Grandfather's Hate - Short Story - TheRedAuthar
Oct 2, 2022 22:59:51 GMT -5
Post by theredauthar on Oct 2, 2022 22:59:51 GMT -5
Grandfather’s Hate
The barracks is quiet, save for the snoring and pained whisperings of those sleeping in it. Occasionally something scratches against the window as the long toenails of the nearby bed’s occupant shifts in their sleep. Soon the officers and cult leaders will be waking up the troops and the place will be bustling. But for now…
Vinz Kellam quietly slips through the room, stepping over a few of the cultists to low on the pecking order to get a bed. None have noticed his empty one for the last couple of hours. He makes his way to a familiar face in the middle of the room. He considers waking his lackey but ultimately decides against it. Instead he slides the empty mop bucket under the bunk and slips back out of the barracks. Just a little surprise to brighten the morning.
Vinz slips into the nearby wash room and rinses the blood and grim from his hands. It’s been a long couple hours and he’d hate for it all to fall apart because someone recognized his handy work. He pauses and looks at his reflection in the cracked mirror. The mirror seems smaller again. Like his shirt, things seem to keep shrinking. It’s getting irksome.
He pauses, running his hand over the stubble on his chin. He reaches down and draws one of his knives bringing it up to his face. Suddenly he flips the blade in his hand and stabs it into the mirror.
The slaaneshi demon howls as the mirror shatters and it begins to fade. Vinz leans in, laughing, “Blood for the Blood God.”
He walks away leaving the shattered pieces of the mirror across the washroom floor.
Elsewhere, the priests of Khorne have been collecting blood in a large, boiling cauldron for weeks now. Finally it should be filled and they can summon the greater demon. The priest, a skull in hand, slowly marches up the stairs to the cauldron. But something is wrong. He feels no heat. He drops the skull and races up the last of the steps, his followers confused in his sudden change in demeanor. He runs and looks into the cauldron and roars in anger. He throws it down the stairs in anger. Nothing pours out of it as it rolls down the steps, taking out one of his followers in the process. The cauldron’s insides sparkle, freshly scrubbed. There’s a note lying on the ground, though the priest doesn’t notice. It simply says, “Just as planned.”
Tzeetch too had an operation in motion. A long and grueling spell has been written, each word carefully selected and manipulated in the write place, with the right tone. When the caster unfurls the scroll however, she is shocked to see grease stains, slime, and…we’ll pretend it’s mud. It could be something else but we’ll say it’s mud anyways. Not only are the words smeared and ruined, some are lost behind patches of filth. At the end in shaky handwriting is written, “ALL PRAISE THE PLAGUE FATHER”.
The loud wailing from the followers of Tzeetch and the angry roars from Khorne’s minions fill the air as the various cultists, blooded, and mutants awaken. Vinz laughs as he makes his way past some of the crowd. However he’s stopped as an all too familiar smell fills his nose.
“Young Kellam,” a voice like gurgling tar calls out to him, “A word if you please.”
“Dreks,” Vinz sighs, “What can I do for the followers of Nurgle today?”
Dreks holds a mop in his hands, “By chance did you leave this behind last night. The dorm dedicated to the grandfather’s children has been mopped clean.”
Vinz shrugs, “Alright, you caught me. What are you going to-”
To his surprise however, instead of berating or attacking, Dreks shakes Vinz’s hand.
“Very good work, young Kellam, Grandfather is so proud.”
“...come again?”
“The stagnant floors you cleaned had become too soft from not being able to spread further,” Dreks explains, “By cleaning it away a stronger, more potent plague has begun to grow. By opening the windows and letting the flies loose they spread the new diseases throughout the camp and with any luck the forces of the corpse emperor.”
“...they what?”
Dreks continues, “You have not yet been blessed by Grandfather Nurgle and yet you have worked so hard to better his forces. They have become so lazy and soft. You’ve reminded them of their failings and have allowed them to grow stronger still. I would not be surprised if you too will receive Grandfather’s blessing. I know you are still undecided, your efforts to please the gods clumsy and sometimes counter productive. But know Grandfather Nurgle has seen your efforts and is pleased.”
Dreks trudges away, leaving Vinz standing in the hall. Already the hand he shook has a greenish tinge and bit of slime covering it. Vinz scowls at it. He wipes it on the back of a passing cultist before stomping off towards the washroom yet again.
Somewhere deep in the void of space known as the eye a greasy, slimy laugh echoes.
“Ah the garden grows, perhaps I should bless the young undecided one. He seems to have a good head on his shoulders. Just as planned, eh Tzeetch?”
