then he'd have had to come up this way, same way he came in. You can probably open the inner doors enough to slip through, if you're doing it from the inside and your life depends on it. But you can't budge the outer door.'

'Not without three men with ropes, at least.' said Dekan. He looked a little pale.

'At least.' agreed Bokar. He went though the arch, and held his torch up to the door-stone that they'd hauled aside with such effort. Dekan joined him. Holding a torch close, they could both see the scratch marks in the back of the door, where someone had tried to chisel away at it.

'How long do you think it would have taken?' asked Dekan softly.

'Depends on whether he was carrying any water or not. If not, maybe only four, five days at most. If he had a canteen on him, maybe two weeks. Or more.' Bokar's voice had shrunk almost to a whisper. Dekar took a moment to take this in, then, uncertainly, he said:

'He did try to cheat us.'

'Yeah. Of course, if he hadn't... it could have been one of us who went through first. Or all three of us together.'

Neither of them said anything for a minute or two. The silence seemed to stretch on longer, right out beyond the reach of the torchlight into the darkness.

Finally Dekan said:

'I don't know what kind of gods they had back then, but if their priests went around leaving traps like that I'm glad they're not around any more.'

'You know, I don't think it was a trap.' mused Bokar. 'There isn't much in Old High Na-oba'hli about the priests who built this place, but I came across the same phrase a couple of times. I translated it as "They always knew where their treasure was, even if they didn't know where their treasure was". Which didn't make much sense to me, but I'm no scholar. I thought it might be a riddle, or just a silly saying people had back then, but I don't read Na-oba'hli very well. You can only get so far when you're teaching yourself out of stolen books. The language had this thing about tones that I never understood properly. Now that I think about it, I think that phrase was supposed to mean "They always knew /when/ their treasure was, even if they didn't know where their treasure was". You get me?' He looked at Dekan.

'Nope.' said Dekan, shaking his head. 'So they could always see their treasure? But if they went through the mirror, wouldn't that just trap them as well?'

'Not if they knew how to control the mirror's magic. I think that was the real point of the mirror. What do people say when you lose something: "Where was the last place you had it?" We thought it was odd that they didn't seem to have left any traps behind, didn't we? I figured they just relied on secrecy - the entrance isn't easy to find. But they didn't need to care if someone came along and stole their riches. If they opened up the vault and found anything missing, all they had to do was go through the mirror, and bring back through the mirror anything that had been lost. No need for guards, no need for violence. Just let the thief break in - he'd only find the completely empty chamber, because the priests would have emptied the room BEFORE the thief got there. And then if the thief saw the treasure in the mirror and tried to go back through himself - and which thief wouldn't? - the priests would find him there along with their treasure. Neat, and simple. They keep their wealth, and probably catch the thief as well.'

'Wait, so they just left Oddakar there, rotting by the door?'

'Hmm... I doubt it. I bet they reset the mirror every time they took an inventory of their vault, and every time they brought something in or took something out, so that it reflected the moment just after the priests sealed the vault. Oddakar would have been taken back to the last time the mirror was reset to before the treasury was abandoned for good. According to the histories, the monastery was destroyed one thousand seven hundred and eighteen years ago when the rebellion against the Holy Empire laid siege, burned and looted it. That'd probably have been the last time any of the priests came down here. Maybe while they were all fighting at the top of the mountain Oddakar was down here dying of thirst and starvation.'

'Bo, I got a really important question.' Dekan said. He didn't seem like he expected to like the answer. 'Where did all the treasure go?'

'The texts say the monastery was looted. I'd been hoping that only meant the monastery proper, up above, but maybe the rebels found this place too. All they'd have had to do was capture a few priests and torture them to get the location. I told you, it looked like someone had been here before us - the main door wasn't properly in place. The rebels open up the vault, take out all the treasure - but they don't know what to do with the mirror. They didn't have much love for the magic of priests. So they just seal the vault back up again and hope no one will find it. And Oddakar, well, at the end of a siege the mountain was probably littered with corpses. What's one more lying around?'

Dekan sank to the floor and put his head in his hands.

'Great. So all this has been for nothing.' he said miserably. Bokar shrugged.

