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/tg/ - Traditional Games

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Hey folks, I have been meaning to color these gals nice and proper for awhile now. I finally got them mostly cleaned up. Except I couldnt find a black and white highres image of Venus and Farah.

Does anyone have the original image that isn't low res so I can work on them too?

Also is there any noticable mistakes on the girls that I did color that I should change?

I'll post a few Warhammer High Photos too, cause hey, its good stuff!
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Lyra and here little Watcher
>tsundere class rep
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Morticia, just bleeding from the eyes.
pics are bad and you should feel bad
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Please, speaking for all the Xenos players out there, don't call it "Warhammer High" if it's only Imperium. Racist prick.
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Venus doing a few tweaks on the ole' predator.

Still gets great mileage!
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Don't worry, they got those wirey eldar bunch cleaning up messes.
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Farah and the messy locker
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unfinished Cora/Angela Flight Test
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>Dat Morticia
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Furia seems...upset
What is this?

How did I now know about this?
Rolled 7

As a Tau player, I'd like to respectfully ask you to shut the hell up. You're embarrassing us.
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Miranda lookin' smug as fuck.

Its a collection of write-fags/draw-fags doing some neat things in unison.

It's been around for a bit, it comes up once in awhile.

Check it out if you got the time!

Looks cool, well, I guess I'm not sleeping tonight.
>Miranda lookin' high as fuck.
Frankly I dont give a shit since WHH is a bag of writhing dragon dildoes covered in thick, syrupy space AIDS
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Dark Eldar Approved?
Well, it IS so bad its painful and those DEldar love pain.
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Sadly the barrel of images I have are dwindling, I know theres more but haven't saved em.
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Just gotta learn to have fun with the silly stuff, and avoid the dragon dildos I suppose.
>Just gotta learn to have fun with the silly stuff
I do, which is why WHH isn't for me. WHH is like an episode of Dawson's Creek with a few extra skulls bolted to the backdrop. If only it was silly instead of the oh so serious angstfest it became.
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I sorta picked and chose the tales I read. If things got to "bleh" I just went to the next one. I love the short spin-offs like Roberta's Chess Match.
poor macha, even wearing a maid outfit surrounded by teenage boys won't help her
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Freya doesn't take kindly to pskers.
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Hana time
>implying that isn't just foreplay
It isn't because WHH hates lesbians
Welcome to Hell. Population: Me.

as an Aside, I do have the start of a new WHH Story. Does anyone want to see as a Christmas preview?
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I would absolute appreciate it!

Ignore the fella with the fine pipe.
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How was the coloring of the first image I posted btw?
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We all loved it. I know SE still uses it for his background. If the thread lasts, he may well pop in later.


This is why I said

>Welcome to Hell. Population: Me.

We seem to draw the haters like flypaper.

Now, this story is Primarch's Daughters, but it takes a very long time to build up, and we won't meet them for a while. It is set far into the future of the PD 'Verse, and follows an Arbite as he uncovers something big, something which threatends not only the Daughters, but the entire Imperium as well...
Day One

At a distance, war makes a particular sound. The quake of the ground, the throb of engines, the rattle of weapons, the thump of detonations, the holler of voices; it all blends together into a kind of ominous murmuring, the feral grumbling of some ancient monster waking over the next hill. Up close, the murmur turned into a roar, the scream of a million throats, the thunderous crash of artillery fire and the howling of the dying as they lay side by side with the dead in the freezing mud. The Captain thought all this as he spurred his men forward, daring them to seize the moment and finish the foe. In one hand he held his sabre, a treasured gift from those he considered his family. It was running red with blood, the blood of the foe.

This was the final push, the last bloody act in a half decade’s long war. Do or die time, in more ways than one. The Captain had been leading them for nearly five years, and his time was nearly up. This would be his last fight. Then he would head back home, to the woman he loved. He already wore a ring on his finger, a symbol of the commitment he had made to her a short time before, during his last period of leave.
Tanks rumbled alongside the troops, cannons blasting at the foe with vigour, covering the advance. In the distance, massive war engines stomped along like iron gods, the foe fleeing with every step taken. Even at this distance, the Captain could hear the occasional metal creak or squeal of their vast, lumbering chassis as they pushed ever onwards into the heart of the foe.

On the edge of his vision, the captain saw something, someone rather. A shadowy figure, urgently gesturing at him. A warning?

The low whine of a missile barrage cutting through the air at speed answered the captain as he looked at the figure. He saw the danger too late.
well hey, I am gonna get some shut up, but ill see if this thread is up in the morning. Heres hoping!
Is there a Warhammer Fantasy High?
Fire lit up the ridgeline, ripping tanks and bodies the same, tearing into the troopers. His troopers. The backwash boiled down the hill in a fiery bloom, thundering into the captain. Then the world faded, darkening in every sense and–

–Saal Huulta awoke with a start, his body drenched in sweat. For a few seconds he blinked, trying to remove the image of the dream from his mind. Ever since the Fontaine Case, he had been having many of these dreams, of images and events which made no sense to him. No amount of counsel or therapy could get rid of those dreams, try as he might. He blink-switched on his Chrono Implant and cursed as he saw the time, 04:37 hours, flashing on his retina. His shift didn’t begin for another hour and a half, and he knew he couldn’t get back to sleep now. He might as well head in now, start his shift early. Huulta lived alone, his life given over to his job and career. His only companion was a Tenocitan blue parrot named Inwit, currently sleeping in its cage.

He had a quick shower, struggled into his work clothes and headed for the lift. His hab was spacious and comfortable, but it was a fair distance from his workplace and he had a long drive every morning.
The streets were almost deserted as he drove into work, a few stragglers was all he could see. Work shifts didn’t change for another few hours, and most decent sorts were asleep. The other sorts were his business.
Like everything on this world, his workplace was fortified, though more heavily than most buildings, with an armoury, training ground, barracks, firing range, scriptories, archives, warehouses, kitchens, gymnasia and garage concealed with its armoured walls. A city within a city. He went inside, signed in, and decided to get a cup of caf to try and jump-start his brain. As he sipped and tried to bully his brain onto alert mode, a voice came up from behind him.

“Saal, good morning. You’re up early, again.”

“Couldn’t sleep, again. Figured I’d start my shift early, get a head start on that paperwork.” He nodded at the speaker, Kolbe, one of his colleagues. He wasn’t close with the man, but he had worked with him a few times and knew him as a good sort.

“Whatever the big event the higher ups are working on, it has to be immensely important, given the amount of paperwork we have to work on. Who do you think it will be?”

“Some offworlder big-shot I’d expect, come to check if the gate is closed or not.” Huulta gestured at the roof, or rather what was beyond the roof.

“You’re one to talk; you’re no more of a native than whoever will be visiting.”

He was right on that count. Huulta didn’t have the violet eyes of the natives, a reflection of the evil orb dominating the sky; his eyes were a piercing blue. Eyes that were very good at uncovering the truth, no matter how well it was hidden.

“Anyway, the Judge wants to see you Saal. Something’s up.”

Thanking Kolbe, he downed his caf with a single gulp and ignoring the burning sensation in his throat headed for the Judge’s office.
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I noticed the original image I posted was in GIF format, which dropped its quality, I belive this should be a little more crisp.
The Judge, as fit for his station, had the biggest office at the very top of the courthouse. Behind his desk was a massive armourglass window which offered stunning views of the city, the faint light of dawn only now starting to touch the highest spires. Both walls were covered in ceiling to floor bookshelves, full of dusty old books covering almost every topic in civilian and military law. Above his desk was an ancient Boltgun, Umbra Ferrox pattern, which he used whenever he had to conduct a vital mission in person or during any major riots or rebellions in the bowels of the city. He hadn’t used it in many years.
The Judge sat at his desk examining a dataslate, and he set it down as he saw Huulta enter.

“Proctor Saal Huulta of the Adeptus Arbites reporting sir. What are my duties for today?” Saal announced as he entered the room.

“Huulta, you’re in early, again. There is more to life than solving every case you can, you know? Never mind, I have a task for you.” Judge Reinhold of the Adeptus Arbites was a veteran of many thousands of cases, both in the courthouse and in the field, an expert in almost every facet of Imperial Criminal Law and someone who would always get the job done, on top of being the head of the Tetra Arbites detachment. Saal had immense respect for him, and Reinhold mirrored that respect. There were very few he implicitly trusted more than Judge Reinhold.

“We received a report from the Orpo about five minutes ago.” The Orpo was the standard name for all the civilian police forces across the Cadian gate region, separate from the Arbites. Like the Arbites, their regional HQ was on Nemesis Tessera, though nowhere near as big as the massive city-sized fortress the Arbites had there. Saal had been there a few times, but he wasn’t particularly fond of the place. Too close to the Ordo.
“They found something down on level thirteen, sector G. They want someone from the Arbites to investigate, apparently there’s something about the nature of what they’ve found which demands our attention.”

Huulta acknowledged his orders, mentally preparing himself for the work to come, but the Judge wasn’t finished.
“Macharia will be hosting the most important of guests in a week’s time, and we need to ensure that law and order is upheld before, during and after their visit, so I want this done by the book.”

“Can you spare any details about our mysterious ‘guests’ sir? There had been plenty of rumours about the upcoming VIP visit to Macharia, some more outlandish than the others.”

Reinhold smiled slightly. It seemed hard to believe that his iron hard face could even crack a smile, but Huulta had known him longer than most. “I’m afraid not, but believe me, this is a once in a millennia occurrence. Now get to it, you have a job to do. You know our words.”

Huulta knew the words, knew them off by heart. They were the words he lived his life by. “It is our job to ensure the Lex Imperia is upheld here, as on all worlds. We discover the guilty. We deliver the punishment.” He saluted, and bowed out of the office. Once done he headed straight for the armoury. Time to enter the deep end again.
Huulta attached the plates of his Carapace Armour to his body, one by one. The jackboots, the breastplate, the greaves, one by one they bonded to his body. It was a ritual to him, a way of mentally becoming one with the case, taking control, taking on the mantle of an Arbite, the black clad objects of fear to those who opposed the Imperium. Finally and reverently he placed the armoured black helmet crowned with an eagle onto his head, turning him from a man into a figure of terror. Once his helmet was on, it would not come off until his case was solved. That ritual had come from his greatest shame, the case which haunted him even to this day.

The moment his helmet came on, his trademark frown followed it. Huulta was almost as well known for his complete and total lack of other facial expressions as he was for his dedication or his superhuman shooting skills, and he’d never quite shaken off the ironic nickname ‘Smiling Saal Huulta’.

He checked his trusty shotgun Oathkeeper - he was far from the only Arbite to name his weapon – and waited for it to rectify his DNA profile, holstering his Power Maul while he did so. Oathkeeper’s DNA reader beeped on, and Huulta slung it over his shoulder. Gingerly he strapped on his Plasma Pistol, reciting an oath to calm its machine spirit, something other more rational types laughed at. Though he feared that it would overheat one day and melt his hand off, shooting the enemy with the power of a caged star was nothing to sniff at. He had delivered judgement with his Plasma Pistol before, and it felt good.