“Shut the Feth up Grandpa,” another voice squawks.
The barracks is quiet, save for the snoring and pained whisperings of those sleeping in it. Occasionally something scratches against the window as the long toenails of the nearby bed’s occupant shifts in their sleep. Soon the officers and cult leaders will be waking up the troops and the place will be bustling. But for now…
Vinz Kellam quietly slips through the room, stepping over a few of the cultists to low on the pecking order to get a bed. None have noticed his empty one for the last couple of hours. He makes his way to a familiar face in the middle of the room. He considers waking his lackey but ultimately decides against it. Instead he slides the empty mop bucket under the bunk and slips back out of the barracks. Just a little surprise to brighten the morning.
Vinz slips into the nearby wash room and rinses the blood and grim from his hands. It’s been a long couple hours and he’d hate for it all to fall apart because someone recognized his handy work. He pauses and looks at his reflection in the cracked mirror. The mirror seems smaller again. Like his shirt, things seem to keep shrinking. It’s getting irksome.
He pauses, running his hand over the stubble on his chin. He reaches down and draws one of his knives bringing it up to his face. Suddenly he flips the blade in his hand and stabs it into the mirror.
The slaaneshi demon howls as the mirror shatters and it begins to fade. Vinz leans in, laughing, “Blood for the Blood God.”
He walks away leaving the shattered pieces of the mirror across the washroom floor.
Elsewhere, the priests of Khorne have been collecting blood in a large, boiling cauldron for weeks now. Finally it should be filled and they can summon the greater demon. The priest, a skull in hand, slowly marches up the stairs to the cauldron. But something is wrong. He feels no heat. He drops the skull and races up the last of the steps, his followers confused in his sudden change in demeanor. He runs and looks into the cauldron and roars in anger. He throws it down the stairs in anger. Nothing pours out of it as it rolls down the steps, taking out one of his followers in the process. The cauldron’s insides sparkle, freshly scrubbed. There’s a note lying on the ground, though the priest doesn’t notice. It simply says, “Just as planned.”
Tzeetch too had an operation in motion. A long and grueling spell has been written, each word carefully selected and manipulated in the write place, with the right tone. When the caster unfurls the scroll however, she is shocked to see grease stains, slime, and…we’ll pretend it’s mud. It could be something else but we’ll say it’s mud anyways. Not only are the words smeared and ruined, some are lost behind patches of filth. At the end in shaky handwriting is written, “ALL PRAISE THE PLAGUE FATHER”.
The loud wailing from the followers of Tzeetch and the angry roars from Khorne’s minions fill the air as the various cultists, blooded, and mutants awaken. Vinz laughs as he makes his way past some of the crowd. However he’s stopped as an all too familiar smell fills his nose.
“Young Kellam,” a voice like gurgling tar calls out to him, “A word if you please.”
“Dreks,” Vinz sighs, “What can I do for the followers of Nurgle today?”
Dreks holds a mop in his hands, “By chance did you leave this behind last night. The dorm dedicated to the grandfather’s children has been mopped clean.”
Vinz shrugs, “Alright, you caught me. What are you going to-”
To his surprise however, instead of berating or attacking, Dreks shakes Vinz’s hand.
“Very good work, young Kellam, Grandfather is so proud.”
“...come again?”
“The stagnant floors you cleaned had become too soft from not being able to spread further,” Dreks explains, “By cleaning it away a stronger, more potent plague has begun to grow. By opening the windows and letting the flies loose they spread the new diseases throughout the camp and with any luck the forces of the corpse emperor.”
“...they what?”
Dreks continues, “You have not yet been blessed by Grandfather Nurgle and yet you have worked so hard to better his forces. They have become so lazy and soft. You’ve reminded them of their failings and have allowed them to grow stronger still. I would not be surprised if you too will receive Grandfather’s blessing. I know you are still undecided, your efforts to please the gods clumsy and sometimes counter productive. But know Grandfather Nurgle has seen your efforts and is pleased.”
Dreks trudges away, leaving Vinz standing in the hall. Already the hand he shook has a greenish tinge and bit of slime covering it. Vinz scowls at it. He wipes it on the back of a passing cultist before stomping off towards the washroom yet again.
Somewhere deep in the void of space known as the eye a greasy, slimy laugh echoes.
“Ah the garden grows, perhaps I should bless the young undecided one. He seems to have a good head on his shoulders. Just as planned, eh Tzeetch?”
“Shut the Feth up Grandpa,” another voice squawks.