'Could have been worse.' he said philosophically. 'We could have ended up like Oddakar.' He patted Dekan on the shoulder. Dekan suddenly looked up as if something had just occurred to him.

'Wait - maybe the treasure is gone because we took it. Will take it. In the past I mean. Maybe there's a way we can get the mirror to work.' But Bokar was already shaking his head.

'Yeah, but if we go back we'll be sent to exactly the same moment as Oddakar. If we find a way to work the mirror, then how would Oddakar have ended up trying to chip his way through the door?'

Dekan sighed. Slowly, limbs heavy like an old man, he pulled himself to his feet.

'Then it really was all for nothing.' he said in despair. 'We got to see it, Bo. I thought for a moment we were going to be rich as kings. We were so close...'

'Yeah, well, we always knew this expedition was a longshot. It's not like its a total loss, after all - we did find the vault. No one's been down here in over one thousand seven hundred years. There probably ain't a better example of late Imperial architecture left within five hundred miles.'

'Well that's just great Bo, and I really feel special about that.' said Dekan, voice heavy with a miserable sort of sarcasm. 'But that don't make us rich, now does it?'

'Rich, no. But there's scholars that'll pay for examples of Old High Na-oba'hli. Scholars with plenty of money.' Bokar grinned. 'We won't make a fortune, but it'll get us a tidy sum - enough for our next venture, maybe.'

'You think there's something important written on those walls?'

'Doesn't have to be. There's so little left of the old languages that scholars are interested in anything they can get their hands on. Now once you're done moping, go get some notebooks from the camp and start helping me copy this writing down.' Bokar walked back through the archway and put his hand lightly against the wall, running his fingers across the inscription.

'You think you can translate any of it?' asked Dekan.

'Maybe. I'll certainly give it a try before we go and sell it to someone. Who knows, maybe it does contain something important - some lost ritual, or the name of a dead god. But like I said, it could just be a shopping list and there'd still be scholars who'd pay handsomely for it. Time turns some things to dust,' Bokar said; he looked down at the husk of what had been their companion, then back at the ancient, mysterious script. 'and it turns other things to gold.'

---- The End ----

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Huh, thought that was just me, thought I got rejected out of hand for some niggly little detail. Sort of glad to know I'm not just shit or stupid, it's on their end.

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We have a discord.

discord.gg/RufPH

Join it.

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>I wrote a few bits to flesh out my latest Deathwatch character, I'd appreciate some thoughts on them.

|Beginnings|

When the Sons of Russ gather to sing songs of valor, there are some that are told with special reverence. Of course, the tales of the Wolf King and the Allfather are first among these hallowed legends. After Leman Russ and the Emperor have been given their due, the songs of lesser heroes are sung in earnest. Among these is the Tale of Brandr Hakon.

The beginning of this song is shared with his brothers – partaking of the Canis Helix, fighting his way back to the fang. When he reached the ancient fortress, he was welcomed home by his brothers, and took his place at their side under Wolf Lord Bran Redmaw. The Blood of Russ ran strong within him, giving him ferocity uncommon even among his fellow Blood Claws. Incessantly, he clashed with his fellows, clashed with his elders, and longed to clash with his prey. Within months of joining the pack, he was sent to join the Sky Claws; he would learn to master the blood, or die trying.

Brandr took to his new role with glee, falling upon foes of the Imperium like a true Son of the Wolf King. For years, he survived only by the Emperor’s mercy, sustaining wounds that killed his fellows. As his scars grew in number and his legend grew in length, so too did his savagery. Instead of coming under control, it seems his taste for carnage only increased as he grew more adept at causing it. There was talk amongst his pack of putting him down as a mad dog, when word of his madness reached the ears of an old, cunning Wolf Priest.

At the Priest’s request, Brandr was subdued and thrown into a cell with a starved Fenrisian wolf. The two fell upon each other with relish, claws ripping and fangs tearing as two wolves tore each other apart. For hours they fought, disregarding injury for the taste of blood they sought. At long last, it seemed the Allfather had forsaken the young warrior. Unwavering his fury may be; his strength was not so immutable. The desperate zeal of the great grey wolf’s assault had finally taken its toll. Just as the wolf’s jaws closed around his throat, however, Brandr’s fingers found its eyes.