Another day of duty. He had no idea of the hell he would be putting himself through over the next eight days, and how his world would be turned upside down by what was to come.

Hive Tetra was named after a similar hive on Terra, and like it shared the basic cone structure common to all hives. But there the resemblance ended. Macharia’s Tetra was a fortress, its armoured outer skin studded with gun turrets and missile launchers, and the inside levels cunningly designed to ensure any attacker would find it too costly to take. It was said that the Primarch Peturabo Himself had built the hive, as He had built all the fortifications around the warp storm He Himself had named near the end of the Crusade, and Huulta could very well believe that.

The last time the forces of the Eye had reached Macharia was nearly three hundred years previously, and Tetra had been besieged for nearly a month before the Legions came to the rescue. Some parts of the outer walls still bore the scars of that previous effort by the Daemonic and Human forces of the Eye, an ever-present reminder of what they were facing against. That was many years before Huulta had come to Tetra, and he wondered if at some point he too would have to face the might of a full scale Chaotic Incursion. He hoped what he was investigating would have nothing to do with the Eye or anything about it. He didn’t need complications.

The lower storage hangers on level thirteen were where food, shells and other material was stored in the event of a Siege, but in peacetime they were usually empty, sealed off to prevent lowerhive gangs from occupying them. This one was within sight of the Hive edge, the sheer armoured outer skin and hatches to access the weapons turrets clearly visible from the road. Several hovercars in the black, white and blue of the Orpo sat outside, lighting up the pre-dawn gloom with the blue of their revolving lights. An Arbites patrol officer stood by the hovercars, waiting for his arrival.
“Trooper,” he said to the patrol officer with a nod as he dismounted from his ‘Lawmaster’ pattern patrol cycle. “What do you have for me?”

“Something down in that warehouse sir.” The officer gestured at the nearest warehouse. “A body was found inside it. Normally the Orpo would deal with it, but the officer who found it called you down here. Apparently it’s…unusual.”

Huulta followed the officer to the empty warehouse, where he left him to carry on with his patrol. An Orpo officer with the bars of a senior sergeant on her sleeve was writing something down on a holopad flanked by several of her colleagues at the entrance, and she closed it as she saw Huulta approach.

“Orpo, it seems you have need of me. What have you found?”

A shadow passed over the woman’s face, a dark shadow. The Orpo officer had come here expecting to find a crime of usual note, but her fractional expression gave him pause; and for the first time that morning, he wondered what he had walked into.

“It’s, uh…” The Orpo officer trailed off and swallowed hard, her gaze losing focus for a moment as she thought about something else. “You should probably see for yourself, sir.”

“All right. Show me.”
The sound of his jackboots echoed in the empty warehouse as she lead him in. for nearly a minute the walked, past empty container stacks until they reached an enclosure.

“The body’s around the corner sir. I would advise caution…” before she could finish, he was already powering around the corner, and he stopped dead when he saw what was displayed before him. He had seen much during his years of service, but this was something else, something so overpowering he almost had to hold himself steady as his iron control forced himself to cope with what was before him.

The victim was a man, although it was hard to tell from what was before him. The man’s body had been clearly and clinically sliced open with great precision. Iron Nails, rusty old things dating back to before the Imperium had arrived, had been used to nail him to the wall. One through each ankle, another through the wrists, the limbs splayed out in an X-shaped stance. Then, slices across the torso at oblique angles had enabled the killer to peel back the epidermis of the torso, the neck and face. These cuts created pennants of skin that each came to a point; one to the right and to the left, another down across the groin and the last torn up over the bloody grinning mess of the skull to rise over the dead man’s head. Four more nails secured the tips of these wet strips of flesh in place. From the opened confines of the man’s body, loops of dislodged muscle and broken spars of bone hung towards the floor. A circle had been painted around the body in blood.

The man had been made into a star with eight points. The Octed, the symbol of the Primordial Annihilator, the mark of Chaos. Huulta sighed. This would not be his day.

>Taking a Break, what do you all think so far? Is it off to a good start?
What the fuck is this?

Can somebody explain this to me?
You do know as a tau player you're embarassing the rest of us too right? Just sayin.
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Back, and I see no-one gives a shit. Like I expected. Still, I'll post the rest of day one of Days of Judgement, and then if this thread doesn't turn over and die, maybe the superior writefags will take over. SE have a fuckton of awesomness ready, Messo is hard at work on a new story featuring Miranda, and DM has more of Ghosts of Rage, which I or one am looking forward to.


Don't know how it would work, maybe a Daughter of Karl Franz, a Daughter of Archaeon, a Daughter of Grimgor?

Also, whoever does these pictures, we writefags want more. You are fucking awesome. I wat you to do a picture from my previous story, If you can.
He’d left the body in the case of the Verispex Squad, who would now forensically examine the body to find out if the killers left anything behind, though Huulta didn’t expect them to find much. There was not much left to find.

He drove back to the precinct courthouse, sardonically nicknamed the ‘hall of justice’ in silence, half listening to the radio in his helmet in case something else came up. They had conducted a major sweep of the hive not a month ago for Chaos Cults, and turned up empty. And now this.

The duty room of the Tetra precinct courthouse occupied almost the entire seventh floor, a massive space where the entire hive could be monitored and all crimes investigated. Outside, four guards perpetually stood watch at each door, two with standard Arbites Shotguns, and the other two carrying heavier and deadlier Boltguns. Even Huulta was not above suspicion as they checked his ID card and scrutinised it, ensuring he was who he said he was. Finally the doors opened with a snap of electronic bolts, and he was waved through.
The centre of the room was dominated by a massive holo-desk which had on it a huge 3D model of Hive Tetra, small blue lights showing Arbite patrols as they made their way around the Hive, and red lights highlighting incidents and on-going investigations in particular areas. There was a new one down on level three, where Huulta had found the body.

The main wall had an even larger map of the entire of Macharia, every hive lit up and data on all Arbite operations across the planet coasting alongside.

The duty officer, Zavi Rulae, sat overlooking it all from his high dais, and he waved to Huulta in greeting. Beneath him, a dozen servitors received and distilled the information on all goings on in the hive, the good and the bad, extracting from it what the Arbites needed to hear and transferring it to where it was needed.
The left wall had the incident board on it, a record of all the crimes within the last 24 hours which demanded the Arbites attentions. Hundreds of incidents lined the walls, updated every few minutes as more details came to light. The incidents for murders were split into four columns: Time, Fatalities, Location and Investigating Officer. The worst incident up - 3H 9D 2K - referred to a drug bust shootout between the Orpo and one of the lowerhive gangs close to 23:00 the previous night in which three Orpo officers, nine gangers and two bystanders were killed and the Arbites had to be called as backup. It would be front page news in just a few hours when the papers came out.

The record for Huulta’s morning was listed at the bottom: 05:57 [O] (which meant notification had come from the Orpo) 1H L2SG/Huulta [S]. The S stood for special circumstances, the only indication of the true nature of what they had found there.

“Rulae, what have you got for me?” he asked as he approached the dais.

“Verispex have the DNA, they will have a result within a few hours. I’ve dragged up the missing persons list for you, but believe me it’s a long one, even for the last forty-eight hours. A hundred and nineteen potentials to troll through.”

Huulta nodded. “Thanks. I’ll get right onto it.”

Rulae shook his head. “Saal, you put in twice the hours of anyone else, at least. You take every single case which comes your way, you shun promotions, you never spend your pay, and you’re unmarried. Are you crazy or what?”
Huulta had no answer for him. He just scowled as he headed off for the Judge’s office. But his words bit true. Reinhold had once described Huulta as ‘a tightly wound coil of anger, control and purpose’, and he was right. Anger at those who broke the law, control which dominated his life, and his purpose to protect and serve. Huulta lived for his job and the overwhelming compulsion to know, to understand, to seek the truth, to control the void in his soul which drove everything he did.

“Sir I…” he started as he entered.

“You want priority.”

“Yes sir. I know we have a backlog going all the way back to M34, and the Ordo is on your back for traitors, heretics and God-Emperor knows what else. But I have a feeling about this case, do this for me.”

“Already done Huulta.” Reinhold tapped something out on his holopad. His tone abruptly shifted, as he added, “Huulta, this is Chaos we’re talking about, or at least it seems to be Chaos. I’m of half a mind to put a call out to Nemesis Tessera…”

“Look sir, the last thing we need is the bloody Ordo sniffing around. We can do this without their help.” He did not try to hide the distaste in his words.

“The Ordos were Malcador’s last gift to the galaxy, a way to safeguard his legacy and keep the galaxy safe from the threats within.”

“He was dying at the time sir. His mind was not in the right place.”
I am just going to out and out ask it before I read it: Ahriman, will this follow your grimderp shit line that you pulled with whats-his-face and the ork invasion? Because tl;dr, won't read it because the reason I like/d WHH noblebright was because it steered well clear of grimderp.
Reinhold stifled a laugh. “Huulta, we all like you, but I’d prefer you didn’t refer to the late Lord Regent of Terra in that way next time. He may have died nearly two thousand years ago, but his legacy lives on and you will refer to him with the respect his memory deserves. Got it?" he shook his head. "Good grief, you and your anti-authoritarian streak will drive me round the bend before long.” Huulta saluted and swiftly headed for his office. His opinions on certain matters and certain organisations and people were well known, and often landed him in trouble. It wasn’t his fault if he felt very strongly about them, and was willing to argue his point of view until the grox came home.

The office he shared with his partner was an airy room, a window behind each desk providing some natural light. His half of the office was neat and tidy, a bookshelf full of law books and a few old history books stacked in nice neat rows. Huulta had a passion for history, his favourite a well-worn copy of the War for Ullanor, a history of the famous campaign and triumph during the Great Crusade. He set Oathkeeper down, leaned back in his chair and set to work on the list of names. For nearly an hour he worked his way along, name by name, face by face. Hard to think that the ruined flesh he had found in that warehouse might be one of these people. His train of thought was only interrupted by the sound of the door and a booming voice.

“Saal, you old bugger. Already mired in work I see. The helmet is on for one thing, do you sleep in it while on the case?”

Well, the story is more or less Judge Dredd meets CSI with an Arbite as the main character. Does that answer your question?
Pretty much, I won't read it. I will wait till Someone Else write something noblebright and silly instead.

Well, he has a ton of that lined up for you then, and it should be ready for you tomorrow. Sad you won't read this, but it's not to everyone's tastes. Someone has to remind us that this is the universe of 40k, and that someone is me.

