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Well so as to not clutter the 'Sons of Librarium Sign up thread'
http://www.librarium-online.com/foru...up-thread.html (Sons of the Librarium - Sign up Thread)
EDIT: Everyone is welcome to post their own fluff for their Marine, But if you update or add to it please don't repost the entire thing, just edit the original post and and place a date at the top as to the last edit.
I'm posting my incomplete fluff here, and i will continually edit the original post until each bit is complete.
The Exaggeration of the Inhumation of the most Hebetudinous Spartan
Pre subsumed by the Sons of the Librarium
Spartan stopped and let his ears attune to his silent surroundings, not a sound. Not that this was in any way unnerving, for Spartan was on Athenaeum Si-prima, the largest pansophical class world in Segmentum Obscurus minor. The entire 1670km diameter planet was a library, and those few scholars that had heard of it and managed to travel there were choked to silence by its majesty (although a few more observant visitors attributed this to the apocalyptic quantities of minute parchment fragments floating in the air conditioned chambers). Those few visitors would only venture as far as the first few hundred kilometres, to go further into the aisled depths was forbidden by the monks of the Library. The travellers were always struck by how, unmonkly the monks were, although they were their customary habits, they could not hide the finely honed limbs of the monks, nor their peculiar accents and quick jesting attitudes (although they rarely said anything, it was a library after all, and even those stuck in the corners of the galactic disc have rules).
Spartan suddenly dropped to a crouch and sprung forwards, tackling a prismical shape and straddled it, drawing a finely crafted pot of clag he deftly incapacitated the figure by shoving the pot under a small protrusion. In the flickering light emerging from his shoulder tallow pot he saw that it was the runaway volume from isle 6248.1823D, The Saga of Jane and Tealucis Ballicus (It has been hypothesized by many that the close proximity of so many ancient and some sentient books has resulted in the volumes imitating their contents (the monks are fairly convinced of this, as they have yet to find the valued copies Izekiel Forn’s Liber Invisiblicta even in the haunted 1000km shelves). Glancing around the small sphere of light he saw that he was not alone, several other books had rimmed the candle light, sporting a variety of hooked metal bookmarks and flaked spines that had been greased up into spikes. Making no sound at all he picked up the limp volume and started towards the nearest wall (every few hundred metres there were shafts that led into the massive returns conveyer belt (built because those that got books out had undoubtedly finished them before they got to the front desk, and the monks hated carrying things for extended periods), but the gang had stapled and repair taped the cover of an unfortunate book (Kosher Conduct in confronting vagabonds) over the flap. Stunned by such barbarity in the 700km aisle, he was an easy target for one of the gang that had thrown itself from the top of the colossal shelves, opening and closing its covers to correct its aim, before snapping shut to plummet the last 50 meters. At the last possible moment Spartan realised the trap and began to dive out of harms way, but looked up first, copping the full force of the spine in his right eye.
He was quickly mobbed by the books and beaten remorselessly by hard, metal studded covers and iron shod corners (the monks were at a complete loss as to how this gang had smelted the staples, but none had yet managed to ask). Under the thrashing pile Spartan worked his aching feet under him, before standing up, books flapping off his rising form like droplets of water, before a thin 113 page volume hurled like a Frisbee cannoned into his neck
*records traumatized by unfinishedness, Viewing session terminated*
Last edited by Spartan Command061; October 1st, 2008 at 01:16.
Seems to me like Fahrenheit 451 could cause quite the ruckus in there.
This thread is a good Idea, SpartanCommand061. Copying my fluff over from the original thread;
Haul remembers little of his life before the program of indoctrination; a desperate existence on a sprawling, rotten hive world. A thieving Juve in an Orlock warband; trading hot goods as often as stubber shots with the scum of the Underhive.
They called him 'Haul', because he stole things.