With a roar that shook the stones, he tore out the bright blue orbs with what strength he had left. Blinded, in pain unending, the best tried to flee, its hunger forgotten before its desperate desire to live. Seeing weakness, Brandr fell upon the wolf, his own jaws closing around the beast’s mighty neck. Finally, after an eternity of bloodlust and bloodshed, he ripped the wolf’s neck out with his very own teeth. No sooner had he done this than his strength failed him, and he collapsed into blissful oblivion.

No sooner had he woken than he saw the shadow of a wolf standing over him. On instinct he leapt back, baring his teeth at what he thought was an enemy. When the haze of waking cleared from his eyes, however, he recognized the raiment of the Wolf Priests, the skull and pelts that marked the honored office. Standing tall even for an Astartes, this Priest’s very presence radiated power, such that even the belligerent youth was awed.

With a voice as cold and sharp as the winter winds, the Priest said “You cannot leave this cell.” His awe made way for anger, and the young Brandr snapped “And why is that, you old bag of fur?” With biting indifference, the Priest replied. “Because in order to leave this cell, you must best me. You cannot best me.” “Ha!” The younger Wolf exclaimed. “Of course I cannot defeat you, fool. I am unarmed, and you are not.”
To Brandr’s surprise, the Wolf Priest nodded, and to the ground dropped his arms. Down went his pistol, down went his knife. Down went even the Blade of Morkai, falling to the ground with the cry of steel unsheathed. Then, the Priest kicked his knife towards his charge. “Now you are armed, and I am unarmed, child. You cannot best me.” His words bit once again into the Brandr’s ears, and for a moment he almost believed them; but the blood called for blood, and with a howl he scrambled for the knife and lunged at the Priest.

Brandr slammed with all of his fury headfirst into the bars of his cage. Dazed and enraged, he spun to face his opponent, and threw himself once again into the fray. Once again, he was sent tumbling headlong into empty air. “Hold still, you damn coward!” He roared. The Priest merely shook his head. “Even if I do, you cannot best me.” Slavering, blood boiling in his veins, the rabid youth threw himself once again at the Priest.
This time, he did not dodge.

Merciless as the winter and swift as the wind, the Priest lashed out with a vicious kick, sending the young warrior careening into the side of the cell. Stars flew before Brandr’s eyes. His lungs cried for air, and his body screamed from the pain. Snarling, he fought through the pain and charged once again. And again. And again. Every time he failed, the old Priest would simply say, “You cannot defeat me.” After countless attempts, Brandr’s fury gave way to desperation. “Why?! I bested Fenris! I bested my enemies! I bested the wolf! Why can’t I best you!?” Shaking his head, the Priest replied, “You bested Fenris because it could not best your resolve. You bested your enemies because they could not best your strength. You bested the wolf because it could not best your fury…but you cannot best me.”

Howling in frustration, Brandr threw himself once again at the Priest, and once again he was struck down. Trembling, his strength spent, the youth forced himself to his knees. His voice shook as he asked, “What makes you different?” The Priest slowly walked towards the exhausted warrior, and kneeled until the smiling skull upon his helmet was eye-to-eye with his charge. Carefully, he reached towards his neck and unlocked the seals around his helmet. With a hiss, the environmental seal released, and the Priest slowly lifted his helmet.

The Priest’s voice alone had already proclaimed his age, but seeing his face truly made Brandr understand just how ancient his visitor was. His hair hung in masses of grey wires, his brow had sunk low around his eyes, and deep lines crossed old scars upon the elder's weathered countenance. His ice-blue eyes shone with pity, and a gentle smile stretched across his face. “Because regardless of resolve, regardless of strength, and regardless of fury…no beast can best me.”

The words fell like a hammer blow upon Brandr, ringing in his ears like they had fallen upon his helmet. Now, when his fury had been spent, when his strength had failed him, and his resolve had been shaken, he was left with nothing to guard him from the truth. Slowly, he forced his eyes to meet the Priest’s. “…I am a beast, then.” The Priest nodded silently, and Brandr knew he was waiting for more. The youth’s mind desperately fought through the blood’s baying, looking for the answer he knew was there. Finally, he asked , “What could best you?” The Priest’s smile grew, and his eyes lit with mischief. “Well, a coward like me may be a match for a beast…but a man would have a much better chance.”