It's just BASED on 40k. It's its own setting, and it doesn't need to be pulled into the grimdark shit that it was made to ESCAPE in the first place
Huulta got up and went over to greet his closest colleague and friend. Byrio Zofall was a bear of a man, a massive tangled black beard framing his face and a belly which could barely fit into his carapace armour. They had first been paired up nearly fifty years ago, and had developed a close working relationship since. Byrio was married with two children, and Huulta had often gone to dinner with the Zofalls.

“You know me too well, if there’s a case to be solved, I’m on it. How are the kids?”

“Doing well. Yoncy is driving me up the wall, as usual. Teenage girls, who would have them?” They both laughed, but Saal felt something twinge within, like he had heard that phrase before. Huulta forgot about it as he explained the details of his case to Zofall, the mutilated body and the symbol of the Octed it made, what the Judge thought about it and the threat to get the Ordos involved. Zofall took it all in with a series of grunts. With his appearance and speech, there was no wonder his nickname was ‘the bear.’

The door banged open, revealing Judge Reinhold. Huulta immediately rose to his feet.

“Verispex has come through, and we have the identity of the victim. Name of Zahael Joernia, a Calibanian tradesman.”

Huulta cursed at the name, or rather where the name had come from. “Does this mean we’re going to have to…?”

“Yes. If someone from a Legion homeworld is found murdered in a suspected Chaos ritual, then we will have to inform the Legion representative on Cadia.”

“First the Ordos, now the bloody Legions. The only thing which could make my day worse is if the bloody bitches were also involved.” Huulta snarled. He didn’t need this level of confusion, not this early into the case. He needed control.

Well, it can't escape the setting. Eventually the Necrons will awake and the Tyranids will show up, and then everyone will be fucked Primarchs Daughters and all.
>Someone has to remind us that this is the universe of 40k, and that someone is me.
I don't agree with you on that at all, but I don't hate you for it or hate the ones who like it. But I don't see the point with it at all, we have literally hunderds of books and codexes spanning decades that reminds us of that the 40K setting is bad.

Ok, I won't waste anymore of your time, and I look forward to SE's writings. All the more power to you and those who like your stuff.
Reinhold shook his head. “Please Saal; don’t start another rant about how much you dislike them. Hell, you’re the only person I’ve ever met, maybe the only person on the entire of Macharia who has an active dislike for the Royal Daughters that borders on obsession. That sort of thing gets you in trouble with the Ordo. The only reason you haven’t been taken away for questioning is because I’ve interceded on your behalf every bloody time.”

“And I thank you for that sir. I may dislike the Royal Bitches intensively, I may think they’ve never done anything remotely good for the Imperium, I may state that they’ve never proven themselves worthy of the accolades we throw at them and I may question why anyone even cares, but I’m not about to do any more than air that discontentment. I’m not like any of those three nutters who voiced their opinions with a gun, especially not the Grey Ghost. Hell, the last one was over three hundred years ago, and she shot herself before they could arrest her, and even the Grey Ghost was finally hunted down by the Night Haunter after he tried to kill them all.”

“I know. I read the report you wrote on those three. And I am the reason that report didn’t get you sent to a camp. Remember that.”

Saal smiled ruefully. That was a sore point. “I’ve never forgotten sir. Plus no matter what you think of my personal opinions you need me, there’s no better investigator for a thousand light years.”

“No there isn’t. Very well Saal, I’ll let you get to it. Don’t worry about the Ordos, the Legions or anything else, I’ll handle it. You just do that thing you do, and find our killer. Check out the victim’s hab first, see if you can uncover any clues there.”

Huulta nodded and strode off. His task truly began now.

Zahael Joernia lived in a fashionable block on level twenty-three, close enough to the hive edge and high up enough to receive some sun from the massive armoured windows in the hive skin, which was in itself a mark of status in a hive society. Huulta found the door to his hab locked, but a swift tap from the butt of Oathkeeper soon put paid to that. He entered, weapon held at the ready, but he was confronted by nothing.
A brief search confirmed that the hab was empty. His hab had five rooms, an airy sitting room, a kitchen, a bedroom, a longue and a bathroom. Joernia was obviously pretty well off to be affording such a large Hab. Question was, how did he get the wealth necessary for such a life? Was he involved in illegal smuggling or something like that, and was that how he had become involved in the workings of the Chaos cult which had sacrificed him?

Questions were all well and good, but what he needed were the answers, and hopefully some of them would be in here for him. He first checked out the sitting room, which was in perfect order. He could find nothing out of the ordinary or out of place. One wall was dominated by a large portrait of the Rock, the fortress monastery of the first legion. Huulta’s lip curled in distaste. It had been nearly two thousand years since the crusade’s end, and the Imperial Army had proved time and time again it could do the job by itself without any help from transhuman supermen. The Legions were an anachronism, a relic of a more brutal age that should have been disbanded millennia ago.
Moving on, he quickly searched the other rooms, and once again, he found nothing. Everything was in perfect order, clean and tidy. The man must have been a fanatic for tidiness when he was alive. Huulta counted himself lucky he had come here first, the Orpo had a bad habit of destroying more clues than they uncovered whenever they did a search.

After nearly an hour of toil, Huulta came to a conclusion: there was no evidence to suggest he was kidnapped or taken from here. Everything was seemingly in perfect order; there was nothing to suggest the horrific fate which had befallen this man. Nothing he could see on the surface, anyway.

Sinking onto the couch, he stared thoughtfully at the holovision screen, trying to marshal his thoughts. There had to be something here; he just hadn’t seen it yet. He could feel it in his gut. He’d always had that ability, an almost sixth sense when there was something he’d missed, something important. It was one of the reasons his record was so exemplary, why only once had he failed to solve a case.
It clicked. He stood up, turned around and grabbed the portrait of the Rock. Lifting it off, he was rewarded with a confirmation of his suspicion. Behind the picture was a wall safe. Not a very imaginative hiding place, but still a good place to hide valuables or other sensitive items. Now all he would have to do was crack it, and find out what Joernia was hiding in there.

Huulta reached down and unhooked a special item from his belt, one which he usually wouldn’t bother with, but which now came in handy. The rota-cracker was a special instrument designed to crack a safe with ease, though it was slow, time consuming and didn’t leave the safe very intact. Almost useless for thieves, but the perfect tool for the forces of law. He clamped it to the safe’s dial, switched it on and sat down to wait while it did its job. The sound of its lascutter keened up as it began to work.
Finally the whining ceased and Huulta went over to unclamp the rota-cracker. It had bored a hole through the safe’s outer shell, and unlocked the safe from the inside. The safe was ruined, of course, but he now had access.

With a creak the safe opened, and Huulta reached in. Inside there was no gold, or any precious items. Instead there were wads of paper, probably containing his records of trade, the items he had imported and exported to and from Caliban, as well as a dataslate, encrypted. But Huulta smiled in triumph regardless, this was something far more important than gold or jewels. There were clues in these papers, secrets for him to unlock which could help him identify why this man had been taken and chosen for such a fell rite. He would take them back to his office and spend a few hours poring over them, sorting the important from the chaff and finding the truth.

His sense of triumph was abruptly ended with the beeping sound of the comms implant coming from the flesh of his arm. Only the most dedicated Arbites willingly had the tools of their trade implanted into their very flesh, forever binding themselves to their duty. Naturally, Huulta had two, one embedded into the flesh of each arm so that no matter what he would always have control. He lifted his left arm up to his face.
“Saal, the Verispex have finished examining the body. We’re waiting for you in the courthouse Morgue with the report.” Zofall’s voice said.
“On my way.” Huulta disconnected, gathered up all the documents and left the Hab, making sure to close the door and seal it with an Arbites notice. No-one would dare go in there now. And even if they did, he had the evidence now.
The morgue of the precinct courthouse was buried deep beneath the main building, almost as far down as you could go. Only the auxiliary generators and self contained life support systems were lower. Inside that space of white tiles and harsh fluorescent lights, what was left of the body was sitting on a slab, stitched back up into the shape the man once had held. Pictures of him in life sat beside images of the murder scene. The man had been handsome once, before some sick bastard had cut him apart.

Dr. Eisler, the chief of the Tetra Verispex, gestured at the body as he spoke with Huulta and Zofall. Eisler was an ugly son of a bitch with a squashed nose and thin lips, but there were few better than him in uncovering the methods and means of murder.

“Murder weapon was not your normal knife. Analysis of the cutting gave up a pattern that appears consistent only with a mono-molecular blade.”

“And how common are those around here?” Zofall asked.

“You’re seriously asking that? The only ones around are either trophy weapons taken from renegade Eldar, or else ex-legionary weapons, such as Scout combat knives.”

“Either way, rare as fug and most likely unregistered.” Huulta ran his fingers through his hair. “What about the time of death?”

Eisler sniffed. “Hard to gauge, but my best guess would be between midnight and 02:00 hours this morning. Can’t get it any closer I’m afraid.”

Huulta thought about it, but couldn’t find anything in that time which would shed more light on the murder. Another mystery, layered on top of mystery. They knew who was responsible, but they didn’t know why, or who the specific culprits were. Nothing made sense. To use a term, it was chaos.
Saal and Zofall took their leave, Eisler informing them if he found anything else of use he would contact them immediately. No sooner did he return to his office than Huulta sank back into his chair, and idly began to sort through the papers he had removed from the victim’s house.

“Saal, what do you think it can be?” Zofall asked.

“It’s a ritual, it can’t be anything else. I just wish I knew what that ritual is all about. Are they just trying to curry favour with their gods, or is it something worse?” He added, as he gestured at the scattered files. As well as the tide of paperwork from the murder itself and the evidence from the deceased’s house, packets of fiche and other picts had arrived from a couple of the sub-precincts from across the planet, automatically flagged by the reports of the incident sent out on the planetwide watch-wire. Not one matched what had happened here. There had been several murders, but none as gruesome, none as inexplicable. If it was a full blown chaos cult and not a single cultist on a rampage, they were hiding very well.

“Well, at least I found this in the deceased’s house,” Huulta gestured to the sheath of papers on his desk. “Papers which belonged to the victim. Should be a clue of two in here somewhere, a hint as to why he was taken. Whoever did it; they have to have their reasons.”

“Chaos doesn’t need reasons Saal. That’s why it’s called ‘Chaos’. But they won’t have chosen this particular man at random; the amount of preparation alone tells us that.” Zofall had a point.

For the next few hours Huula threw himself mind and soul into working through the sheaths of paper, one by one reading and scanning them for anything which might give a hint. They seemed mundane, papers about business transactions, payments made and loans outstanding, the usual sort of business dealt with by a trader. Somewhere within he was something he could use, he could feel it.
The artworks are disgusting as fuck. Really.

>Implying you could do any better.
I can't. So?

So, the artworks are disgusting as fuck. What should be done to improve them then?
>Implying you can't have a critical mind, if you don't have the skills
>Implying you're a dumb sheep
Better proportions, better colorization (their faces are flat), cleaner work on the sketching, and bonus for a background on the pictures.

