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Monday, 16 February 2015

Hour of the Wolf - A Space Marine Battles Novel

Hi everyone.

Dark end of the Street have been incredibly fortunate recently, managing to procure a preview copy of the new Black Library novel by acclaimed hack fiction writer Laurie Goldring, so without further ado, we are proud to present:

Hour of the Wolf
By Laurie Goldring

Wind howled with reckless abandon over the razor sharp peaks above setting up a dirge like unto a thousand wailing ghosts. Icicles hung from outcrops, some playing host to the frozen, lifeless bodies of failed aspirants who had been left on the face as a stark warning against weakness and failure. Snow and shards of ice billowed in deadly gusts of slicing, biting wind from a leaden, murky sky overhead. This was Fenris, land of eternal winter and shifting ice, home to the legendary Adeptus Astartes Chapter, The Space Wolves. It was pure fucking cold.

“It is pure fucking cold today!” growled Skulfi Beardhammer from behind his thick, manly beard. He was a wolf of a bear of a man encased in ancient ceramite covered with intricate gilt-work and runes that burned with a crisp, blue light that hurt the eyes to linger on.

“Bah, this is not cold.” Spat the grizzled Longfang Growly Old-Beard, grizzledly “Why I remember one felwinter when...”

“Yes, that’s great brother.” Interrupted Skulfi, tactfully “Anyway, what about all these chaos cunts cutting about down the bottom of our mountain? They’re Khornate ones, so they’re a bit angry and that.”

“Our situation is dire brothers.” mumbled Olaf Threebeardson “Most of the Great Companies are on the great hunt and the Fang is besieged. We must consider all possible strategies to secure the sanctity of our sacred home. The Fang must stand!”

“I could do a mass?” suggested Wolf Priest Magnus Magnussonson.

“And my axe!” added Gimli, irrelevantly.

“I could do a prank call!” suggested Lukas the Trickster.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. That’d be great. Thanks.” replied Skulfi.

“Right then. I can pretend that I’m a Chinese takeaway – I can do the voice and everything, (bit racist) – and tell them that they’ve phoned in an order for delivery and they have to come and collect it!”

“Wow, that’s brilliant that is. Isn’t it lads?” asked Skulfi, smiling encouragingly. There was a mumbled assent from the assembled Space Wolves.

“Right, so, which one should I phone then?” asked Lukas.

“Phone?” asked Skulfi, peering uncertainly over the edge at the milling Chaos Legions below “Oh yeah, phone Khorne. That’ll be good.”

“Erm... the Blood God? That one?”

“Yeah, phone him mate. That’ll be brilliant.” There was a chorus of quiet agreement from the Space Wolves in attendance. Lukas smiled at them uncertainly.

“Anyone got his number?”

“No, but I think it’s somewhere in the hall of records at the very, very bottom of the Fang. Or you could just ask one of the Chaos marines outside for it.”

“Ah. Righto.” Said Lukas “I’ll just erm... go and get it then. Right. See you later for a bit of feasting and saga telling and that then brothers.” He walked through his brothers and into the great portal cut into the living rock. They watched him until he was lost to shadow, each quietly honouring the blood claw’s dedication to the chapter .

“Cunt.” Said Skulfi.

“Aye!” agreed  Threebeardson “And what’s that all about replacing one of your hearts with a stasis grenade? That’s not a trick, it’s just fucking stupid!” There was agreement and a great stroking of beards before a reverential hush fell upon the brotherhood. A great shadow was cast from within the door to the fang soon followed by the enormous forms of two giant wolves pulling in their wake the Grav Sled of Logan Grimnar, the Great Wolf himself.

“Ho, ho hooooooo....” growled Grimnar in a totally un-santa like manner. All bowed their heads and fought a curious, subconscious impulse to ask for an eagle-eyes action man. “Well met brothers of the wolf. Dire is our situation. Never have we faced such peril!”

“What about the Armageddon war?” asked one of the Wolves, helpfully.

“Well, yes. That was a bit hairy.” agreed Grimnar.

“And the Horus Heresy my lord.” said another “By all accounts that one was a bit of a shiter!”

