Blog Archives

Character Profile: The ‘Genethief’ Hoight Perron – Corpse Taker and Warlord of the Red Corsairs

(A little piece of insight into how I prepare for writing a new story, this is a character profile for the antagonist that appeared in one of my story submissions to the Black Library.  I will often write these to help me flesh out a character’s personality in my mind.  They aren’t designed to be particularly eloquent, but rather simply to help me picture their traits in my mind and ensure I stay true to who they are.)

Character Profile: The ‘Genethief’ Hoight Perron – Corpse Taker and Warlord of the Red Corsairs

The Red Corsairs Warlord now known as the ‘Genethief’, was formerly Hoight Perron, Corpse Taker (Apothecary) and Arch-Centurion of the Astral Claws. Perron was an accomplished and experienced Apothecary when the Badab Conflict broke out, renowned as an extremely steady and level-headed warrior who spent little time on the battlefield, instead tending predominantly to the Chapter’s neophytes and those brothers who required extensive augmetic surgery to survive.

At the outbreak of the war, all battle-brothers were needed upon the frontlines, and Perron – already old by the standards of most Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes – donned his armour once more. He initially found himself operating with small Astral Claws commands, linking up with the forces of their allies (the Lamenters and Mantis Warriors Chapters, and later the Executioners) to act as a liaison and help to smooth relations between the disparate warriors. Read the rest of this entry

New Blog at Giant Bomb!

Hi all,

I’ve started a new blog over at Giant Bomb entitled ‘Fan F(r)iction’, which is about my growing descent into madness and/or professional writing and a part of the Blog Initiative.

Feel free to duck by and have a read, I would definitely appreciate comments and feedback (as I do with all my writing, fictional or otherwise).

Contact me here, in the thread at Giant Bomb, via Twitter (@TSPSweeney), or any other method you can think of, I really don’t mind.

Cheers,

Tim

A Story Drabble

The world ended.

There was no climactic disaster, no earthquake or tidal wave or volcanic eruption.  Nor was there conflict; no more than usual at any rate.

Global terrorism failed to end us. World War III was a myth that never occurred. There was none of the mutually assured destruction promised to us at the height of the Cold War.

Not for our world the beautiful, brutal death by nuclear fire, life wiped out in an instant by the folly of man.  What a parable that would have made, had anyone been alive to hear it.

But no, the end did not come in such climactic fashion.  Instead, it was heralded by little more than the wailing of police sirens, echoing from rain-soaked Sydney streets.

The world, as it turned out, died with a whimper.

Pretty One

(This is a little story to practice writing combat scenes, using a couple of minor characters from some upcoming stuff I am working on.)

Pretty One

by Tim Sweeney

“Well you’re a pretty one, aren’t you?”  said Urska Junn of the Executioners Chapter, his vicious, gap-toothed grin peeking through a fanning beard of coarse black hair

The ork responded with a snarl, thick ropes of saliva hanging from lopsided tusks.  Bizarrely, it wore a uniform of a vaguely Imperial cut, white material showing through the blood and grime of the battlefield.  Both sides of the greenskin’s chest were covered in dozens of crude medals, seemingly made from battlefield detritus, each emblazoned with the symbol of an ork skull and crossed axes.

“You like axes do you, xenos?” Junn continued his taunting.  He raised his own chain-axe, gunning the motor, the jagged teeth growling with their need to rend flesh.  “I like axes too.”

Waaagh!” the Blood Axe boss roared in response.  The greenskin, even taller than the Space Marine, reared back, raising its own weapons to the sky in a  warrior’s display of strength.  It wielded a buzzing chain-axe at least as big as Junn’s own in one hand.  The other was encased in a rusted power claw, the finger-blades crackling with deadly energy.

“Impressive,” grunted Junn as he snapped his bolt pistol up, releasing a burst of explosive shells at the ork’s face.