One day, Lek, arrived unexpectedly at the boy’s hovel. Haul froze. A week ago he’d impulsively stolen a stash of 'Slaught from the leader, and he'd worried it would come back on him. As the domineering drunk started, he could tell he was okay for at least another day;
'Some big shot, here in the hive; off-worlder. Gear unlike anything anyone's ever seen; and I'm not talking Van Sarr's, oh no no no'.
He raised a leather gloved finger at the boy.
'Like nothing on the hot markets'. And e's massive. Bigger than the biggest Goliath goon you ever saw. Big as a frickin' Scaly.'
The grizzled killer leant to the boy's level and gripped his shoulder painfully hard, with the hand that was missing two fingers.
'They're sayin' he's a 'Starties. And he's here recruitin'. They say he's here to see the best of the best. Of our Juves. So you're going to go show em, see? You're going to go show em you're the most brutal little Ripperjack in this whole stinking sector'.
Lek's breathe stank of the corrosive alcohol they brewed at Slav's place.
'You gets to see the galaxy, and eat hot meals. Rah rah rah...' he trailed off. Swigging from a metal canister, he jerked and shoved Haul to the settlement. They were joined by more gangers. 'Haul's not gonna let us down are you boy?' one of them unpleasently called out.
'and if you get it wrong, boy, you don't bother coming back.' hissed the Chief.
Haul scowled at the drunk. 'Hahaha, them's the breaks, rat! It's time you paid your way, and the way I see it, you've stolen enough from all of us to make this the only way.'
Down at Roachnest settlement, the enforcer bastards were in the usual defensive perimeter. They were beside one of their riot tanks; inside their visored helmets you could tell they were bricking it - but the gangers were thinking of the creds if their Juves were chosen, so no-one was kicking off. Yet.
‘We're gonna live like frickin' Spyrers, lads! You just wait.' Lek shoved Haul towards the cordoned area, where he was processed by a Sergeant flanked by twitchy, shotgun-gripping enforcers. Inside there were scrags from all most of the neighbourhoods. All were young, most were malnourished but hardy in their own way; a strength in sinew and tenacity. Many would already have been working for hive gangs. Many would already be killers.
Men in another uniform were among them now, but they were not enforcers; these were offworlders; you could hear it in their voices. Over the course of the next few hours, they thinned the crowd. The older ones were filtered down the road towards the markets. Others too malnourished or diseased were sent back the way they came. Some caused trouble, but were dragged off by enforcers before a real fight could start.
Haul scrutinised the remaining pair. A squat, bulky Goliath juve; hair spiked with axel grease, no doubt hoping for the impression of extra height. A cruel-faced Delaque youth surveyed them both through round goggles, like a sump fly. Both bore the scars and expressions of underhive hardship. They both looked strong, and cruel.
'I've seen more life in a Ratskin's vest'. Spat the Delaquin. The Goliath boy raised a pierced eyebrow 'you wanna say that again Scavvy? You want me to smack that bald 'ead of yours about a bit?'
Something unfolded from the darkness of a nearby building, and the talk stopped. It was a giant of a man, eight feet tall. He was clad in magnificent, blue and grey armour, an era apart from the primitive gear the men of this world dealt and fought with.
In his immense hands he carried a great machine of a gun; more solid and intrinsically fearful than the greatest of heavy stubbers. Further ammunition clips protruded from behind the giant's tremendous pack. Grenades pregnant with grim promise clinked at his waist, and about the Marine's neck gleamed aheavy gold pendant; a shimmering winged skull. A smaller version of that immense Boltgun was holstered to the Space Marine's hip; a weapon the boy Haul could only be able to manage with both hands.
A baritone voice began to articulate the first words of a litany, in magnificent, reverent tones. The enforcers and the soldiers stood to silent attention. The two hive scum were hushed.
As the half-understood words numbed the minds of all those in the empty street, Haul's brain fizzed;
Lek had been right; the gear on this guy alone would be worth than Roachnest settlement, including the markets. Heck, probably more than the Enforcer’s gear all put together, including their stupid robot dog.
The Astarte's skull pendant glinted.
Haul's fingers itched.