Isn't that these ones? They have all those criteria. >>22180015 >>22182678
He didn’t notice the hours pass; he only briefly nodded to Zofall as he went home to his family and then settled back to work. Time and again he promised himself he would stop for a bite to eat or a quick break after this particular sheet, but every time he’d look at the next one and think, ‘just one more, there might be a clue there’ and one became ten became a hundred. The world vanished, all that mattered was the papers and the clues he knew were held within.

Suddenly the door banged open, and Reinhold walked in. He glared at Huulta.

“Bloody hell, it’s nearly twenty-two hundred! Saal, go home. You’ve been here triple overtime and you have your religious services in the morning, the only time you ever take off.” His eyes flicked over the vast pile of papers on Saal’s Desk.

“Dammit, if I didn’t bloody well force you out, you’d move in and live here with all the rookies and support staff. Even I have a life outside these four walls you know, you don’t seem to.”

Huulta nodded and picked up as many of the papers as possible to take home with him despite Reinhold’s scowl. Huulta’s complete and total dedication to any case he worked on was one of the reasons he had such an exemplary record, but the fact he let his cases take over his life was a cause for concern for Reinhold, especially after the Fontaine case.

The drive home was in silence, and once there Huulta spent another two hours with the documents, but still there was no sign of anything which could lead him to the perpetrators. Finally he was forced to call it a day as the clock reached midnight. He needed to get some rest, and prepare for the next day’s investigations.
This are better, no doubt, but still work to do on the proportions
As he emerged from the shower, his eyes caught himself in the mirror, and lingered on the lattice of scars which covered his body. Some were relics of past fights and disturbances during his many years in the Arbites, barfights and scuffles, those who resisted arrest, the usual. And then there were the others, whose origin he couldn’t place. The deep scar which stretched from his ear to his jaw and framed the left side of his face, usually hidden beneath his helmet. The loop just below his right elbow. And possibly worst of all, the parallel red lines which stretched from his wrist to nearly his elbow on his left arm. Cutter’s marks. He didn’t know when he had done it, but he had a good idea why.

The void. It always came back to the void, the eternal emptiness which had always haunted him, the feeling that something vital was missing, that he wasn’t all there. It was the one thing in his life he couldn’t control, and he had tried every method, which must have included cutting at one point, but none of them had ever worked. Though control eluded him, he had found a way to harness the void, turn it into his prime motivator, the thing which drove him and focused him in his pursuit of duty. If only he could harness his other problem as well.

Huulta flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t want to sleep, didn’t want the dreams which haunted him every time his eyes closed, but sleep took him anyway and the dreams returned.

I agree with you regarding the artworks. But then, I do have a slight dislike of the 'Anime' stlye, I prefer something more 'natural'. Sadly we haven't got any Drawfags willing to do things, though the one who did the above linked ones did take criticism gracefully, and hopefully will improve with the proportions.
So, this story doesn't take place in a high school, doesn't feature the Primarch Daughters except for a passing mention, and for all intents and purposes is just a 40k story with a thin veneer of alt-history "what if the Horus Heresy never happened and the Primarchs had daughters for some reason" stuff. Why even call it Warhammer High then? It has none of the elements that were in the original stories.
Yep, I'm a bit like you, I don't like this kind of mix between anime style and western style
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And it is 3AM in Middle Earth, time for weary Hobbits to sleep. Christmas Eve here would you believe it. Hopefully Someone Else and Darkmage will pop in tomorrow, they have a ton of fucking awesome shit ready for you all, which unlike my grimderpness, won't dissapoint.

The Daughtrers will have far more then just a passing mention, far more. But as I said, it builds up to that. And you are saying the exact same words SE has said to me multiple times, so you are not alone. Maybe this isn't WHH. But hopefully it is a good story regardless.

I leave you with the latest WHH Drawfaggotry, coertesy of Greenmarine. There's a reason it's Spoilered.
Now, this is a cleaner picture
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Bumping with babies.
Oh wow, a thread happened.


Hi! I guess. I am indeed working on a project, called Eternity, that show a bit of the lives of the girls after graduation, but it's mostly wrapping up. Closure. I think I'm done with the setting once Eternity's posted. Every idea I have fizzles out after a while.
Aw, the Fabricator-General Scriptarious is leaving and WHH is coming to a close. It doesn't feel very christmas-y to me =/
Well, we're all hoping Messomancer will come out of the woodwork and finish Miranda's Internship, which he started. Then he vanished. I'm sure he's still around.

We're all on #writescribbles on Rizon, Messo, if you're around.

The Maestro is back!
>Miranda's Internship
I haven't stumbled across any WHH threads since you finished Road Trip. This sounds like a new writefag.
What? No, not at all. In fact, Messo wrote one of the original Meet the Primarchs back in 2009.
Ah, I were not around for the original threads I think.
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It looks like it's that time again...
look, I don't know what to say. I didn't plan this thread out. Eternity simply isn't done.

It's not a single story. it's a collection of short stories, between one page and thirty pages, and there's over a dozen of them, spanning thirty years. It's just not postable yet.
Ahhh I am back and I love what I see, I loved the read and eager to see more.

Also I haven't dont any drawings for WHH, just colorings but I think Ill toss a few things up. I am more cartoony though :\
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Bumping with everyone's favourite couple.
I want to tittyfuck Freya so badly. And tie her up and have as a slave, but that might be a problem.

Is Darkmage around? I want more of Furia.

>twelth gingDefe
See, Capcha wants the daughter of the twelth legion too!
He's around, but his stuff isn't done either.
If you guys have any scene requests of a drawing, send em my way, I most likely won't be able to get em done before the end of this thread but I will work on em and post them if this thread is still up or I'll just start a new thread.

What does your stuff look like?

I might have a request.
Oh awesome. Well, here's a simple one to tide you over until the thread we were planning for early January: I'd love a scene of a broad, sandy beach, with a fairly steep slope, figure ten feet tall and sixty or seventy feet long down to the water from the tide line, with a six-year-old girl splashing around in the water as a dark-skinned (like normal Earth dark skin, not Salamander) boy of around seven, with a black t-shirt and sunglasses builds a sandcastle a few feet up from the water's edge.

Doesn't sound like Primarch's Daughters-verse, I know, but it very much is.

Might as well throw this one out as well.

I have a similar request which also doesn’t sound like Primarch's Daughters-verse. Hana Khan wearing a Hussar’s coat and riding a horse holding a Tulwar above her head and yelling a war cry Xena-like. It’s for a short story I’ve done as part of Eternity.
Do you need, like, special permission to start a WHH story, or can anyone do it?
Anyone can do it. Every single story is just as capable of standing on its own as it is a part of the larger narrative, or even moreso. Some are mutually exclusive, even.

Check the 1d4chan article for a place to start.

Do whatever you want. It's a free 'verse. What do you have in mind?
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This is more of the way my stuff looks like. It isn't that painter quality like the other fine gents who work on WHH, but hey I got time and a wacom board.
Well, I was thinking about doing a story that follows Jake in the "canon" Warhammer timeline. It would follow some of the lesser used characters and extras of the WHH world. That's all of the concept I have as of now, but I'll probably add more later.
Uh? Jake in the 40Canon? He wouldn't even exist. The hiv he lives in doesn't exist in the 'real' 40K timeline.
I'd have to make a few changes then. He'll just grow up in a different hive
That...would be very weird-feeling to me, but I suppose I should feel honored that someone wants to make fanon of my character, so...rock on.
And, notice the quotation marks I put around "canon."
I won't if you don't want me to. Jake has just always been one of my favorite WHH characters. I'm a sucker for the "commoner meets princess" stories.

Do you mean Canon WHH Timeline, or 40k as all know and play it?
I also wish to know this.
More similar to 40k as we know and play it, but with a few changes to accommodate Jake as well as a few other WHH extras.
Necrons care not for such puny squabbles
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Bumping for Ghosts of Rage. I imagine this is Angron on discovering his Daughter has run off (sans skulls).
I guess...sure. Have fun.

All of the active WHH and PD writers save one are in the channel #writescribbles on the server irc.rizon.com right now. Drop in if you have questions.
I will! I'll check out the IRC when I have the time. Thanks.
A bit more angrier. But pretty much.

Ill be using that. Gingdefe. Hehe.

I won`t be posting Ghosts in this thread. It still isnt ready, partly due to laziness and me not feeling its where it should be before it is seen. I will be putting it up eventually, maybe early next year in a following thread.

I dont have a scene, I just want a new picture of Furia.
What port are you guys using?
We don't need port changing to get into Rizon, as far as I know.

Their site says this, though.

Connect to irc.rizon.net using ports 6660-6670 and 7000 for standard connections, or 6697/9999 for SSL connections.

What I'm interested in is that the Emperor said that Furia's homeworld is Nenavist, but we now know it is in fact Nuceria. Why did He send her to the wrong place?
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All will become clear in time.
Actually wait, no, the Emperor didn't say that. He said that if she went there she could FIND OUT what happened to her homeworld.
>“You will find out about your homeworld on Nenavist. The truth of your past is there.”

Angron engages in stone cold vengeance. He never forgot his homeworld. No drop pods and chainaxes for Nuceria. He gave it over to the worst kind of vengeance of he could imagine. He gave it to Ultramar.

Also, as the others can't post, I guess it's up to me and my grimderp bullshite, Days of Judgement.
Can you gues who Saal Huulta is based on?
Day Two

Hive Tetra rang to the sound of hymns, a sound long extinct in the wider Imperium. But here at the Eye, faith was not the forbidden thing it was elsewhere. Here, the Imperial Truth was rendered moot by the truth of the cosmic hell which glared down at them. Here, faith was a safeguard against the Eye and the powers lurking within, which they stood eternal and vigilant guard against, keeping those powers contained. As Huulta had once heard said, ‘The Emperor spent the entire Great Crusade burning down Churches and Temples, and when all was said and done, the only thing saving his sorry arse from a shiiton of Daemons conquering the Galaxy is the Churches and Temples of the Cadian Gate.’ Huulta didn’t know how factual that statement was, but it brought a warm feeling to his heart nevertheless.

Huulta woke up early, shook away the last residue of the dreams which haunted him and made ready for the morning’s services. The morning and evening Sunday services were the only times he gave himself off duty, and even then he saw them as a way of reminding himself of the spiritual side of his purpose, to protect and serve the citizens of the Imperium. His purpose never left him, he wouldn’t let it.