It must have expected the move, the claw darting up to intercept the shots, the shells detonating harmlessly within the coruscating blue lightning encircling the weapon.  The ork grinned, one of the few beings alive in the galaxy with a smile more hideous than Junn’s own. Read the rest of this entry

An Interview with a Night Lord

(A little character building exercise I worked on as I seek to turn Cerck the Night Lord into a worthy antagonist for a novel or series of short stories.  This here is a straight quote, which is a little different to anything I have done before.)

 

“Ah yes, ‘honour’.  You thin-bloods rant on and on about your honour as though you invented the concept; as though none of us knew what the word meant as we slaved away creating this crumbling Imperium you serve.  But, tell me this, Brother Kruss of the Executioners Chapter of the Corpse-Emperor’s Adeptus Astartes: Have you not done distasteful things for the sake of your honour?  Have you not attacked those you thought innocent, killed those you thought did not deserve to die, simply because honour dictated you obey your orders?

Tell me, O Honourable One, did you not betray the very Imperium who names me heretic and traitor, all to honour an oath sworn to the Astral Claws by your ancestors?

What makes you so different to me, then?  Was it enthusiasm, perhaps?  Did you have to be dragged, kicking and screaming like a child, into doing that which your honour demanded?

I gladly betrayed the Imperium, as did the rest of my Legion and my Father, Konrad Curze himself. The Imperium was built upon the corpses of the Legions – our corpses – brave warriors fighting and dying for the lies of a man who would be a God.

I gladly betrayed a Grandfather who used us, who encouraged us to be the monsters he created and then discarding us as unclean when we were of no further use.

I was a murderer, you know, back on Nostramo.  I slit more throats before my tenth birthday than you have in whatever infinitesimal  period of time you have served your upstart Chapter.  I was a murderer, a rapist, a vicious, violent criminal, and yet I could not in good conscience stand by while the Emperor condemned the Night Lords for being what his Imperium needed us to be.  How could I, a noble warrior of the Legiones Astartes, swallow my pride – my honour – while my father and my brothers were so mistreated, ordered to be destroyed by the Emperor who created us?

Kill me if you must, for I have lived and fought and killed for ten thousand years; I have murdered whole worlds and I have eaten the geneseed of loyalist and traitor both.  Death holds no fear for one such as I.

You may claim my head and have vengeance on behalf of the mouldering corpse you so fervently serve,  but remember this, O Mighty Executioner: The only difference between you and I is that, when the stakes got too high, your Chapter crawled meekly back to the bosom of the Emperor you once betrayed.

We, at least, have the honour to stand by our convictions.”

-     Lonalios Cerck (aka ‘the Faceless’), Champion of the Night Lords Traitor Legion, during his interrogation by the Executioners Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes.

 

 

 

No Such Man As He

Another one for the “My mate Tristan is a fantastic writer” file!

His story ‘No Such Man As He’ is an interestingly experimental and uniquely interactive hypertext-based piece that quite defies description (beyond being awesome)…so just click the link!

http://nosuchmanashe.com

Birth Pangs

There is a scream.

It is does not belong to a human, this scream.

It does not issue forth from a living throat; no, it is a sound far more base than that.

This scream is a primordial wail of the earth, of existence itself being torn asunder.

It is the death-rattle of safety; the whispered epitaph of hearth and home.

The wail of the banshee afore the whimper of the grave.

Eyes snap open, unfocussed.

Birth pangs.  Shattering.  Crying.  Thrust forward, the last restraint proving to be no restraint at all.

Vision swirls.  Do you spin, or does the world spin around you?

Sightless eyes see too much.  Were those faces, obscured in a cloud of snow so fast – so fast – they never existed?

Push.

Push.

Pushed?  It matters not in the end, the result is the same. The cocoon is breached. The last illusion bursts in an arterial spray of tinkling glass.

Cold air against feverish-hot skin.  No more safety.

