Post by Geneva on Apr 9, 2011 14:48:12 GMT
My first attempt at 40k fan fiction.
This follows the adventures of Hereticus Inquisitor Ludvig von Zephon. A character I used to field with my Imperial Guard army using the Allies rule.
Essentially, he's a radical Inquisitor who often walks to the beat of his own drum. A Chaotic Good character for those aquainted with D&D alignment.
This is the first part of a short story featuring him that I'm posting here just for some feedback before I go on. Any comments or criticism would be much appreciated.
Inquisitor Ludvig van Zephon cursed himself. He cursed his mentor, his superiors, the entire damned Ordo, as he stared into the barrel of the shotgun pointed a mere two feet from his face.
His hands were bound from behind with rope and his weapons lay strewn among his feet.
“All because of a bloody coin toss…” he muttered to himself.
“Quiet!”, barked the harsh voice of his soon-to-be executioner. “Imperial scum like you don’t get the luxery of last words.”
“Then shoot me,” Ludvig mused, “I don’t see the point in keeping me-”
Smack! The butt of an autorifle stuck between his shoulderblades and he cried out in pain.
The cultist laughed. “You will be given the death you crave when the hour is right. Then you will be cleansed of your sins and will have the chance to join Sigmoured the Exalted.”
He jutted his face forward, mere inches from Ludvig’s, whenever he spoke. His breath was vile.
“Sigmuld the Exalted?” spat Ludvig, “Do you take special lessons in learning to talk like self-important idiots or does it just come naturally?”
Smack!
Another strike to the shoulderblades and Ludvig decided to shut up for once. Through bruised eyes, he looked around the room. It was empty with the exception of him, his two tormentors, his equipment scattered on the floor, and the makeshift gibbet he was hanging from. There was no trap door or chair so he guessed that they would simply pull the rope at their “sacred hour” and let him choke slowly.
His tormentors were ugly bastards to say the least. The one facing him was a thin and lanky character with a pimple covered, bald head blanketed with tatoos. For an instant, Ludvig wondered whether he had had the pimples during the tatooing process. That must have hurt quite a it.
The other was a hulking monstrosity of a man who constantly wore a respirator. Ludvig reckoned he was a failed attempt at corner shop gene-enhancement as his body was hideously out of proportion. He was behind Ludvig and beyond his field of vision but he could hear his laboured breathing nonetheless.
Both wore long black robes that covered their bodies and bore a red spider insignia at the back. Worshippers of Sigmourd, the rogue psyker.
Ludvig looked at the weapons at his bound feet; two Stubpistols, a shotgun and a pair of knives. The fools had not even bothered to unload the guns. He was about to be killed by the worst amateurs he had seen in a long time as a bargaining chip by one of his seniors.
“Hey, ugly,” he managed, “If you see an old man with a metal arm and a head like a scratching post, do me a favour. Shoot him in the jewels. Okay?”
Smack!
Not that these idiots could take on Bereth anyway. The man was a walking machine. He didn’t feel pain nor mercy and he would have these two morons dead before they could even notice his badge of office.
Okay. He had to think. There had to be a way out of this. No furniture, no mobility, too beaten for psychic powers. But there had to be something.
If you find yourself stripped of your greatest strengths, look for weaknesses within the enemy. His mentor had told him that. Melkiah, the traitor. Heretic or not, he taught Ludvig all he knew. And while every memory of the man brought back that stinging feeling of shame, the advice he had given never once led Ludvig astray.
Weaknesses. Weaknesses. What weaknesses?
His captors were stupid and superstitious. That was obvious. They clearly were not experts at what they were doing. And that monster behind him, he could possibly be used. If only he could get ugly to smell his own breath. That might knock him out.
Ludvig blinked as the thought crossed his mind. Of course! That was the major weakness! Gathering the last of his strength, he spoke to the captor in front of him.
“Just who is this “Exalted” fellow, anyway? Is he some kind of god?”
The cultist drew near again. No rifle butt to the back this time, Ludvig noticed.
“He is a god incarnate! His power exceeds that of your wildest imaginings! He will lead the Sakar system under a new banner. And eventually, all of makind will bow at his feet!”
The cultist was so close now that their noses were almost touching. Lurching forward, the rope around Ludvigs neck cut into his wind pipe as he bit into the cultist’s face.
The man screamed and raised his shotgun. From behind, the man-monster roared and grabbed the back of Ludvigs head. As he was lifted by the abomination, Ludvig kicked the barrel of the shotgun upward. The cultist fired three times. One shot tore into Ludvigs shoulder, one went wide and the last cut through Ludvig’s noose and hit the masked face of the man behind him.
Letting out a cry, Ludvig dropped to the floor as the monster toppled backwards behind him. Kicking out with his legs, he hit the stomach of the remaining cultist and knocked him to the floor sending the shotgun flying across the room.
He had to act fast. Rolling towards his weapons, he managed to grab one of his knives between his bound hands, cutting his palms in the process. Working quickly he began to cut through the rope around his wrists. Across the room the cultist was getting back up.
“Stay down!” Ludvig roared, sending a rush of psychic energy towards the robed man. A sharp pain cut through his brain as he did so but, sure enough, the cultist sat back down with a dumbfounded expression on his face.
Ludvig finally managed to free his wrists when, suddenly, a guttural roar came from behind him. The man-monster was getting back up. Ludvig grabbed one of Stubpistols frantically and fired all six rounds into the eight foot monstrosity before it could bring it’s weapon to bear. The creature screamed and flailed wildly before hitting the ground a second time. It’s heavy stopped.
Cutting through the rest of his binds, he staggered to his feet. Blood was running from his nose and his head pounded furiously from his psychic attack.
He gathered his equipment and turned to the cultist sitting on the floor. The man’s face was stuck in a dazed expression and drool poured from his mouth. No wonder they worshipped a rogue psyker if this was how weak of constitution they were. He fired a round between the man’s eyes and took a moment to collect himself.
His windpipe bruised, shoulder ravaged and body beaten half to a pulp, Ludvig thanked the Emperor for his miraculous fortune. By right he shouldn’t have survived at all. Hoping his luck would stay with him, he turned to the door to leave. They must have been alone or someone would have heard the gunshots, he thought. Regardless, he kept a pistol drawn and made his way out of the room.
So what do you think? Good? Bad? God awful? Comment below.
This follows the adventures of Hereticus Inquisitor Ludvig von Zephon. A character I used to field with my Imperial Guard army using the Allies rule.
Essentially, he's a radical Inquisitor who often walks to the beat of his own drum. A Chaotic Good character for those aquainted with D&D alignment.
This is the first part of a short story featuring him that I'm posting here just for some feedback before I go on. Any comments or criticism would be much appreciated.
Inquisitor Ludvig van Zephon cursed himself. He cursed his mentor, his superiors, the entire damned Ordo, as he stared into the barrel of the shotgun pointed a mere two feet from his face.
His hands were bound from behind with rope and his weapons lay strewn among his feet.
“All because of a bloody coin toss…” he muttered to himself.
“Quiet!”, barked the harsh voice of his soon-to-be executioner. “Imperial scum like you don’t get the luxery of last words.”
“Then shoot me,” Ludvig mused, “I don’t see the point in keeping me-”
Smack! The butt of an autorifle stuck between his shoulderblades and he cried out in pain.
The cultist laughed. “You will be given the death you crave when the hour is right. Then you will be cleansed of your sins and will have the chance to join Sigmoured the Exalted.”
He jutted his face forward, mere inches from Ludvig’s, whenever he spoke. His breath was vile.
“Sigmuld the Exalted?” spat Ludvig, “Do you take special lessons in learning to talk like self-important idiots or does it just come naturally?”
Smack!
Another strike to the shoulderblades and Ludvig decided to shut up for once. Through bruised eyes, he looked around the room. It was empty with the exception of him, his two tormentors, his equipment scattered on the floor, and the makeshift gibbet he was hanging from. There was no trap door or chair so he guessed that they would simply pull the rope at their “sacred hour” and let him choke slowly.
His tormentors were ugly bastards to say the least. The one facing him was a thin and lanky character with a pimple covered, bald head blanketed with tatoos. For an instant, Ludvig wondered whether he had had the pimples during the tatooing process. That must have hurt quite a it.
The other was a hulking monstrosity of a man who constantly wore a respirator. Ludvig reckoned he was a failed attempt at corner shop gene-enhancement as his body was hideously out of proportion. He was behind Ludvig and beyond his field of vision but he could hear his laboured breathing nonetheless.
Both wore long black robes that covered their bodies and bore a red spider insignia at the back. Worshippers of Sigmourd, the rogue psyker.
Ludvig looked at the weapons at his bound feet; two Stubpistols, a shotgun and a pair of knives. The fools had not even bothered to unload the guns. He was about to be killed by the worst amateurs he had seen in a long time as a bargaining chip by one of his seniors.
“Hey, ugly,” he managed, “If you see an old man with a metal arm and a head like a scratching post, do me a favour. Shoot him in the jewels. Okay?”
Smack!
Not that these idiots could take on Bereth anyway. The man was a walking machine. He didn’t feel pain nor mercy and he would have these two morons dead before they could even notice his badge of office.
Okay. He had to think. There had to be a way out of this. No furniture, no mobility, too beaten for psychic powers. But there had to be something.
If you find yourself stripped of your greatest strengths, look for weaknesses within the enemy. His mentor had told him that. Melkiah, the traitor. Heretic or not, he taught Ludvig all he knew. And while every memory of the man brought back that stinging feeling of shame, the advice he had given never once led Ludvig astray.
Weaknesses. Weaknesses. What weaknesses?
His captors were stupid and superstitious. That was obvious. They clearly were not experts at what they were doing. And that monster behind him, he could possibly be used. If only he could get ugly to smell his own breath. That might knock him out.
Ludvig blinked as the thought crossed his mind. Of course! That was the major weakness! Gathering the last of his strength, he spoke to the captor in front of him.
“Just who is this “Exalted” fellow, anyway? Is he some kind of god?”
The cultist drew near again. No rifle butt to the back this time, Ludvig noticed.
“He is a god incarnate! His power exceeds that of your wildest imaginings! He will lead the Sakar system under a new banner. And eventually, all of makind will bow at his feet!”
The cultist was so close now that their noses were almost touching. Lurching forward, the rope around Ludvigs neck cut into his wind pipe as he bit into the cultist’s face.
The man screamed and raised his shotgun. From behind, the man-monster roared and grabbed the back of Ludvigs head. As he was lifted by the abomination, Ludvig kicked the barrel of the shotgun upward. The cultist fired three times. One shot tore into Ludvigs shoulder, one went wide and the last cut through Ludvig’s noose and hit the masked face of the man behind him.
Letting out a cry, Ludvig dropped to the floor as the monster toppled backwards behind him. Kicking out with his legs, he hit the stomach of the remaining cultist and knocked him to the floor sending the shotgun flying across the room.
He had to act fast. Rolling towards his weapons, he managed to grab one of his knives between his bound hands, cutting his palms in the process. Working quickly he began to cut through the rope around his wrists. Across the room the cultist was getting back up.
“Stay down!” Ludvig roared, sending a rush of psychic energy towards the robed man. A sharp pain cut through his brain as he did so but, sure enough, the cultist sat back down with a dumbfounded expression on his face.
Ludvig finally managed to free his wrists when, suddenly, a guttural roar came from behind him. The man-monster was getting back up. Ludvig grabbed one of Stubpistols frantically and fired all six rounds into the eight foot monstrosity before it could bring it’s weapon to bear. The creature screamed and flailed wildly before hitting the ground a second time. It’s heavy stopped.
Cutting through the rest of his binds, he staggered to his feet. Blood was running from his nose and his head pounded furiously from his psychic attack.
He gathered his equipment and turned to the cultist sitting on the floor. The man’s face was stuck in a dazed expression and drool poured from his mouth. No wonder they worshipped a rogue psyker if this was how weak of constitution they were. He fired a round between the man’s eyes and took a moment to collect himself.
His windpipe bruised, shoulder ravaged and body beaten half to a pulp, Ludvig thanked the Emperor for his miraculous fortune. By right he shouldn’t have survived at all. Hoping his luck would stay with him, he turned to the door to leave. They must have been alone or someone would have heard the gunshots, he thought. Regardless, he kept a pistol drawn and made his way out of the room.
So what do you think? Good? Bad? God awful? Comment below.