In spite of everything, Brandr could not help but laugh. “Well then, brother, would you happen to know how a beast could become a man?” At this, the Priest chuckled, and extended a hand. “I may know some things. It comes with growing old and cowardly.” Taking the hand, Brandr commanded his creaking bones upright with a wince. “Forgive me, Elder. I…was…what is your name?” he finally settled on, hanging his head in shame.

The Priest laughed and clapped the youth across the shoulders, nearly knocking him back to the ground. “Come now, it doesn’t become a son of the Wolf King to act like a schola-boy caught out after curfew. Raise your head, and look old Danr in the eye.” Setting his teeth, Brandr raised his eyes to meet Danr’s, not expecting the Priest to explode into laughter. “Ha! Now look at you! I like that look in your eye, child. Maybe we can make a man out of you yet.”

Thus, under the careful guidance of the Cunning Priest Danr Sindri, young Brandr Hakon slowly learned to control the blood of Russ. Thus the tale of Brandr Hakon, the Red Wolf, the Mad Claw ended, and thus the tale of Brandr Hakon, the Warrior Reborn, the young disciple of the wise old wolf began.

Relative newfag to this board. Are stories set in the 40k setting allowed, or do they go in another thread?

>Are stories set in the 40k setting allowed
Yep. If you look at the wiki page you can see that these threads have produced over a hundred warhammer stories to date.

If you have a piece of creative writing that is even vaguely Veeky Forums related, this is the place for it.

Ah, thanks. I getcha, and I'm browsing the wiki page now. I actually have a story lying around somewhere that I'd love some feedback on. I posted it to reddit, but they aren't big on actual stories.

Pt 1:
The two older men were on one end of the table, with their backs to the wall of the small stone room. Inquisitor Caius sat facing them, with his back to the door. Usually that would concern him, but this was an Inquisitorial fortress ringed with dozens of storm troopers. Besides, he was THE Inquisitor Caius; nobody would dare attack him. Especially not after his latest mission.
“So gentlemen, why did you request to see me? Looking for advice?”
It was the only reason he could think of. After the resounding success of his last venture, he wasn’t surprised that two unknowns like these two were looking for help. Not everybody was cut out for Inquisition work, after all.
“Not quite, Inquisitor Caius. We’re hoping to discuss the events at Delrida 3”
The tall thin one had a stern, cold voice. He reminded Caius of a priest he had known as a boy. Every word was a lecture, every sentence a sermon on what was right and proper.
“We understand you ordered the planet struck by an Exterminatus. This is of some interest to us; we’d like to understand why you thought it was necessary.”
Desk jockies. Bah. Caius had heard of these Inquisitors. They gave up a life in the field, or sometimes never had one, just so that they could question field agents like him. And now he’d gotten fame, they were trying to bring him down. His mentor, Lord Kelce of the Ordo Malleus, had warned him of these people some time ago.
“Well, after I determined there was a witch, the entire colony was forfeit. After all, the taint of Chaos infecting one is tantamount to the entire populace being susceptible to it’s foul influence.”

Pt 2: (I just realised my formatting is a little off; sorry in advance)