“Aye, true enough.” Said Grimnar, nodding his venerable head “But in this instance our numbers are dangerously depleted. Where are the great heroes, the notables of our chapter in this, our time of greatest need? Where is the venerable Bjorn, the fell-handed?”

“He can’t be here my lord.” said Skulfi.

“Why not? asked the Great Wolf “Does he yet slumber in the great wolf-dream?”

“No lord. His hands fell off.”

“Balls.” growled Grimnar, enigmatically. “Well, where are the others then?”

“My lord.” said Threebeardson “Lukas the Trickster has left to set in motion a cunning stratagem involving a teeny, tiny wee bit of ‘dudebro’ type racism.”

“Who?” asked Grimnar, his venerable eyebrows rising oldly above his venerable eyes which were old.

“My lord, he’s the one with the stasis grenade for a heart.”

“Bah, cunt!” said Grimnar “I mean how’s that even a trick? It’s just fucking stupid if you ask me!” There was a loud murmur of agreement and a great nodding of beards “surely there must be others. What about Chuck Norris? Where’s he?”

“My lord?” asked Skulfi “Chuck Norris is not a Space Wolf.”

“Has he got a beard?” asked Grimnar.

“Erm... yes my lord?”

“Then he’s a fucking Space Wolf.” Said Grimnar, Chuck Norrisly.
At that moment, a chainaxe cleared the edge and locked in place followed swiftly by a hellish giant in brazen, scarlet armour.
The Khornate lord was stooped low, ready to pounce.  His deadly chainaxe revved of its own volition as though hungry to gore itself on the blood of the loyal Space Wolves. He locked eyes with the mighty Logan Grimnar and spoke; his words issuing forth as little more than phlegmatic growls through his warped vox-grille “GGGNNNNNARRRRGHGGHHHG!!! WEAKLING LAPDOGS OF THE FALSE CORPSE EMPEROR (etc)!!! GGGNNNNNNNGGGGRRRRRGGGHHHH Can I have a Scalextric please?” The venerable Grimnar narrowed his lupine eyes and growled in reply.

“Have you been a good boy?” he asked in his gravelly voice which was fitting because he was a old man.

“GGGNNGGNGNNGNGGRRRRNNOT REALLY!!! I WAS TALKING ON MY PHONE QUITE LOUDLY ON THE TRAIN THE OTHER MORNING!!! GRLLLLLGGNNRHAARRRDEHARHAARRRGGHH!!! FOR THE BLOOD GOD!!!”
Grimnar reached back into his ornate grav-sled and hurled a rectangular box at his hated foe. The traitor marine glared down at the container, then reached down and lifted it over the tall crests of his helmet, brandishing the Scalextric set at the uncaring heavens “GGGNGNNGNGNGNGNNNNNGGGNAAARRRGGGHHHH!!! IT’S GOT A CHICANE!!! BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOOOOOD!!!”

“Batteries are not included, heretic.” Growled Logan Grimnar, Grimnarly.

“GNOWRGLLEEEEEEEARRGGHH (etc) I’LL JUST TAKE BATTERIES OUT THE DREADNOUGHT!!! THEY’RE MORE OR LESS REDUNDANT SINCE THE HELLFIEND PLASTIC KIT WAS RELEASED!!!” There was a confused and embarrassed silence as the Berserker’s mobile phone began to ring.

“Ha!” barked Skulfi “His ringtone is a Brotherhood of Man song!” Grimnar spat in disgust.

“Truly are the slaves of the dark gods beyond redemption."

“GGRRRGGNNNNHELLO? YES, THIS IS IRONHAKK THE SKULL-COLLECTOR. AN ORDER FOR COLLECTION? WHAT LUNACY IS THIS? I PLACED NO SUCH ORDER!!! WEAKLING LACKEY OF THE CORPSE-GOD, YOU HAVE SEALED YOUR FATE!!! I WILL BATHE IN YOUR ENTRAILS AND PLACE YOUR POLISHED SKULL AT THE FEET OF MY MASTER, (BUT TOTALLY NOT IN A RACIST WAY. IT’S PURELY BASED ON HOMICIDAL TENDENCIES GNRRRGLLLLLEEE!!!). WHERE DID YOU SAY THE TAKEAWAY WAS? CALIBAN? WE’LL SEE YOU IN ABOUT 10 MINUTES. THANKS.” He placed his phone carefully back into his belt pouch and growled menacingly at his hated foes. “ GGNNNRRGRARRGLLEE!!! THANK YOU SANTA!!! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!!!” and with that parting sacrilegious oath, he turned and leapt from the precipice; his bulky form soon swallowed by the swirling snow and hail.

