It has been a while since I have posted anything! I’ve been busy attempting to have a holiday, flat-hunting and many other distractions that have meant I haven’t put pen to paper in a while. But as ever ideas have been rolling around my head asking, begging, to be written down.
I recently started work on an Imperial Fist army as part of a tale of gamers style system. These stoic yellow armoured bastards have inspired me to write a story about them, especially as they never really seem to be covered much in the Black Library catalogue. There was one story entitled ‘Sons Of Dorn’, but that didn’t seem to get anywhere and the author has since, seemingly, disappeared. So I wanted to build a character for them in the 41st millenium and see what I could do. What follows is a started point for the story that I adapted from another idea I had scribbled down. It seemed to fit how I wanted the story to start. The eagle-eyed amongst you will notice that there is no mention of Imperial Fists in the text, they will come, I assure you. If you send a distress signal desperately foretelling the end times of your world, they will come.
So without further ramblings, here you go…once again I hope you enjoy and welcome any feedback. (Does anyone else find that the right shift is a complete and utter bitch? Or is it just my flailing digits?)
He looked through the eyepiece. Apart from the black blades of his eyelashes meshing the lens he could not see a great deal. But there was a definite orange glow. It permeated the sky casting a foreboding look. It was not right. The view through his viewing glass was not normally so vibrant. In the stars something unusual was occurring.
The scribe stepped away from the gallery, crossing into his small study where he kept his work. Amongst the pile of annotated charts and ledgers was an antique vox unit. He didn’t use it very much, preferring to keep himself to himself or conduct his business face to face with the governor. But someone must be informed about what was happening in the stars.
He had kept a continuous check on the stars since he had come to this planet. Often he wondered what had become of his family and those he had met along his path.
Entering the code in to the base unit of the vox set he waited for the device to click in acceptance. It took a few precious moments but finally the line went active, cutting off the sharp ringing.
‘Hullo?’ came the voice at the other end, followed by a short distorted silence. ‘This is a secure line, who is this please?’ the voice was terse, but not angry. A faint tone of surprise and worry carried in the words that crackled through the ancient device.
‘This is Adept Scree, personal aide to the Governor’ he breathed slowly, taken aback by the odd tone of the receiver. ‘There is something wrong with the sky.’
The speaker at the other end of the line let out a slow sigh and continued. ‘Adept, we don’t have time for your games. Get to the point.’ The voice had quickly become disinterested and impatient.
‘I cannot give you more information arbitrator.’ Scree spluttered desperately. ‘The sky…the sky looks as if it is, as if it is burning!’.
The Arbitrator, growing tired of the aging adept’s many spurious tales, gave a grunt and deactivated the connection. He wasn’t to know that for once, the adept’s sense of foreboding was correct. He wasn’t to know what was quickly descending on the planet of Fayle on rocks of burning fire. He wasn’t to know he would be among the first to die in a blaze of concussive head that destroyed the main Arbites centre in the central plateau, leaving thousands of citizens confused and running for their lives.