“Yes yes, quite right, Inquisitor. In fact, I couldn’t have said it better myself!” The short, portly man chimed in.
He was the other member of the duo sitting opposite Caius. Like some ridiculous comedy act, the young Inquisitor thought to himself. Where the tall thin one was like a corpse with grey hair, this other one was a middle aged man, with red hair and a ruddy complexion.
“But what we’re really interested in is how you found that witch in the first place. You must have an excellent eye, eh? To spot a demon worshipper in the midst of a colony of 4 million! We’d love to hear about it! And to hear the story from a rising star like you is a treat indeed!”
Much better. Caius liked this shorter man a lot more. He was respectful, and obviously recognised the talent that Caius had. Also his joviality was infectious, a far cry from his companion. Where the tall man reminded him of a schoolteacher, this shorter man was more like a favourite uncle.
“Well, Mr…Grigori, did you say?”
At a nod from the man, Caius continued.
“As you know the colony is a very spread out farming community, with a large city in the middle. The city is patrolled by the Arbites, so I assumed that it would be relatively free of taint. I started at the smaller farming villages on the outskirts and worked my way in. Asking about anybody unusual. You know how it is for us of the Ordo Malleus. Townsfolk seem to be a good source of information.”
Caius then paused, a question on his lips.
“I never asked. To which Ordo do you two belong to?”
“Just a minor Ordo that deals with the Imperial Navy.” The tall thin one replied. Mr Heim, Caius remembered.
“Of course. Well, as I’m sure you’ve seen with Navalmen, often the best signs of heresy are when a person’s comrades notice something strange about them.

3:
A person who enjoys fighting a bit much, or somebody who’s a little fond of their whisky ration are often inclined to worship the gods of Chaos. So I simply asked around, until I found a few farm folk who pointed me towards a group of older people who met in, shall we say, suspicious circumstances.”
“Oh my! Suspicious you say? Inquisitor Caius, do go on!” Mr Grigori asked. Caius was starting to like the man; he seemed appropriately impressed. Caius went on, warming to the retelling.
“They were a group of elderly citizens who often met to discuss the state of things and run functions. Often small events that raised money for a cause. Now, this may seem benign, however often they would have a religious message. They refer to the God Emperor as merely “God” and have a much distorted view of his holy visage. Often claiming that he is watching over citizens, and that these fundraisers were often his will. “
The two older men were both leaning forwards in their chairs slightly by this point. Caius smiled inwardly. Finally, even this Heim fellow seems interested.
“Please go on, Inquisitor Caius. This is all very suspect, but hardly grounds for accusations of apostasy.” Heim’s voice was still grave, but it seemed attentive now.
“Well, as I mentioned, they discussed current political matters. Often expressing discontent, and how things were better under a previous Planetary Governor. This is dangerously close to rebellious talk. But the damning thing was their reading from a book.”
“What kind of book, Inquisitor? Some chaotic tome?” Heim asked, leaning forwards on the thick wooden table. His aloofness was gone, and replaced with something more akin to intense focus. He almost seemed like a real Inquisitor, before Caius remembered he’d never heard of this Heim before. Heim and Grigori were both completely unknown to him, as a matter of fact. Strange, Caius thought to himself.

4:
*Strange*, Caius thought to himself. *This is a sparsely populated subsector. It’s actually quite odd that I’ve never seen these two before. There are only a few cells of Inquisitors who operate here. They must be very withdrawn.*

“Precisely Mr Heim. This book, the “New Testament” they called it, references a being known as “God”. He seems rather like our own holy Lord, however he is much more merciful, and never mentions the Xenos scum, or the dangers of Chaos. Only a realm known as “hell”. It even has them worship some form of Prophet who performs miracles. Now, I know not what manner of demonic being it is, but it’s a clear case of apostasy against the Imperial Creed, as a deviation of the Imperial Truth. More than that, this collective of citizens regularly read from this book to local families. I gather there were other, similar, groups, all over the colony. They were reading these, this…**heresy** to children! I declared the planet a lost cause, and had an exterminatus declared.”

Caius leaned back in his chair, and waited for the shocked exclamations of outrage. He’d let his own shock flow through the last few words. He was looking forwards to seeing Heim admit how heroic he’d been in purging this cult before they could spread their filth to other planets. This was quite a feather in his cap, after all. A nice way of launching his career, bringing the Emperor’s light to such heathens.

“So you destroyed an agri-world because you were too stupid to realize they worshipped the Emperor differently?”

The cold, dispassionate voice was jarring. Caius looked at Heim, before realising it had been Grigori who had spoken. The jovial expression was gone, and the man’s expression was like ice.

“I…what…how dare you speak to me in this manner!” Caius blustered.

“We dare, because an ignorant idiot like you just murdered Imperial Citizens. Many worlds worship the Emperor differently.