“Crom!” said Skulfi, pop-referencingly.

“Enough of these copyright infringing references my brothers. I have to travel round every planet in the Imperium before morning!” shouted Logan Grimnar, fucking off majestically in anti-gravity Santa’s sleigh.

“Well brothers.” said Skulfi “The Fang is saved thanks to our bravery and quick thinking. Truly, we have honoured primarch and chapter by our deeds this day. Now let us all go and get stasis grenades in place of our secondary hearts, then do a bit of feasting and that.”

“Huzzah!” roared the assembled wolves, their voices soon lost to the howling winds of Fenris.


THE END

Thursday, 31 July 2014

It's been a while

I've been busy, but that's no excuse for letting my blog fade away for more than a year. I suppose it comes down to a mixture of factors.

Last week I became a father for the first time and am not particularly interested in anything other than my family at present, but another constituent element over a longer period of time was my involvement in developing the brilliant sci-fi skirmish game, THON.

I was lucky enough to interview the game's creator, J R Vosovic as part of my regular writing duties for the excellent Australian gaming magazine, 'The Campaigner'. We got talking afterwards and I asked if I could contribute a short story idea set in what little I knew of the THON universe. Jon agreed and thinking nothing more of it, I sent him the opening scene to what is now - technically speaking - my first novella, (short of a novel by about 7000 words) 'Sparks'.

It was an incredibly difficult, but rewarding experience that made my revisit the way that I have subjectively criticised some of the Games Workshop writers out there. I had no idea how hard it was to write good fiction within the limited framework of an existing intellectual property, (and JR held a pretty loose leash) but now that I have, it's time to extend a heartfelt apology to Anthony Reynolds whose Word Bearers novels received some particularly unfair criticisms on this blog.

Anthony, the truth is that I wolfed your novels down whole over the space of 2 days during a trip to London. The Genestealer story arc was particularly chilling and you deserve better than the hater nonsense that I excreted here. It wasn't until I read the Grail Knight stories again that I remembered just how good a storyteller you are.

I suppose that the primary reason for stopping this blog is that I'm really, really happy with everything that Games Workshop have done since 6th edition and don't have anything to moan about or take the piss out of even if I had an inclination to do so. The next time you read this blog, (If I choose to continue it) it will be hobby based material alone. I won't be ranting, or taking the piss out of people for doing their job, but the old material will remain here to remind me about past mistakes.


Should I piss off then?
No Jervis. You're doing fine mate. You're back at the top of my favourite gaming people list where you should always have been. Sorry for being such a dick to you for years.

Well you piss off then.
 Righto! Off I piss.

Good night and God bless,

Uncle Truth x

Tuesday, 23 July 2013

What's new this week?





HEY YOU!!!

Who, me?


YES YOU. ARE YOU  A SAD, DESPERATE LONER WHO USES TABLETOP WARGAMING TO FILL AN OTHERWISE FATHOMLESS HOLE IN YOUR LIFE?

Yes.
DO YOU HAVE BUMFLUFF LIKE A WISP OF CANDYFLOSS AT THE CORNERS OF YOUR TOP LIP AND LABOUR UNDER THE MISAPPREHENSION THAT YOUR GREASY LONG HAIR MAKES YOU LOOK SOMEHOW DASHING? YOU MAY EVEN OWN A STETSON, OR FEDORA.

Yes. I look like captain Jack Sparrow. My mum says.
HAVE YOU JUST MURDERED A LADY?

What?
DID YOU MAKE HER DRESS UP AS THE CLEANER AT AN INSURANCE OFFICE THEN STOVE HER HEAD IN WITH AN PLASTIC EFFIGY OF THE BLACKPOOL TOWER THAT YOUR GRANNY BROUGHT BACK FROM HOLIDAY YEARS AGO?