The Chapel of the Pious Heart was a small place on level seventeen devoted to the God-Emperor of Mankind, and Huulta had been going there for over seventy years. It was quiet and remote and Huulta loved it. There was something reassuring and calming about the candlelit majesty of a Religious House, a soothing influence for the Void within Huulta. He was not the most devoted follower of the cult of the God-Emperor in Tetra, but he had faith that the God-Emperor protected his people, and that faith helped him cope with the strains of his job, coming here every Sunday morning to try and direct and control the void which consumed him every waking hour and which drove him ever onwards.
He arrived slightly late to allow everyone to get settled in, and he slipped in as quietly as possible. He looked for a particular person, and spotting her he took his customary place beside her. She briefly glanced at him and the ghost of a smile crossed her lips before returning to singing the hymn of the Emperor Ascendant. Huulta joined in, adding his throaty voice to the chorus and letting his concerns fade away, though they never left him. He pulled out the old Aquila which had been his for as long as he could remember, and held it in his hands as he sang. Its chain was tarnished with age, but the bird itself was still unspoilt silver.

When the service was over, as the people filed out of the building the woman waited until the chapel was nearly empty before saying to Huulta, “Proctor Huulta, I’m glad to see you’re here today. You were busy last week?”

“Overtime, and you really should call me Saal. You have me call you Magda.”

“Common courtesy, Saal. Happy now?” Magda glared icily at Huulta, though there was the hint of a smile playing along the edge of her lips. She was an elegant woman of advancing age, and with her cosmetically sculpted face and general air of wealth she seemed out of place at the Chapel of the Pious Heart. She had been coming to this particular chapel for the last three years at his suggestion, and her faith was much stronger than Saal’s. But then, she had a good reason for it.

Saal nodded stiffly. He wished he could smile at her comment, but he had lost that ability long ago. He hadn’t smiled in over a hundred years. A nagging thought pressed against his mind, something to do with Magda he had forgotten about due to his work.
“Are you on a case?” she offered.

Saal nodded again, this time less stiffly. “Murder. The worst kind. I might have to miss next Sunday’s services, and the Sunday after, depending on how bad it gets.” He didn’t like missing services, but in a tossup between services and his work, his purpose always came first.

“I understand. Well, I hope you find and catch the ones responsible. We rely on people like you to keep the peace.”

Companionable silence came between them as they watched the last few people file out. Saal had very few friends, and Magda was his only one outside the Arbites. She was his one link to the world outside the Precinct courthouse.

Once they were gone, Saal felt he could now ask her the big question. “Any news from the top?” Magda was privy to a lot of sensitive information from the uppermost echelons of Tetra’s power structure, thanks to her position within the hierarchy of Hive Tetra, something no-one at the chapel besides Saal knew about.

“The Visit, that’s all there is to hear about. The whole hive will be on lockdown for the duration, no-one in, no-one out. The guests will have to arrive the day before, so I imagine you’ll all be very busy by the end of the week covering that. The Governor hasn’t even told us yet who the guest or guests are, but it has to be someone at the very top of the Imperium to warrant such security. If I had to hazard a guess, one of the Primarchs.”
Saal nodded in agreement. That was his suspicion as well. Given the absolute importance of the Cadian Gate region to the overall stability of the Imperium, a tour every now and then to raise morale and investigate the state of the defences was always on the cards, and this would be no different. A brief flutter of activity and it would all be over and he could get on with the business of upholding the law.

He suddenly remembered what his nagging thought was about. “Before I forget, this is for you.” Saal reached into his hipbag and extracted a single rose, white with a spot of red in the centre. “It was last Monday; it would have been her nineteenth, wouldn’t it?”

Magda’s eyes glazed over at the memory as she realised who he was referring to. “Yes,” she said softly, taking the rose in her hands, “that would have been Emilia’s birthday. You’re the only one who still remembers what happened to her. You’re the only one who still cares.”

Saal looked into her eyes as he spoke. “I can never forget her Magda. A hundred and twenty years of unbroken success, and then her. She is the only one I haven’t been able to bring closure for, thanks to the failures of myself and others. And she was so young, so fragile, her thread cut at its gossamer finest. I will never know what it was like for you to lose her, but she’s affected me as well, and I will never forget her and never rest until her killer is brought to justice. Never.”

She had heard him say that before, but every time he said it with the same meaning as he had that first time when Reinhold had all but demanded he close the case after nine months with no leads and the disaster of the ‘intervention’. In the face of all that, his dedication to her had never wavered even in the face of a stone cold case with no hope of a conviction.
The Chapel was nearly empty, and Magda began to make her way to the entrance, Saal striding along beside her. “You are a good man Saal Huulta, no matter what you may think to yourself at times. You alone keep the flame of hope alive for laying her to rest and bringing justice to the ones responsible. I wish she had got the chance to meet you.”

“If she were still alive, you would have had no need to meet me, and I can’t say that is a bad thing. Now you should head back uphive before someone recognises you. One of the ruling hive aristocracy should not be seen this far downhive.”

She opened her mouth to reply but his wrist implant sounded, cutting into the conversation. Magda knew what it would be, and with a final soft look she set off, leaving Huulta alone. She knew that his duty overrode everything else and she respected that. As she walked off, Huulta suddenly wondered if she had ever thought of him as anything more than a friend. He would never ask or inquire, but sometimes the way she looked at him suggested she might have wanted to see him as something…more.

Cursing his wandering mind, he raised his arm and heard Zofall’s voice coming from his implant.

“Saal? You’re needed urgently on level thirty-one. Another body has been found, and you will want to see this.”
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>She knew that his duty overrode everything else and she respected that.

God, could you stop stating how fucking DEDICATED and DEVOTED he IS TO HIS WORK and how he PUTS IT ABOVE ALL ELSE and how everyone else LIKES HIM FOR IT EVEN THOUGH HE KEEPS ACTING LIKE AN INSUFFERABLE CUNT? This shit is the lowest possible level of characterization, the one used by the most amateur fanfic writers who think a character has to have one defining feature and keep harping ON AND ON AND ON about it and inserting it in everything like a drunk sailor in a Bangkok whorehouse. Improve your fucking writing, dude.
"is going to contually persist"? Is that meant to be your impression of how some pompous 18th century motherfucker would talk? Fuck, is not enough that I hate your shitty fanfiction, the shitty meme that spawned it, the shitty fiction that originated all this shit and also you personally, but now I'm forced to hate your image macros too? Goddamn everything about you is contemptible.

Then why the fuck are you here? If you hate it, then go somewhere else so you don't have to see it. No-one's forcing you to read this bullshit.
>Zofall knew that and realising his mistake he apologised and changed the subject.

I've started picturing this as th 40k version of the "YOU'RE TEARING ME APART LISA" movie. The lines are just as stilted, and everyone likes the main character for some unknown reason, and those that do inexplicably change their minds rapidly.
Levels nineteen to fifty-one of Hive Tetra were vast collections of middle-class Habs where the main body of the citizens of Tetra lived, and the hab block on level thirty-one where Huulta had been summoned to, Hab Block 1119-C was no different from the standard and almost identical to the one where Zahael had lived eight levels uphive, if a little smaller and further away from the outer hive skin. The trip up was unpleasant with numerous delays in the mass conveyance lifts, and Huulta was left to stew for most of the trip up. He had too many bad feelings about what had dragged him downhive.

Huulta dismounted from his Lawmaster outside the hab block and strode into the Hab block like an automaton, Oathkeeper clutched tightly against his chest. He knew he would not need it, not with Zofall there, but he had a bad feeling in his gut. What was this body that Zofall had found, and why did he want Huulta to see it?

Zofall was waiting alone for him in the lobby. There was no weapon in his hands, and he quirked an eyebrow at Huulta.

“Technician found the victim, and I was the closest one to the scene, so I was called in. When I saw it, I knew you would want to see this. Why do you have your shotgun out? Do you think the perpetrators are still there waiting for us to come back before killing us as well?”
Huulta shook his head as he slung Oathkeeper. “I just have a bad feeling about this. First Zahael and now whoever this is.”

“Why do you always call the victim by their names? They’re the victim; you should remember that and keep your distance and not let yourself get emotionally involved. That’s why you failed with the Fontaine Case.”

Huulta scowled at Zofall. The Fontaine case was his sore point; he had let himself get too deeply enmeshed in that case.
“Well, your bad feeling about this one will probably get worse when you see the body and realise why I called you in. Victim is in one of the maintenance hallways on level ten, follow me.”

Zofall took off with Huulta in tow, and together they rode up in the lift and took the winding maze of passages which made up the maintenance hallways, where the maintenance servitors and engineers moved about unnoticed and undetected as they kept the hab block functional. As Huulta followed Zofall through them, he knew that they were the perfect way for a murderer to get in and out undetected as well.

Huulta knew when they were close to the body. There was a line of police tape across the hallway. Zofall ducked under and continued, and Huulta followed. Finally they reached two Arbites in Verispex uniforms, crouching over something. The body.

Zofall filled in the details. “This time we found ID on the body. Name is Saepthus Sybort, from Medusa.”

Huulta scowled at that information. Another victim from a fugging Legion Homeworld! Another referral to the Legion representatives on Cadia, and another step closer to Ordo intervention in his case and the loss of control over it. He felt the tug of the void at the edge of his mind, and knew he could not let that control slip from him, not under any circumstances.

Zofall didn’t notice as he continued, “He was the chef technician in this hab block. He went off on a maintenance patrol and never came back, and one of his underlings went searching and found him like this.”

Got it, ill try to fufill these and post later.
He was lying there, slumped up against the wall. His craggy face and filmed over grey eyes immediately betrayed him as a native of Medusa, and more importantly his right arm was not flesh and bone, but stark metal, an augmetic. Huulta cursed again. An augmetic arm of that quality was not standard issue anywhere on Tetra. This one was a former Legion serf, a veteran of the Iron Hands Legion who had served them in their many wars in the stars. He was still clad in his technicians’ uniform, and there was no evidence of any exterior wounds on the exposed parts of his body. When asked, Zofall grimly said, “That’s because what killed him was not a bullet or a blade, nothing quite so obvious. Take a look at this.”

Zofall stood over the victim, Sybort, and gently opened his overcoat. Saal once again found himself almost overpowered by what he saw.
Sybort’s chest had been opened by some blunt object rammed through it, the breastbone sundered and the ribs shattered, and around the jagged hole in his chest, painted in blood was a circle and eight pointed star.

“His heart was ripped out of his chest while he was still alive. That’s what killed him.”

Now he knew why Zofall had summoned him. The similarities were far too many for this to be a mere coincidence. A second victim of whoever or whomever murdered Zahael, another casualty of the Chaos cult or individual who were even now hiding somewhere in Tetra, His city. Saal scowled as he realised what that meant. Zahael was not a one off, there were more, and these killings had to be for a reason.

“That’s not all Saal. Look at his bionic arm.” Huulta stepped over and carefully moved his bionic arm, and almost started at what he saw.
Clutched in his metal hand was his own heart. He was killed with his own bionic arm.

“What have we got ourselves into?” Saal asked.
You half-hooked me.Seems interesting.
Will you continue?
“First Zahael Joernia and now Saepthus Sybort. Both from Legion Homeworlds, and one an ex-Legion serf, and both murdered in what appears to be Chaos inspired rituals. You do seem to have a knack for uncovering the worst cases Saal, do you know that?”