It is almost refreshing in its own way, blinding daylight glistening off the approaching abyss; comforting, almost.

There is a scream.  There are several more.  They are human, this time.

Clarity; clarity in that last descent.

+++

“Jesus,” he mutters, watching as they pour from the surrounding buildings, their oohs and ahs of feigned sympathy small payment to witness a macabre spectacle such as this.

“Poor bastards,” he says aloud, the words as meaningless as the event itself.  A nearby old woman, her wizened, bitter-lemon face twisting into what she no-doubt thinks is a conciliatory expression, grunts at him.

He hesitates a moment, wondering what is appropriate.  What should he say? What does the old hag think is appropriate?  Should he offer to help?

He hunches, withdrawing.  Hands in his pockets, he turns and lurches away, unable to admit even within the caverns of his own tiny mind that his inner conflict is meaningless.

All he wants is to do nothing at all.

The Price of Purity

(a fun little piece I worked on briefly to help me establish a character I might use as an antagonist in a Black Library 40K pitch down the line.)

The Price of Purity

by Tim Sweeney

“I told you this would happen,” whispered Cerck as he drove his fingers through the Iron Warrior’s eyes.

He was very careful not to push too deeply, not wanting the energised talons on his fingertips to penetrate the brain and kill the enemy warrior outright. Oh no, they must pierce the eye lenses just so, and rest against the eyeballs, razored claws ever-so-gently slicing through the pupil. Vision would begin peeling away in black curtains for the instant before the gelatinous masses burst, hissing and popping in the sparking lighting field that encased the Night Lord’s gauntlets.

The Iron Warrior refused to surrender meekly, levelling a heavy punch into Cerck’s stomach even as he began to bellow in agony. Cerck took the blow easily, not bothering to dodge, his ancient armour more than a match for even the mightiest of blows.

“Now, now, a Legionary should never cry,” he laughed as the Iron Warrior’s screams intensified. Cerck took another punch to the chest, weaker this time, more frantic, ignoring it as he jabbed his thumb-talon through the mouth grill of the Iron Warrior’s helm. There was no finesse this time, just a rapid gouge that sliced the tongue down the middle. He gave a little shudder as he felt the gushing blood lap against his hand, bubbling around his claws.
Read the rest of this entry

Tales from the Great Crusade: A Thorn Among Roses

It’s been a while between updates, so apologies for that.  Still trying to find the time to work on the holiday photos (they need a fair bit of cleaning up in Photoshop unfortunately, damn underwater being so blue!), but in the meantime I figured I would post the link to my story A Thorn Among Roses, my entry in the Tales from the Great Crusade 1000-word short story contest judged by Aaron Dembski-Bowden.

Unfortunately, I came up short in the contest, but I’m still ultra proud of the story itself.  I feel it was an important stepping-stone to get into a professional mindset when it comes to writing.  I’m including the link to the forum thread the story was posted in rather than reposting it myself, as I am still hopeful it will wind up in the Great Crusade’s published anthology.  If you follow the link it’s the second story down.

Feel free to drop me some feedback as always, it is very much appreciated.

 

Cheers,

Tim

To Tread Upon the Path of God

(This piece is an experimental, stream of consciousness kind-of-horror-kind-of-not story.  It was sort of written with 40k in mind, but is not all that specific to the setting)
I walked.

The road stretched out before me, endless black bitumen steaming under a baleful, crimson sun.  I looked straight ahead, eyes never wavering.  There was nothing to see in any case, the brownish sands of the desert as lifeless and barren as the path I strode upon.

I walked.

The pain struck me then, as it always did.  It was the cold first, a million microscopic shards of ice driving through my skin, through my muscles, my bones.  Every nerve fired simultaneously, exquisite agony turning to immeasurable pleasure,  embracing me like an old friend.   I smiled as the pinpricks of blood appeared.  The aching, overwhelming agony was almost refreshing in the heat of that never ending day.

Read the rest of this entry

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