The Space Needle. It was the Seattle Space Needle. Oh God... Oh my sweet Jesus, I'm going to jail...
THAT'S WHAT YOU THINK 'NEIL FROM THE YOUNG ONES', BUT YOUR FRIENDS AT GAMES SWEATSHOPTM HAVE DIFFERENT IDEAS!

You can make it go away? I won't have to go to prison?
YES. WITH THE NEW 'SUPERLY MASSIVE OVER THE TOP' CASE FROM GAMES SWEATSHOP, YOU CAN SAFELY AND DISCRETELY CARRY YOUR VICTIMS' REMAINS TO THEIR FINAL RESTING PLACE WITHOUT FEAR OF DISCOVERY. SIMPLY CHOP THEM INTO SMALL, MANAGEABLE PIECES, (WE RECOMMEND USING CUNTADELTM BODY DISPOSING TOOLS) AND PLACE THEM NEATLY INTO THE CASE. VOILA! NOW YOU CAN GO TO GREGGS AND GAMES WORKSHOP AND YOUR HOUSE AND NOWHERE ELSE UNLESS YOU HAVE A JOB IN RELATIVE COMFORT AND WITHOUT UNDUE FEAR OF REPRISAL!

WOW! THANKS GAMES SWEATSHOP! TM
DON'T MENTION IT YOU BIG CREEPY BASTARD. NOW OFF YOU TROT. THERE ARE PLENTY MORE WOMEN OUT THERE FOR YOU TO STARE AT MALIGNANTLY FOR LONG PERIODS OF TIME BEFORE BRUTALLY MURDERING FOR YOUR PERVERSE GRATIFICATION.

I will kill again.

I disapprove of stereotyping gamers in this manner! What would Tim Stanley from the Torygraph say?



Piss off Jervis.
Righto.


















Sunday, 19 May 2013

Adeptus Tits-Tanicus

Adeptus Tits-Tanicus
By Laura Goldring


The ground rumbles faintly, as though the scudding clouds in a polluted sky overhead are harbingers of some greater approaching calamity, which in essence they might be, for death approaches.

The God Machines are walking.

There is a loud pinging sound as the Warlord Titan 'Frustrum Stercore' fires its auspex. Such is the great force of the sensor pulse that the few remaining windows within a 2 mile radius falls like rain upon the rubble-haunted streets below.

The Volcano cannon, a weapon the size of a cityblock tracks with a deafening grind of colossal gears and cogs, then sparks its own miniature sun; vaporising a structure in the middle distance and leaving dancing motes of idiot light on the eyes of any who might yet survive in that hellish wasteland; that absence of sanity and decency.

"Weapons check complete my Princeps." says Moderati Gallus Vitulamen, unable to hide a note of pride "Target destroyed. Weapon operating well within safe parameters." Princeps Vetus Cunnus offers no reply. He is of the old breed, no haptics, or noospheric links. A simple nod of his withered head from within the bubbling, gloomy confines of the MIU coffin serves to assure the bridge crew of his approval.

"Very good Moderati." gurgles a tinny, artificial voice from the coffin's vocabulator grill. "Now we must seek out the enemies of the Omnissiah, for in his glory, the machine god has given mighty Frustrum Stercore the means of doing his will throughout the stars."
"It shall be done my Princeps!" replies Vetus Cunnus, overcome with enthusiasm for the task at hand.
"Helmsman, all ahead forward, striding speed." barks the terse command from the rear of the bridge.
"All ahead aye, Princeps." replies Helmsman Stultus Pungunt and so they are off, striding through the fog of war with even death fleeing before them, even though they are probably going a lot slower than a large tank, or a squadron of heavily armed bombers would.

