"40k is among these infinite universes like a diamond in the ruff,
standing as a testament to the resilience and tenacity of the human
race. As it wheels into view, the very fabric of this universe looks
frayed, desperate, like a piece of rope straining under a heavy load,
but which refuses to snap. Nowhere else is our dogged determination to
survive against all odds so plainly displayed, or so harshly put to the
test. They may not be “real” in the way we normally use the word, but
the souls who exist within that bleak reality are still to be both
pitied and admired. Across the omniverse of myth and legend, created
and sustained by those of us lucky (or unlucky, as the case may be)
enough to live in the “real” world, 40K shines forth as a beacon of
inspiration to us all, as an example of courage and, if not hope, at
least stubborn defiance in the face of inevitability. Most people say
that 40K is grimdark. I disagree. 40K is the poem "Do not go gentle
I've been feeling very unfulfilled, very lonely and angry lately. Feeling like nobody cares, nobody gives a crap. Feeling like there's nothing anymore and that my little basket of worries is starting to overfill, getting ready to topple over once again. I don't feel right in my skin anymore. I don't feel well. I'm tired and I can't stop thinking about how tired I am. I'm annoyed and sick of feeling sick and alone and tired and angry. I'm just done with most things right and I think I need to change something. I need to do something. I don't like this. I hate all this. Whatever.
This one's both abrupt and long winded. Proceed with caution.
I mostly wrote this little thing to do some fun dialogue and talk a little about the world. I can only hope you all can bare through it.
Thunder played in the skies above the old city of Grimshaw.
Thick sheets of rain blanketed the streets like a death shroud, making
the squat stone buildings that lined them only vague silhouettes in the
cold. Men and woman rushed to their homes for shelter; a few drenched
guardsmen stood grim and watchful, one hand holding a lantern whose dim
light glowed wanly before them. Among the abandoned streets and
flooded alleys of the old city stood the door of a decrepit flophouse,
too leaky and filthy now to attract much custom save a few thieves and
beggars that wander in from the street. The owner of this dismal
establishment, one Malcolm Shanks Harlow,—M.S. to what little there
still remained of his friends—sat in a torn armchair by the hearth,
smoking a melange of drugs he…