“Just bad luck sir.” Huulta growled at Judge Reinhold, but the Judge was right. This was rapidly getting out of hand, with another Chaos killing uncovered. He knew now he would miss the evening service, and he was sorry he would not get another chance to see Magda.

“I’ve had to contact the Iron Hands Legion representative on Cadia as well now, and I doubt we will be able to keep the Ordo out of this now. One victim from a Legion Homeworld is bad enough, two is a conspiracy. This is more than a simple killing disguised as the work of Chaos to throw us off the trail; this is the work of someone up to their eyeballs in the works of the darker powers, most likely more than a single someone.”

Reinhold was stating the bleeding obvious to Saal, but he kept silent nevertheless.

“Saal, the Ordo will send someone over to take over the case, but they will take several days to get here. I trust you will know what to do while we wait for the Ordo to arrive.” The rest was left unspoken, but Reinhold knew Huulta and what he would do.
Huulta threw a snappy salute and left Reinhold’s office. Zofall was waiting outside.

“So, is the Ordo going to take over?”

“Seems that way, but they won’t be here for a few days. I think if we work at it, we might get this case in the bag long before whatever Ordo Investigator they foist on us ever sets foot on Tetra.”

Zofall guffawed. “So, what will you do now Saal?”
“I won’t get anything from the body until Eisler is finished with it. No, I already have one line of inquiry to work through, the papers I recovered from Zahael’s hab, and I will continue to work on those until Eisler is ready for us. What about you?”

“I have to head back to the hab block. Damage control.” Zofall grimaced. “It’s not every day a body is found in an uphive hab block. I have to talk with the hab official and restore order there. You will be on your own for the next few hours. Don’t forget to contact me when Eisler is ready for us.”

“Will do Zofall, good luck.”

“I’m going to need it.” Zofall muttered as he stomped off. Huulta watched him go before heading for his office.
Sitting down at his desk, Oathkeeper lying beside him, Huulta took one look at the mountain of papers he still had to search through and sighed. He knew somewhere in here was the knowledge he seeked, but would he find it before the Ordo Investigator arrived and he was pushed out?

This was his case, it didn’t matter that the fell powers of Chaos may have a hand in it, it had been entrusted to him and he would see it carried to its conclusion and the dead, Joernia and now Sybort would get justice for what had been done to them. He did not want to be thrust aside by some offworld Ordo member who could not care less about justice for the dead, only for a successful prosecution.
The Ordo Investigatorum had a nickname, behind their backs, that of an ancient institution of Terra known for the zealotry and ruthlessness: the ‘Inquisition’. To Huulta that moniker aptly suited their Imperial descendant. They were sinister, determined and ruthless figures who operate beyond the jurisdiction of the Arbites or indeed any other branch of the Adeptus Terra, and seemingly answered only to the Emperor. Huulta had great respect for the great Malcador and the tireless work he had performed in the service of humanity during the Crusade and the years immediately after it, but the creation of the Ordo Investigtorum was a mistake. There was nothing the Ordo could do that other organisations couldn't also do, and they more often than not got in the way, and messed up weeks - if not months - of painstaking Arbite work. Huulta had learned that the hard way and he would never let the same mistake be made twice. Not with this case.

No, he had to uncover the truth and complete the case before the Ordo Investigatorum could get their claws into it. Grunting, Huulta took up another sheath of papers from the pile and set to work on them.

As he worked, he let his mind examine what he already knew and what he was looking for. Two people had been murdered in fell Chaos rituals, and yet nothing was known of who was responsible, why they had been chosen, though Huulta suspected their status as citizens of Legion Homeworlds might have had something to do with it, and most importantly why they had been killed in such ways and what the murderers hoped to achieve with their deaths. If the murders were linked to a fell ritual for summoning Daemons or worse, then he would have to find the ones responsible and deliver judgement, and fast. The sentence for consorting with the ruinous powers was death, and Huulta would be happy to deliver that sentence from the barrel of Oathkeeper.
Huulta was snapped back to reality by the sound of his implants. It was Eisler; he had completed preliminaries on the body and was ready to receive Huulta and Zofall to share his findings. Huulta responded in the affirmative and then spoke into his implant, recording a message which he sent to Zofall, asking to meet him at the Morgue in half an hour. That would be ample time for Zofall to finish up on level thirty-one and head back for the Precinct Courthouse.

Huulta didn’t like the morgue; it was a morbid place, cold and heavy with the scent of death, even above the smell of disinfectants. So many lives ended up here, so many stories concluding with a body in this cold space lit by harsh lumen-strips.

“Let’s get this over with.” Zofall grunted beside him, wrapping his Proctor’s robes around his ample frame. He disliked the cold more than the atmosphere of the dead. But then Zofall had always been more hardy then Huulta.

Eisler stood beside the body the same way he had done the previous day. He waited for them to join him before launching into the details.
“You’ve already worked out what killed your victim, but reiterating it, severe blunt force trauma to the chest, smashing his breastbone to shards. That alone would have killed him, but then his heart was removed while he was still alive, which finished him off. You already have the murder weapon,” gesturing at his bionic arm, lying beside the body, “So there’s little else I can give you at this time. So if you expected me to have some fancy new piece of evidence which will help you find the killer, forget it.”

“I’d never expected that.” Huulta deadpanned.

Zofall laughed, a deep booming laugh which echoed through the empty space and startled Eisler. “Nor would I.”

Eisler shook away their mirth. “No defensive wounds on the subject, so your victim wasn’t struggling when he was killed. He may have been drugged, but those tests won’t be back for several hours.”
Saal nodded. “Thanks Eisler. Keep us informed when the details arrive.”

“Well, what did we learn from that?” Zofall asked as they left.

“That Eisler has no sense of humour?”

“Apart from that.”

“Well, he’s right about one thing; they must have drugged Sybort before they had him rip his own heart out.”
“And what makes you sure of that?” Zofall asked.

“His arm wasn’t detached and the joins were untouched, so they didn’t detach it, use it to rip his heart out and then reattach it. Must have been hell, ripping your own heart out. Poor bastard.” Saal made the sign of the aquila.
Zofall nodded. He wasn’t a follower of the Lectio Divinitatus like Saal, or a follower of any particular set of beliefs as far as Saal knew, but he was tolerant and respectful of those that did and quick to defend them against people who saw their beliefs as heretical and contrary to the Imperial Truth. Yet another reason why he was Saal's best friend and closest confidant.

“Well, whoever these Chaos bastards are, they mean business.”

“When has Chaos not meant business?” Zofall added. “They seek to overthrow and corrupt everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve, undo all the Emperor has laboured to build. And no matter what, they will never be defeated or destroyed. Until the stars die and the universe ends, we will forever have to guard the gate and deny them the galaxy.”

His sobering words had an effect on Saal, who mutely went back to his office with Zofall and set back to work on the Zahael papers. He would deny Chaos this victory. Zofall sat at his own desk, catching up on paperwork. The two worked in companionable silence for the rest of the day until Zofall got up to leave.
“Saal, you haven’t been over for dinner for months and Illana is always asking ‘when are you going to bring Saal around?’ This case is getting to you, I can tell, and you need some time away from it. Why not come over for dinner later in the week? Is Wednesday good for you?”

Before he knew it Saal was nodding, and Zofall smiled down at him.

“Wednesday it is then. I’ll have Illana cook us a meal fit for a Primarch, or a Royal Daughter too.” With that he dodged out, neatly avoiding Saal’s scowl at his parting comment. Mentioning the Royal Daughters was Saal’s berserk button and never failed to set him off on yet another tirade about them.

Once again the world tunnelled down into the Zahael papers, the names and dates and cargoes all blurring together as Huulta worked his way though one sheet after another. The tech experts were still working on the encrypted Datapad, Huulta would hear from them as soon as they’d cracked it. His iron control over himself allowed him to concentrate his focus entirely on a single task, which helped him find those little things others were wont to miss or look over. But it was doing him no good here, there was nothing at all which gave even the ghost of a hint as to why Zahael had been chosen. He didn’t like to think this entire line of investigation was nothing more than a dead end which had eaten up so much of his time for no gain.

He would visit Sybort’s hab tomorrow; maybe there would be something there which could help him, another route he could take to unmasking the killer or killers.

Remembering the experiences of last night, Huulta made sure he finished at his allotted time for once, so as not to arouse Reinhold’s ire once again. With the threat of Ordo intervention hanging over him, he could not risk alienating his strongest ally and friend. The duty officer at the front door almost fell over in shock when she clocked him out at what for a normal Arbite would be the usual time. But Huulta was no normal Arbite; he always worked late, overtime and usually both, so this was a novel experience for him. He had no wish to repeat it any time soon.

He was too late to get to the evening service at the chapel, so he headed home instead, hoping to pay penance for missing the service by getting some more progress made on the Zofall papers. He would not stop searching through them until he knew there was nothing in them he could use. He never let any path of inquiry go until it was utterly exhausted.
Inwit squawked from his perch, and Huulta went over to give him some seed. Zofall had commented more than once that he should really get out more often, but loneliness never bothered Saal, he had his purpose and that suited him. Plus Inwit was a lot easier to handle then potential relationships, and never got in his way when he had work he needed to get done.
He growled as he reached for yet another sheet of paper. Zahael had hidden these papers away for a reason, and Huulta would uncover that reason.

His work desk was strewn with papers, so many he couldn’t see the fake wood beneath the carpet of paper and ink, and once again the world vanished as he threw himself, heart, body and soul into searching for the truth.
*still reading! Enjoying this!
After another hour he dropped the latest sheath of papers in disgust. This was getting nowhere. These papers were normal business transactions; there was nothing fishy about them at all. So why were they hidden away in a concealed wall safe? Was it just another aspect of the cleanliness Zahael seemed to have displayed during his life? He would not be made the fool, and he would not let the Ordo laugh at his diligent efforts.

Something twinged in his mind as he reached over and looked over yet another document, this one covering the import of Calibanian wood for some nobleman’s house. There was something he had missed, something he had overlooked. He reached for the previous days papers, the ones he had worked through last night and swiftly began to scan through them again. There were hundreds of papers, but his gut sense had never let him down in the past.

There…there! A name, one he had ignored the day before, but now was revealed. Sybort.

An order for a number of electronic components for the maintenance of the technical systems of Hab Block 1119-C, expensive components, over two million credits worth.

Huulta let the revelation wash over him. Zahael had imported electronics for Sybort barely two weeks before Zahael was murdered. A link between the two victims. Huulta swiftly read through the attached files, gathering the required information about their business relationship. It seemed to be a one off, but Zahael was hopeful for future business deals between the two. The two victims had met at Warehouse 27-B on level eight to exchange the imported material. Why it had been done in such a nondescript location in the bowels of the lowerhive was a mystery to Huulta, but he now had a new lead, had a location to search, another clue to follow up.

The clue he had been seeking. Control was his again. He could sleep easy tonight, were it not for the nightmares.
And that is me done. I have more, but as has been pointed out to me, it needs a lot of improving.

I will be back in the new year, hopefully with the others. Until then, merry Christmas and a Happy new year to all you WHH fans!
>Welcome to Hell. Population: Me.
This is in no way a self-insert piece. Riiiiight.

I was referring to how the haters lay in on the WHH writers. I hate self-insert pieces, and I am most definitely not a policeman investigating murders like in this story.
Thank you for the interest though.
I am going to be honest, before posting this thread, i only read stuff of 1d4chan.

I didn't know /tg/ had such much scummyness about writers just having fun.

=\ Sorta sucks

A lot of haters came out of the woodwork at the end of our last run, and they've persisted ever since. You have to live with them, like lice and fleas.

An another note, are there any other people who what to share WHH stories? Don't think we three have the monopoly, we need more independant stories part of or not part of the Bleeding Out 'verse.
So, if you have a WHH stort story or anything, post it please.
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Bumping with Isis, the best Daughter, and her man.
You know what we need? More fapfics. There's not enough fapfics here. The SE ones are awesme, but we need more. I want one with these two here >>22193617
I thought all of the primarch daughters were lesbians...
We need more with Cora.

Not everyone is turned on by Lesbians you know. Plus the idea of forcing that abstenance guy to fuck her is hot.
>best Daughter
You just keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep at night, but you and I both know who it was that mocked Dean Yarrick to his face and lived to tell the tale.
None of them are lesbians because none of the writers are female and thus their self-insert isn't female either.

That and WHH apparently hates lesbians, despite one founding chapter being all about the gays. But hey, when has Warhammer 40K had anything to do with Warhammer High?

Who did Furia turn to when she was in need? Who dies she trust above all others? Who is described as the leader? Who has the boyfriend who survived an Ork Waaagh and a Daemon Incursion?
Isis is best daughter. I want to see more of her in Eternity.
Well...you will. She's only the protagonist for one short bit, though.
>That and WHH apparently hates lesbians, despite one founding chapter being all about the gays. But hey, when has Warhammer 40K had anything to do with Warhammer High?

Where is it explicitly stated that any of the Daughters are of one sexuality or another? And one of the writefags said Lyra was Bi.
>Where is it explicitly stated that any of the Daughters are of one sexuality or another?
It was pretty heavily implied when they all started dating the authors' self-inserts.

Not all of them. Six or seven maybe, but not all 19.
I should've said all the ones that get extensive writing. The dozen or so are ignored as fuck
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no cultist-tan

Well, why don't you write something for them? Or find someone else to do it? Don't get mad at the writefags, find another writefag. I for one want to see a lesbian story with Isis and Angela. Two blonde demigodesses eating each other out? Bliss.
Because what WHH has become largely disinterests me and I'm not so good at writing comedy, which is where I would take the setting. Even the lezzings would probably be largely comedic.
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Succumb to the temptation. I know I have.
you know mods can see through the spoiler tag right?
And what makes you think that males are good at describing a lesbian relationship and lesbian sex? As you yourself wrote:
>Even the lezzings would probably be largely comedic.
We guys would write it how we think/wish it is. It's better if the protagonist is male because it makes it much easier for the writefag to relate to him, and describe a more believable (notice those last two words put together) story.
It's Christmas Day here, and I'm feeling Generous. So, here is a short WHH story I've done. This one is NOT Grimderp, not in the slightest. It goes back to the birth of the daughters and a very special proposition...
The light comes early during the spring months on Calth. Another beautiful day on the estuary. The light’s perfect; Oll reckons they can get an extra hour or so’s work done. An hour is an additional two loads of swartgrass. A day of hard labour for good returns.

His hands are sore from the harvest work, but he has slept well and his spirits are good. Strong sunlight and good work always lifts him.
He rises, says a prayer, thanking his god for his new life, for letting him survive the crusade, find someone to share his life with and start anew. In the whitewashed lean-to at the back of the Hab, there’s a gravity shower, which reminds him of his army days. He pulls the cord and stands under the downpour, letting the water wash over him like a baptismal. As he washes, he can hear his wife singing in the kitchen, the contented gurgling of their son as he reacts to her singing. He felt he had to be the luckiest man in the entire Imperium.

When he goes into the kitchen, dried and dressed, she’s not there. He can smell warm bread; hear the faint sounds of it cooking in the oven. His young son sits in a high chair beside the kitchen table, peering at him intently. Already he has his father’s eyes, an almost ethereal, piercing blue. Bombardier’s eyes they used to call them in ages past. He smiles at his little boy, making him laugh. The kitchen door is open and sunlight streams in across the flagstones. He hears his wife outside. Stepped out to get eggs, he guessed. He can smell the strong scent of swartgrass straw on the warm air, a reminder of his task today.
He sits down at the worn kitchen table, and contents himself with pulling funny faces at his son, delighting in his giggles. Soon it would be breakfast, and then another day of honest toil.

Suddenly there is a loud banging noise on the door, startling Oll. He’s never had visitors at this hour before.

“Hang tight. Daddy will sort this out.” He told his little boy, who continued to smile as he went out. Passing through the sitting room, his eyes involuntarily fell on his old lasrifle hanging over the fireplace, a final memento of the many, many years of war he’d fought. A large gash in its side was a grim reminder of the Ullanor Campaign, where an Ork Warboss had nearly cut him in two, and a small dent came from an Eldar bullet on Quetansk. He’d been given that lasrifle on the day he’d first signed up, just before the crusade proper began, and now, more years than he could count later, it was still there intact and working. He occasionally took it down to hunt for the burrowers who disrupted with his crops, the meat making a good stew and the pelts sold at market for a few thrones. He wondered why a shiver went down his spine as he looked at it.

The knocking continued as he made his way to the door. It was an unusually hollow, booming sound reminding him of artillery fire, which added to his disquiet.

“Welcome stranger, how may I…” his voice cut out as he opened the door and saw who was standing there outside. A Giant, a demi-god of legend made flesh, towering high above him. The Giant is handsome, the way a Romanii Emperor on an old terran coin is handsome, eye catching. He wasn’t wearing the impossibly blue armour he was often portrayed in, instead wearing great robes in the Macragge style. Flanking him were two warriors in full plate, bolters held at the ready.

Oll’s mind raced as he bowed down low. “My Lord Primarch.” He finally said, wondering why the Lord of the XIII was here, and not on Terra with his own family.
“Ollanius Pius, it has been a long time. Do you mind if I come in?”

Oll couldn’t say no, not to a Primarch, and so numbly he stood aside and let the giant enter. The Giant’s head nearly grazed the ceiling, but he moved with such care and skill there was no damage to his hab. The Giant also glanced at the lasrifle, and his eyes flickered with some distant memory.

The giant came into the kitchen. Oll had no seats capable of supporting his weight, and apologised for it. His son stared in amazement at the immense bulk of the Primarch who now stood before him, who smiled right back at the boy.

“Is this your son?”

“My little Julius, yes.” He sat down and imminently cut to the point.

“What can I do for you, Lord Guilliman?”

Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines and Lord of Ultramar stared down at him. “I can see you’re doing well Ollanius. A good home, a good family and good work. It’s what every army veteran deserves. But we all know you are far more than just another army veteran.”

“My wife’s making breakfast, and I have a long day ahead of me, so if my lord would kindly tell me why he’s come so far from his own family to bother mine.”

“My family is fine. She’s with her mother on Terra; she doesn’t need me around at the moment. But this is about her, about all of them in a way. We want your help Ollanius, all of us do. My brothers and I. My father.”

“My Lord Primarch, listen. Let me be as plain as I can. I never had time for this. I never wanted to be part of anything. I was just a common soldier, one among billions who fought in the Crusade. Why I was singled out so many times is even now beyond me, why I was put on a pedestal when millions of men braver than I paid the ultimate price. I don’t want to know what offer you’ve brought to my door, I just want to live out my life here on Calth with my wife and son.”
“This concerns them too Ollanius. I’ve kept an eye on you from the moment you decided to settle on Calth. You’ve earned so much more than this, your child deserves better than this.” He gestured at the Hab, at its rustic build.

“This is the life I wanted my lord. This is the life I have chosen. If you claimed your service-shares on a rising world like Calth, the administration paid your passage, and your empire is an example for the rest of the Imperium. This is where our roots are set, and where they will grow.”

Guilliman nodded. “My brothers and I have responsibilities now, more then I think any of them expected. None of us were made to be just weapons. No war is meant to last forever. The Emperor would not raise disposable sons. Why would he have gifted us with such talents if they we destined to become redundant when the war is done? No, he needed something to tie us down, give us a reason for putting down the gun and the sword. And he gave us that, gave us a reason. The same reason you have.” One finger gestured at the boy.

“We all know. I was on Angelus, remember? The final act, the end of the crusade. The rumours ran thick and fast about what the Emperor wanted all of you together for, and now we’ve finally found out. I’m pleased for you, for all of you. Little girls. Though I fear for a few of them, not all of your brothers share your…wisdom.”

Guilliman snorted, a sound which startled little Julius.
“Ollanius, my girl, all of our girls, the Emperor wants them to be raised in seclusion initially, so they can’t be scattered the way my brothers and I were. I agree with that fully. But they need to have someone human, normal, live and learn amongst them. They need someone to remind them that despite the circumstances of their birth, despite their fathers, they have to be mindful of the rest of humanity, the ones they will be serving. Too many of my brothers forget the common man, the ones for whom this Imperium was built. Only Vulkan, Lorgar and I ever seem to go out of our way for them. Our children can’t end up the same way.”

Oll could feel his chest tightening. “What are you trying to say my lord?”

“There are very few humans we can trust, and only one who has earned the trust of all of us, my brothers and I. And that human has a son, almost exactly the same age as our daughters.”

Growing realisation dawned with Oll. “Are you asking me to…?”

“Leave Calth and come to Terra. Your son will be raised alongside our daughters. He will go to the best scholums in the Imperium, that new Imperator High they recently began construction on. He will have the opportunity to better himself far more than anything you could do here, and by his presence he will help our daughters connect with humanity.”

Oll couldn’t keep hold of his thoughts; they whirled around his head like a cyclone. He’d only just established himself, and now he was being asked to uproot his family and move over halfway across the Imperium to the capitol world, his ancient birthplace. Terra was the hub; he’d be close to the action if anything happened. But it was also a cold, dead world, the oceans gone, the air a poisonous fume, and his faith unwelcome. He’d reacted with anger when he’d heard about the fate of the last church, and didn’t want to have to look over his shoulder every time he stopped to pray.
“I know this is much to ask of you, but please think it through. You will have the best home we can provide, and no-one will interfere with your beliefs. Your land here will be safeguarded; you can rent it out while you’re on Terra. This is a chance to ensure your son has a brighter and better future than anything Calth can provide. I’m here for another three days, waiting for your reply. When you’ve made your decision, you know how to contact us. We’ll be waiting. Good day to you.” Guilliman left, his guards flanking him in perfect step, Oll following him to the door.

He felt a gentle tap on his shoulder, and turned to face his wife. Concern lined her face. She’d heard the Primarch’s offer.

“Oll, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” He turned away from her, hiding the confusion on his face. “I thought I’d finally left that life behind forever. I thought I could forget all that. But no.” he went back to the kitchen, where the bread was out of the oven and the sweet smell of it filled the room.
Breakfast passed in a flash, Oll kissed his wife and son goodbye and head out to the fields, where he joined his hired hands and set to work.


The day’s toil has finally reached its end. Home, Wash up, grace and supper with his family. Oll is weary, but he’s about two rows forward from where he thought he’d be, given all that has happened to him. He feared he would spend too much of the day thinking about the Primarch’s offer. Too much of the day wasted wondering what life would be like on Terra, capital of the new Imperium. If that would be a life he’d want to live, he’d want his son to have.
“Trooper Persson,” Graft calls as he whirs up the track. Graft is an ex-Army loader servitor, who helps keep the hired workers in line and carry heavy equipment and bales of Swartgrass Straw. Despite all his attempts, Oll can’t get Graft to stop calling him ‘Trooper Persson.’

His friends and neighbours know him as Persson; he uses his wife’s maiden name so as to keep his old life separate and buried, with only the fading ink on his left forearm attesting to his past marching behind the Emperor’s standard on a thousand worlds. Until today.

The estuary wind rises as night gathers, swishing the swartgrass in great waves, like the oceans of ancient Terra, when there were oceans on Terra. Looking at them reminds Oll of an ancient journey, across the wine dark Aegean Sea, to a great war over a fair maiden. The memory stings him, and he swiftly lets it go. He has too many old memories.

“Trooper Persson,” the servitor calls again. One good thing about Graft, he doesn’t know or care about who Oll is, why he’s all but fled to Calth and a quiet life.

Graft trundles up to him. The servitor’s huge bulk-extension upper limbs, built for ammo loading, have been replaced by basic cargo shifting arms.

“Time to stop, Trooper Persson,” Graft says.

Oll nods. They’ve done what they can with the light.

Home had never seemed so inviting before. Oll takes another shower, has a hearty tea with his family, and once the dishes are done heads up alone to his room. His room is upstairs, in the roof where it’s warm and dry. He sits on the bed, staring at the large wardrobe which dominates one wall. It seems too big to just carry all his clothes, and that’s because it is.
Making up his mind, Oll opens the wardrobe and empties it of clothing, neatly placing the clothing upon the bed so he can put it back. The wooden back wall of the wardrobe is marred by a single keyhole, seemingly out of place. Oll knows better, he pulls a small key out of his pocket, puts it in the hole and turns. There is a clunk, and the wall falls backwards into Oll’s hands. A false back.

Behind the false back is the legacy of more than three thousand years of fighting, though only about six hundred of it is known to the wider Imperium. His old service kitbag made of faded green canvas, his old Army-issue breeches and jacket, also green and faded from years of fighting hang there. Resting on a pedestal within is his papers, his service ribbons, and his record book. He had others from earlier in the crusade, but they are long gone along with the names he lived those years under. Beside the jacket is row after row of medals and decorations, every one a small memento of a war or compliance campaign.

But these are now what Oll seeks. What he seeks are the other objects hanging in the back of the Wardrobe.
The Hellpistol wrought in the shape of a snarling Salamander, forged by the Primarch Vulkan as a gift after the Magmaros compliance. The Moonstone Pendant in the shape of a sliver moon and howling wolf, from the Warmaster Himself. The cog medallion from the Fabricator-General of Mars, gifted after he single-handedly saved the crew of an Imperator Titan from rebel Exodite Raiders. A set of trophy beads from the Khan, from when he destroyed a renegade Craftworld Eldar Titan on Quetansk, a harrowing memory he harshly suppressed as he moved on through the collection. The bust of him, carved in white marble by Fulgrim of the Emperor’s Children. Finally he found a small box, made of pure crystal with a velvet lining. Inside the box is a feather of purest white, a feather from the wing of the Angel Himself, the Primarch Sanguinus, plucked and gifted to him by the Angel’s own hand.

Every one a memento of a life he once lived, where he was hailed from Necromunda to Chemos as a hero, where his exploits were told across the galaxy. Every one a reminder of a life he had lived, which he had no wish to live anymore. The Crusade was over, the deed was done. Peace had settled across the galaxy, and what use was a war hero in peacetime?

He could feel her presence behind him.

“I thought you didn’t like to look at these.” She says from the doorway.

“I don’t.” he replies, “but the Primarch’s words got me thinking, brought up a lot of old memories.”

“Oll, you’ve given enough. You have given over five hundred years to the Imperium, including the warp travel between wars. Were it not for that and Juvient treatments, you would be dead by now.”

He could never tell her the truth; tell her how old he really was. He had seen more war than any man alive, save the Emperor. But she could never know. He hated keeping secrets from her, but he had to.
She continued, “We have only just settled down, little Julius is not even a year old yet, and the Lord of Macragge wants to uproot my family and send them halfway across the Imperium to that hellhole so his girl can have a playmate?”

Oll didn’t reply. Her words were defiant, but she had left one thing out, her lungs. She had never been the same since the Ork gas attack near the end of the crusade, and the polluted air of Terra would do her no good. No good at all.

“He is right. There are better options open on Terra. There, he can be whatever he wants to be. He can better himself. He is the one that matters here."

There was a pause. Julia reaches over, and Oll takes her hand.

“You remember Chrysophar, Krasentine Ridge?”

Oll could never forget. “That was the first time we met. I thought you were just another bloody remembrance, out to steal my story. How rude I was to you.” He laughed. “You proved me wrong.”

It had been near sixty years since he had met her, but apart from the crow’s feet and lines on her face, it was hard to tell it had been that long. She still had the long dark hair and olive skin of the Tali peninsula.

“I came to Calth to leave that life behind, and it’s found me again.”

“I don’t think that life ever left you Oll. Farmer, colonist, believer, whatever you are, you’re still Army underneath it all. Whatever you decide, I will be with you all the way. Always remember that. If we leave Calth and return to Terra, then we do so. Anything for our son.”

Oll smiles, full of love for his wife.

The next day, Oll sent a Telex to Numinus City, to a specific adress. It had one word on it. ‘yes.’
And that is the story. Hope you all like it. It's time to sleep now, I have presents in a few hours. Merry Christmas everybody from Middle Earth.

AA signing out. Best Wishes to all.
>And what makes you think that males are good at describing a lesbian relationship and lesbian sex?
Easy. Lots and lots of research.

Also, written sex is all about the emotion behind it rather than the actual act. /tg/ has written about sexing space stations, dragons, and even fire itself.

Also, way to focus on the lesbians instead my bone of contention with the entire setting and its drabness.
Well, lesbians are all you've been talking about, asshole.

Thanks for the new story, Ahriman.
>Well, lesbians are all you've been talking about, asshole.
Jokes are jokes, its not my fault you focus on them and ignore everything about how the setting has become something that largely disinterests me due to the seriousness with which it has been handled. But hey, scapegoats are nice, too.
>I want lesbians in everything!
>Haha I was actually making a legitimate complaint your dumb!

Get the fuck out. You have nothing to say. Not only do you seem unable to tell that there are three authors at work here with radically different writing styles, but you're backpedaling when confronted about it.
You'll notice all of my comments about lesbians are either entirely divorced from criticisms or as a mostly unrelated expansion upon my criticisms as means to pad said criticisms with jokes. Or maybe you won't because you are too stuck up your own ass to see anything but your own waifu-shaped shit which you claim totally doesn't stink.
I don't waifu. I have never waifued. And you have no complaints. Looking back through this thread and the one before it, I see absolutely no critiques of my writing style, my pacing, my character interaction, my dialogue, nothing. Ahriman gets some criticism, yes, but he's not me, and we talk every day on the IRC. We show each other drafts of our work and give each other tips, but he's not me.

As for your supposed comments about the drabness of the setting, all you've done in this thread (aside from complain about lesbians, which is most of it) is say that if you were writing it (which you then admit you're not even trying to do) all of it would be more comedic. That isn't even a criticism, that's just whining. When you say you want to change something then don't even make the attempt, you're whining.

When I saw a H:FY thread I didn't like, I didn't post saying I didn't like it; I wrote a H:FY that I liked more. When I saw a thread about how the Emperor would die and be reborn as the Tarrasque, I didn't post saying it was a stupid idea, I wrote a story about how that would be awesome. And when I saw a story about the Primarchs having kids and those kids going to school, and I thought the setting was predictable and oversexualized, I didn't complain about it and then do nothing, I started writing a story I liked better. So if you don't like the way Ahriman writes about grimness, or Darkmage writes about drugs, or how I write about the girls growing up and moving out of the house, don't spam our threads with your petulance: FUCKING WRITE ME A STORY.
three questions,
first, why are they referred to as the royal daughters? why not as princesses?
second, when will see more of the emprah? what is he doing? is he writing a book on the history of Terra so it's not forgotten?
Last, what ever happened to the non-warp ftl travel Eldrad and Empy built/discovered?
1) In the Darkmage/Someone else./Ahriman's Aide verse it breaks down like this.

>“Venus, why do people on Terra call you Lady, people on the ship call you Lady Primarch, and people here call you Princess?” Jake asked.
>“Oh. Well, I don’t hold the same rank everywhere,” she explained. “On Terra, I’m the Emperor’s granddaughter, but I haven’t been assigned to leadership over a specific region of space, so I’m a title-less noble. A Lady. In the military, I’m the heiress of an Astartes Legion, so I rank just below a normal Primarch. A Lady Primarch. And here, I’m the daughter of the man who rules the entire system as its King, Dad. So Princess.”
>“Oh wow. I hadn’t even thought of that,” Jake said.
>“It’s not that big a deal. Technically, I’ll answer to all three in any place. But nobody likes protocols more than nobles, soldiers, and bureaucrats,” Venus said drily.

But remember that Medusa, Cthonia, Alpharius' homeworld (whatever it is), Baal, Nuceria, and one or two of the other Primarch worlds don't even have a monarchy, so they're only Princesses on paper.

2)The Emperor is hella busy. He sees his grandkids when he can, of course.

3)What? That doesn't exist in our version of the setting.
I still think it needs more lesbians.
What is it about women who love other women? Why do you think it's attractive?
File: 1356392177064.jpg-(467 KB, 1221x666, IMG_0155.jpg)
467 KB

Here, have your lesbians.

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