"My Princeps, we have an auspex return." barks the short-tempered sensorium, Parvula Cole. "It appears to be a single enemy engine, Reaver class." The princeps gurgles surprise and slides closer to the glass.
"It is the will of the Omnissiah..." he whispers, reverently.
"My Princeps?"
"Never mind Moderati, never mind. Sensorium, tell me, what is the enemy engine's loadout and status?"
"Coming into full sensorium range now my Princeps... yes... I have it. The enemy has a Vulcan mega bolter, 2 carapace mounted Plasma Blast Cannon, a Chainfist and... blessed Omnissiah protect us..."
"Keep your head Sensorii. Complete your report!" barks the Princeps, angrily.
"O..of course My Princeps. Forgive me. The enemy engine has... a huge pair of tits!"
"DAMAGE REPORT!" screams the Princeps, his voice little more than a strangled gurgle of static through the bridge speaker system. Moderati Gallus Vitulamen recoils from the sonic backlash and reads from his screen.
"My Princeps, void shields are holding, but our Titan's self esteem levels are dropping, fast!"
"My Princeps! A new return. Enemy infantry column inbound from the dust storm. Traitor infantry and Skitarii in the van. They're looking at the other Titan's tits sir!"
Vetus Cunnus recoils inside his tomb of glass and preservative fluid. Through the mind impulse unit, he feels his Titan reel under the ridicule of its twisted, big-titted counterpart. He cannot help but share the God Machine's feelings of shame and inferiority. All is lost.
"My Princeps!" yells the Moderati "Engine room reports that our void shields are failing. We have to attract the attention of those enemy soldiers immediately! They're whooping and making uppercut motions with their fists like out of the Carry On films with Sid James and Barbara Windsor. Sir, in comparison with that bountifully boobed nightmare we're a poor man's Joan Sims, at best!"
"Princeps? Princeps Cunnus, you have to do something sir. Now! yells Parvula Cole."
"ENOUGH!" comes the harsh, artificial roar over the speakers, this time a definite statement of command, rather than the pathetic whine of before. "Helm, give me strutting speed, all ahead forward and wiggle the arse for good measure!"
"All ahead forward, strutting speed, Aye Princeps. Prepare for arse wiggling on 3...2...1... commencing!"
"My Princeps, some of the soldiers are looking over here. It's working!"
"We're not out of the fire yet Moderati. Engine room, this is your princeps: have the hosiery servitors prepare to release tension on the Vulcan Mega Bra and activate tissue injectors. It's time we showed this bastard some real cleavage."
"My Princeps, please reconsider! Frustrum Stercore is a slimline model. We can't match the natural curves of our opposite number. We'll just look like a push-up job!" begs the tech-priest, Stultus Retunsus.
"Advice acknowledged and disregarded Tech Priest. I accept full responsibility, now pad us up!"

There is a tense, silent moment as the awesome power of the Omnissiah's mysterious workings are put into play. Gears grind and creak as the enigmatic machineries of a lost age, a dark age are wielded once more. The very bridge shakes as damage reports flood in from all parts of the God Machine.
"It's working my Princeps! The Skitarii are shouting 'Phwoooaaarrrrr!' and one of the cultists has just made a flimsy excuse to visit the latrines! The enemy titan is reeling... Sir... It's breaking off! We've won! Victory to the Omnissiah!"
There is jubilation on the bridge as even hard-wired servitors gurgle their approval in monotonous binary cant.
"What are your orders my Princeps?" asks the Moderati, eagerly.
"Now we shoot them all with the Volcano Cannon and go home. I have a feeling that Frustrum Stercore will want to take its bra off and get into a bath with some candles."
"For the Omnissiah!" yell the crew in response.
Once more, the God Machine sets off into the wastes, it's mission over, it's upper back a bit sore...

THE END

Sunday, 17 March 2013

Something to actually do with wargaming

Here are some shite pictures of models that I painted:

Plague-cunts

Infinity Cunts

Cunts playing the loot scenario from Necromunda on my board.

As above


As above

Right. Now I can get on with being needlessly cynical. Cheers.

SCULLLZZZZZZ

Here's another exclusive excerpt from the Beige Library's next e-book, 'Really angry Space soldiers that are definitely not marines(tm)', by new writer, Laura Goldenring.