This is acceptable. But you committed a crime against the Imperium using the authority of a rosette. The authority of our rosette.” Where Grigori had gotten cold, Heim finally seemed to be showing emotion. It was like a cold rage sweeping through him. He doesn’t seem like a schoolteacher anymore Caius realised. *He’s so tall and lean, but so much anger. * With a start he realised. *He seems like the angel of death that those heretics had in their book. The Grim Reaper.*

Caius was frozen with shock, and didn’t react as the pair rose from their seats. Heim wasn’t the only one who’d changed. Grigori’s expression had turned icy, but he wasn’t the portly man from a second ago. Now he was standing, it was obvious how muscled his forearms were. He wasn’t portly at all; he looked more like a stocky veteran guardsman than a happy uncle.

“Idiot? Stupid? I am an Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus!” Caius remembered his anger, and rose himself. His warband had several rough men in it, who should be just down the hall in this old fort. His personal bodyguard was an ex-PDF soldier, and was standing right outside. He turned, and opened the door, breathing in to call for them, before realising his way was blocked by an armoured man. *An Inquisitorial Stormtrooper*, he realised with dull surprise. He saw his bodyguard lying crumpled against the wall. The Stormtrooper stepped into the room as Caius moved back. He spun, and drew his laspistol and pointed it at Grigori.

“Don’t move! I’m placing you all under arrest for heresy! I am an Inquisitor! My patron Lord Kelce will hear of this!”

“Put down the gun.” Heim’s voice was like a tidal wave smashing against a cliff face. Pure force. Caius’ hand wavered.

“I said put it down.”

Caius tried with everything he had, but slowly the gun went to the floor. In the back of his mind he realised something. *Heim must be a psyker*. And a very powerful one to overwhelm a witchhunter so easily.

6:
The Stormtrooper behind him put a hand on his should and squeezed, forcing him down to his knees.

Grigori strode up, gripped the rosette around the kneeling man’s neck, and yanked it free.

“I, Inquisitor Grigori, witnessed by Inquisitor Heim and Sergeant Janus, accuse you of being a danger to the Imperium. You have been negligent in your duties. You’re under arrest, heretic.”

“Who…who are you people? Do you really think that Lord Kelce will let you do this! He trained me himself! You should release me and start running!” Caius stammered out.

“Lord Kelce you say? Yes, he’s the local Inquisitor Lord isn’t he? We’ll be having a…chat…with him too, if he encouraged this.” Grigori said it as if taking down a Lord was a day to day task.

Caius couldn’t believe what was happening.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t be serious.” The disbelief plain in his voice, the young Inquisitor was clearly in shock.

“We’re members of the Ordo Excorium. Did you really think nobody was watching? Did you really think you could destroy an entire planet, and nobody would care? Did you really think that your rosette made you a god who was above scrutiny? It doesn’t. You’re dangerous. You might question our right to destroy you. Those who understand us know we have no right to let you continue.” Heim finished his speech and picked up the laspistol.

“Sergeant, have your men take his warband into custody. We’ll incarcerate him, then pay a visit to Lord Kelce”.

The two Inquisitors walked out the door, and Caius felt cold steel shackles fit themselves onto his wrists.

>FIN.

Thanks for reading guys. Please, hit me with any feedback you've got. In asterisks are meant to be Caius' internal thoughts, and also I meant to change him from the Ordo Malleus to the Ordo Hereticus.

ANyway, lay it on me. Any critique or feedback is welcome.

Invite dead

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We have a better discord link that doesn't expire.

discord.gg/6AwKHGF

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I like it, and it reads almost like a myth. But it also reads a lot like a story of the priest. Maybe if you threw in some of Hakon's accomplishments it'd go a bit better. Like, instead of surviving the wounds that killed his comrades, include where those wounds were given. Might add some weight to the character.

I liked it though.

They're being pretty unprofessional at this point

Eh, I'll give it a crack.

>Start
The gate was opening. Finally. It had taken years. Learning about the entities out there. Searching through hundreds of old tomes in dead languages to try and find it. But now, he had everything he needed, and soon the ritual would be over.

It was almost poetical how this was all happening in an old country church. Humans had clung to their religion because it was all they had. Getting raided by goblinfolk and ork warbands practically monthly. Never having the resources to mirror the dwarves, or the magic to mirror the elves. It was all they really had; a wooden cross and the hope that there was somebody watching.

But now, the Cultist was going to finally change all that. His cult was almost done here. There was a tear beginning to form in the space above the alter. She was finally coming through.

Every race had a god. Some more than one. And not the "God" with a white beard that the last owners of this church had believed in. A real, full blooded god. They came from somewhere beyond and watched over their race. Giving their people magic, technology and prosperity; everything that humans lacked.

But humanity had for some reason been overlooked. They were a young race, and even the oldest of the other people's didn't remember where their gods really came from. But the Cultist had found out. Soon, this tear would open, and humanities' new god would step out and lead them.

With a dull ripping sound, the tear opened into a jagged, shimmering gash in the air. wide enough for two people to walk through, and tall enough for a troll.

Looking through it was like looking through haze. Everything was distorted and shifting. But suddenly, a figure came into focus. It was her, and she was radiant. One half was a woman, but the other was some dark reflection. She had her hands pressed against the portal, as if there was some barrier stopping her from stepping through. But she was slowly pushing in.

Soon, humans would know the love of a god of their own. And it was all the Cultist's work. He was proud.

Suddenly there was a massive thump against the door.
"No...not now. You two! Hold the door!" Apart from the 3 sorcerers opening the portal, there were only two men at arms in the cult. With just four sorcerers including him, the Cultist had taken years to come this far. It couldn't be interrupted.

The doors blasted open, and Elven warriors poured in. Some were stalled by the men at arms, but more ran past them. The Cultist couldn't believe it. These bastards were trying to stop him!

He watched one of his sorcerers lose concentration, and suddenly her eyes exploded and she died violently and bloodily. The other two struggled to compensate, but slowly succumb to the strain. It was all falling apart.

But then She spoke. In some strange language, but he knew She was trying to tell him something. She pushed from her side of the portal, trying desperately to get in and save him. Save his people.

Then an arrow flew towards the portal, and hit her in the eye. Just one singular, regular arrow, loosed by an elf moving through the door. She recoiled, and the portal began to close. The Cultist hear his men at arms hit the floor behind him, as his god faded from view.

He didn't even care when an elven sword slammed into his back, and came out of his gut. He had been so close, but now...now humans would never be strong enough. Now, they were all going to keep dying.

He died on that disgusting floor of a dirt old church, and so did so many's hopes.

>Finished

Thoughts? I'm not great at this, but I'd love any feedback.

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The three Demonium gangsters walked to where Toby was seated, all while the train was moving in a steady pace to its next destination. One of the gangsters asked.

“Hey pal, you know who we are?” One of the gangsters asked loudly while Toby stayed quiet, likely realizing what he got himself into. The gangster asked again. “I said, you know who we are!? What ya got yourself into!?”

This time Toby replied softly. "No, I Don't know who you are. Where I'm going... I just hitched a ride 'cause I just wanted to go wherever this train's stopping by."

"You have no idea who we are eh?"

"...No."

The gang member who questioned Toby laughed out loud, and so did the other gang members in the train car, except for one who was reading a newspaper. The gangster who was taunting Toby drew a knife, but did not use it to threaten Toby, but just showed it off, though one of the gangsters who were just sitting was already brandishing a bolo knife. While another one; a scary looking black man, stood up and was holding a hatchet.

The taunting Demonium Gangster piped up again. “Old man, we’s the Demonium Gang! We’s one of the most ruthless, toothless and fearsome gangsta’s in this country of Braland, and we’s own half the city of Farburg! The city of Nearburg’s too much of pussywhips to help and is scared of us, and half of The Twin Distance County knows not to screw with us to! And you don’t know who we are??? And where’ve you been livin’ in, under a rock?!”

Toby replied again wearily. “Please, I just want to get off where ever this train stops to, I mean no harm to any of you. And no, I’m not working for the authorities either. I’m just minding my own business…”

The hatchet wielding gangster joined in and boasted: “Look at this Hobo-Chump, dressing like some cartoon fool and playin’ with dolls! Oh and nice shoes, loser!”