The Woodsman (WH40K Short Story)

The woodsman (WH40K Short story)

I remember when I was but a boy, the sweet horrors of galaxy still unknown to my blossoming mind, they came. Like monsters from the story books I would read as I grew, their forms but a deadly shadow in my fading memory. From what I hear of the survivors, they were titanic wolf like abominations, tall as three men and weighing as much as six, they tore Wood from House as one tears meat from a bone.

To say we were unprepared would be a laughable understatement.

Our knights had seen creatures like they far from the fiefdom in there hunts, there Cannons and swords tearing through there hides like paper. To them they were slight more than a nuisance, an item to distract from the larger beasts of the dead lands. But to mear peasants with rifles, they might as well been gods. Shot bounced harmlessly from there thick hide, only succeeding in showing the beasts to there next target. Some did eventually fall, but not in such numbers as our own.

We hadn’t a chance, the knights were heavily injured from there most recent conquest, there oh so noble riders locked safely on there manor.

If not for our gaurdian angel, we most certainly would have been lost.

He came not in the skin of a man, but that more similar to an armiger. Metal and wires replacing skin and veins. he wasn’t human, closer to the abominations that forsook us. He stood almost 3 meters tall, with armored skin thick as bricks. He looked as though a person who had never seen a man was told to make armor for him. Shoulder plates that extended far above his head, thick joints that could barley move without hitting each other. With him came devastating armaments. In his left hand, a strange gun, that spat shot closer to artillery than bullet, and occasionally a blast of energy like a beam of pure radiant sun. In his right he held a massive hammer, like that of an ancient Terran smith. It looked a rather impractical weapon, easily half his height and being so obviously cumbersome we at first thought it was more trophy than weapon.

You could hear the beasts spine shatter just as our expectations when it was first used in combat.

Even today, almost Fifty years later, the battle is remembered like gospel, and while acounts are Varied, it is commonly agreed upon that the woodsman slew no less than 13 beasts before they ran from my village in terror. He had taken blows that may have even incaipacted a knight, but he stood, armor torn and bloodied, he stood.

It had taken minutes before anyone spoke, the silence akin to the void of space. It’s metallic eyes fixated on a man lying dead on the side of building, gored by beasts, but still griping his weapon even in death. The woodsman strode to the fallen man, and picked him up as if he were a doll in need of sewing, and carried him to the graveyard, gently resting him against a rock. Than another, a woman who had kept the beasts from her child. For her he did the same. This continued for hours, a wordless gesture was spoken by him to our people, one not repayable in ten lifetimes. He then simply walked back into the forest, as if he was suddenly beckoned to others in need.

None of us knew why he had saved us, nor why he treated our dead. We simply couldn’t fathom anyway to comprehend what had happened. Weeks later, when the Knight were repaired and the houses rebuilt, many said we should search for the Angel machine, for it more than deserved our highest thanks. We sent search party’s in explorator tanks that had been in storage since the colony ship had landed on world all those millennia ago. The knights searched far and wide for him, needing to balance there honor with our savior. None found him. It was as if he was a phantom in the wind, gone before we even knew he arrived.

I write this now so my grandchildren may now of this tale, so that the statue in the center of the township has as much meaning to them as it does to there elders. For even now, as my bones grow brittle and my mind begins to fail me, I still know of that man, my, and many others memory’s simply refuse to forget him. He may be long gone by know, even the best of machines will fail without care. But I hope that if we see him again, it shan’t be as a lifeless automaton slumped like a corpse, but as a glorious knight striding into battle once more.

-Arnekev Glasgow, historitor Dominus of Knight Feifdom Raile.

(Please DM/Comment any criticism on this story)

Link to part #2

Imperator

Link to part one

“I stand here, a testament to your legacy, proof that you once existed” -a common phrase amoungst historitors of the imperium. The old tech

Avengers 4: Meme Machine

Avengers: Big Girls Don’t Cry

Northam

reblog by only using one word to describe what country/state you’re from

cheese

You lot realize the metro gun share thing is an art exhibit, right? The guns are made of wood, the console is non functioning, and the sign even states in fine print that the rifles are fakes.

Also kinder surprise eggs were banned because of a couple of kids choking on them (and on dying if I recall correctly) and some people said it was an risk to little kids (like really small parts on infant toys, which are banned too)

Hey america hows it that fucking Kinder eggs are illegal?

You know that those arent items for asassination, the wartime is over, Germany is peaceful.

Or are you Just forgetting there is a toy inside and Choke to death on it?

Damnit, now every time I boot up H3 I’m gonna think about this

“Carl I swear to god”

Justaerin, the terminator-armored elite cadre of the Sons of Horus legion.