Even through the green photo-receptive lenses of his ancient helmet, the world around him was rendered into little more than a static-ridden wash of white noise and swirling energy. The city around him was a mess of rubble and broken girders. Everywhere was the detritus of war, but that was the church of his God, the God of battles; the God of Blood and Skulls to which his infeasibly long was now irretrievably linked. He was a Khornate Chaos Space Marine(tm) and that meant he was dead angry at everything. All the time.
"Grrr.... I AM DEAD ANGRY!" growled Kahrn, angrily.
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" roared Sarnak, his follower.
"SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!" bellowed Rendarr, another one of his followers. They were also Khornate Chaos Space Marine(tm) and so were also really angry all the time.
"GIVE VOICE TO YOUR RAGE BROTHER!" bellowed Sarnak; his helmeted head twitching in the throes of his lunatic passions. Kahrn growled, because he was really, really angry then told them why he was angry.
"GRRRRNNNNAARRRRRRNNNGGGGG.... I WAS ONTHE BUS THE OTHER DAY AND THIS GUY IN FRONT OF ME WAS TALKING RATHER LOUDLY ON HIS PHONE! GRRAARRRRR.....!" he rumbled.
"DID YOU CLAIM HIS SKULL?!" asked Sarnak, eagerly.
"FOR THE SKULL THRONE?" added Rendarr, unhelpfully.
"GRARRRRNNNNNN....NNNNO." said Kahrn, shaking his head, furiously. "GRRRNNNNN... I JUST TUTTED A BIT - so he could hear it mind - AND SIGHED QUITE LOUDLY. AT ONE POINT I ALSO LOOKED ROUND AND SHARED A DEPRECATING SHAKE OF THE HEAD WITH AN OLD LADY PASSENGER SEATED NEARBY. GRRRRRRAAAARRRRRRNNNNGGGGG.... (for the blood god)."
"FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" echoed his followers exultantly.
"GGRRRRRRRYES! PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE, BUT ULTIMATELY INEFFECTIVE ACTION FOR THE BLOOD GOD!!!!" howled Kahrn, waving his pitted Chainaxe Gorechild in a murderous arc before him.
"GGGNNNNNNRRRRGGG..... THEN THE OTHER DAY I WAS ON THE PHONE TO MY BANK AND THEY PUT ME ON HOLD FOR OVER 10 MINUTES WHILE CARRYING OUT A RELATIVELY SIMPLE PROCEDURE. GRRRRRNNNNNGGNNNNNN...."
"BLASPHEMY!" bayed his followers, angrily. "DOES THE TELEPHONE CALL-CENTRE OPERATIVE'S HEAD NOW ADORN THE SKULL THRONE?" snarled Rendarr, hopefully.
"GRRRNNNNMMGGGGGG.....NO HE WAS IN BELFAST AND THAT IS DEAD FAR AWAY. MY BANK HAS A ROBUST AND EFFECTIVE COMPLAINTS PROCEDURE WHICH I HAVE NOW INITIATED IN ORDER TO BE MONETARILY RECOMPENSED. GNNNRRRRGGGGG..... ALSO I HAVE MY MORTGAGE WITH THEM AND IT WOULD BE ONEROUS TO TRANSFER MY ACCOUNT TO ANOTHER INSTITUTION GNARRRRRRRGGGGGGNNNNNZZZZZ...." spat Kahrn, his voice little more than a rage-strangled cry lost amid the distortion of his helmet's vox-grille.
"ERM... FOR THE BLOOD GOD?" shouted Rendarr.
"YES, THANKS FOR THAT GRRRNNNNN... COMPLIANCE WITH LONG-WINDED AND ULTIMATELY UNSATISFYING BANKING COMPLAINTS PROCEDURES FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"
"FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" shrieked the warriors, lost in the rapturous fervour of their leader's homicidal example.
"WHAT SHALL WE DO NOW?" Spat, Sarnak.
"SHALL I RELATE THE ANECDOTE ABOUT MY RAGE UPON OPENING MY IKEA FLATPACK MAGAZINE RACK AND FINDING SOME BITS MISSING?"
"GRRRNNNN...NNNO BROTHER. THAT ONE MAKES YOU SOUND LIKE A CUNT. LET US GO TO THE SHOPS!" hissed Kahrn "AND READ ALL THE MAGAZINES WITH NO INTENTION OF MAKING A PURCHASE. FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"
"FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" screamed his followers; waving their chain-axes and racing from the scene of devastation.

The very ground beneath them trembled in the wake of their passing. They were underway once more upon their mission of murder-make. Skulls for the Skull Throne. Blood for the Blood God.

Friday, 22 February 2013

The Adventures of Matt Ward

In this week's Adventures of Matt Ward, Matt Ward begins work on the new Codex Chaos Daemons codex by Matt Ward: