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Sins of the Fathers, A IVth Legion Log (Now with Titans!)

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Like a Phoenix from the Ashes


I feel the bolter kick backwards into my hands.


The whisper-crack sound follows the feeling almost immediately, and I see the hi-ex shell hit the snarling World Eater in the throat, punching through the lightly armored gorget and pitching him back into the dust of the hill. His dirty white gauntlets are stained red as they try to stem the flow of blood, and I see the life leave him even as I am locating a new target. He was not the first brother I have murdered, and he will certainly not be the last.


The bolter kicks again. Once. Twice. Three times. Two more astartes die by my hand. One, bare-headed, stumbles and looks at me as he falls, hate etched in his face. I will never forget it, nor the faces of the countless other warriors that I have slain this day.


I stand amongst the dead bodies of various Legionaries, but more importantly, I stand amongst my fallen brothers, and amongst all the progress and hope of mankind. I stand witnessing the death of a glorious era, and the birth of a darker, more violent one, full of unending war and suffering.


My brethren- those that, like me, defied the insanity of our kin- yell into my comm-bead, reporting casualties and status, adding new targets to the multitudes of hostiles in front of me. My heads-up display lights up red identifiers in response to their yells, and flashes indicators of damage taken by my armor. I see runes of my fellow warriors become dark and cold, a detached part of my mind telling me that I will never see these comrades again.


Jets scream over my head as fighters dogfight in the heavens above. Below them, tanks fire shells and energy blasts that tear gaping wounds in the swirling morass of astartes, and in turn are blown up by missiles and heavy weapons. Battle Titans stride the world, dueling, looking more like gods than war machines. They devastate each other, reflecting the seething hatred of the astartes underfoot.


My ammo counter drops to 0. Ducking below the rocky outcropping I am behind, I push the catch, and pick out a fresh magazine from my hip. The one I choose has AP stenciled on the side. I load it into the well and rack the slide. The ammo count resets on my HUD. I rise up just in time to see a black Thunderhawk bearing the sigil of the XIXth corkscrew into a formation of Word Bearers.


I frown. A bad death, but helpful, in a way.


To my right, a group of Iron Hands take advantage of the impact to cut down a swathe of disoriented Word Bearers. I take satisfaction from seeing the squad leader beheading their Chaplain. To my left, a squad of XVIII Legion surround a World Eaters Predator. Their meltas fire bright beams, cutting through the tank and rendering it into so much scrap metal.


The distraction gives an opportunistic foe a chance to attack me in close combat. I turn, and barely have time to pump a round into his torso, shredding it utterly. He still moves, and so I draw my power sword from its sheath at my hip, and ram the blade into his neck. Blood soon stains the dirt below him.


My chronometer indicates that it is the 3rd hour of the 2nd day. It feels like an eternity since the beginning of the action. Reports begin to stream in of a company force of Emperor’s Children heading my way, even as the first Cataphractii, bedecked in violet armor chased with gold breaks through the Iron Hands ahead. The odds of my survival decrease rapidly. I only have a few magazines left, and like many of my brothers, will soon be reduced to hand-to-hand combat.


Pausing momentarily, I bring my scope towards my eye, sighting down the crosshairs, and whisper a phrase that has found new meaning since the start of this wretched fight.


“Iron Within. Iron Without.”


-Vek’saron Khyze, “The Iron Scorpion”, Former Vigilator and Warsmith of the 52nd Grand Battalion.




Welcome to the second telling of the tale of the 52nd Grand Battalion; The Wayward Sons of Perturabo, true sons of Terra.


Some of you may recognize the models you'll see in this thread- specifically, those of you who were/are on Warseer in the Imperium Project Logs. Those of you that don't- welcome to my pride and joy- the 52nd Grand Battalion of the IVth Legion Astartes.


The Wayward Sons of the IVth were originally designed to reflect the nature of the mid-heresy era, meant to represent an army of the shattered legions at around 2000 points, their first thread on Warseer being designed as a quick log narrated from the perspective of a non-astartes attached to the survivors' fleet. However, the army quickly grew from humble beginnings and took on a life of its own- inspiring change in the force that I hadn't even thought of, forcing me to kill off certain characters who I had no desire to see gone. It also prompted me to consider their pre-heresy campaigns and actions, which I soon realized would define the 52nd Grand Battalion as much as my stories would- In short, they evolved from a simple project into a complex beast of an army.  


I struggled to find a way to retroactively follow characters and advance the storyline with their first log, and ultimately lost my drive to write about them as time wore on. However, with the crash at Warseer, I realized I may have lost their stories forever, and decided to rebase myself to B@C after participating in L&TII and posting some of my models on various sub forums, realizing that the 30k community here was strong and vibrant.


Now, here I am, writing my first plog at Bolter and Chainsword. Hopefully, this log will reignite my passion to tell the stories of my resin soldiers, and help me wok on them and expand the force to be one I would have never expected. Already, the original goal of 2000 points was shattered, with my Battalion sitting at ~3500 points, sans allies. Maybe in a year's time, It'll be twice that number.


Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy, and let me know what you think of my IVth Legionnaires.



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Thanks guys! I hope I don't disappoint! http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/tongue.png



Shield-Officer Garrack cursed audibly for the thousandth time in an hour. Were this any other day, the people around him might have stopped and stared at the Officer unleashing a veritable barrage of insults and slurs towards those directly opposite him.


As it was, most of the people around him couldn’t hear him. They were too busy being dead.


Peeking over the lip of the trench he hid in, he saw nothing but smoke and fire coming from the no man’s land ahead before a hail of solid rounds chewed into the remainder of the parapet. He ducked back behind the trench wall, and looking along its length, he saw nothing but bodies and mud, and all that was left of the disaster that had been the Johran Khataphrakti’s assault on the city.


What few soldiers remained from his battalion were cowering, praying, or firing ineffectively with their Shock-Carbines, hoping beyond hope to make some kind of impact on the defenses ahead. The cohesion of the battle-force had been utterly broken, and the distinction between squads was a joke. This assault, planned so meticulously by high command, had splintered and ground to a halt in less than a day. The last reports Garrack had heard before the comms went down were that the Johran 12th and 15th regiments had been routed by the vaunted Legiones Astartes. Even Lorgar's lauded sons had been fought to a bloody standstill at the Northern Edge, blunted by a concentrated force of armor and aerial assets.


The trembling in the ground below brought Garrack back to reality. Turning back towards the hell ahead, he watched the boxy form of a Spartan Assault Tank trundle into view, iron hull crushing the bodies of his men underneath its bulky frame. Its tracks were covered in gore and mud, and it suddenly stopped right before the trench lip. With a bang, the hatches on its front and sides blew open, and the hellish red light of the vehicle bled into the dark murk of the battlefield. He sat, open mouthed, as a full squad of astartes disembarked rapidly, walking through the sporadic fire directed at them as if it were rain. The astartes were wearing steel armor emblazoned with a skull of iron, and Garrack felt despair as he realized who they were.


IVth Legion. The Iron Warriors.


He watched in horror as they pressed forwards, undoing an hour’s worth of advances in a few minutes. Reactive shells blew holes into the scattered Johran, and within moments of dropping into the trenches, they were hunting down the fleeing survivors like vermin in a trap. Bolter fire resounded throughout the trenches, and Garrack sank to his knees in despair.


Cradling his head in his arms, Garrack felt, rather than heard, the astartes before him speak out. Its voice was impossibly deep, and through the helmet speaker came out a snarling, contemptuous combination of syllables.


‘Targets eliminated at Secondary, encountered possible item. Orders?’


Garrack looked up, and saw the iron plated monster standing before him with his head cocked to the side, staring directly at the Shield-Officer behind his bronze faceplate. His right arm held a massive bolter, its cavernous barrel blue and still smoking. His left arm, distinguished by the small shield set into his pauldron, ended in an iron fist, its blood covered fingers clenching and relaxing repeatedly. The mark III armor he wore was chipped and worn, and the hum from the power source attached to his back set Garrack’s teeth on edge.


A second later, the left fist shot out and hauled Garrack a meter into the air. The shield-officer gasped and struggled to be let down, but the astartes’ arm was unyielding.


‘Affirmative, Alpha. Items deemed as excessive. Moving on to Tertiary.’


With lighting reflexes, the right arm brought the bolter up, and the maw of the weapon was aimed directly at Garrack’s head. He felt his pants grow wet.


‘Sire, please…spare me. I…I have information.’


The words flowed from Garrack’s throat before he knew what was happening. As he said them, a dam broke, and tears filled his eyes.


In response, he heard a strangulated snort escape the legionary’s vox, and it spoke once again.


‘How pathetic.’


The bolter fired.



Vyrr Tactical Squad

Comprising of the most elite of the 52nd Grand Battalion's Tactical Legionaries, Vyrr Tactical squad has become pre-eminent amongst its peers, owing to their discipline, experience, and combat record- one that is almost unmatched by any other squad in the 52nd.
Informally known as the "Originals", the astartes who bear this title carry little to no open indication of their experiences, apart from the use of the shield motif seen most clearly on Legionaries Asov and Vakkan. It is theorized that the inverted sword on a field of black is a reference to the Fable of the Kudjon Ghol, and translated from Olympian, literally means "Honor Amongst Those Shamed", a fitting idea for the "Originals" of Vyrr Tactical, who were some of the few that managed to make it off planet during the massive slaughter that took place at Istvaan V.
Already a closed off and tight-knit group before the Betrayal, the loss and betrayal of their Legion brothers to Horus' schemes and the scale of the massacre that they experienced has only furthered their resolve and distrust of friendly forces, so much so that they are commonly attached to slash-and-burn operations, whose goals and objectives rarely force Vyrr Tactical to engage and work with any forces outside of the 52nd's ranks.

The level of distrust in the squad is so severe that an Iron Warrior chosen to join the squad must first repaint his shoulder, taking the black field of shame, signifying his untrustworthiness and irrelevance. As he fights by their side, they judge his skill, acumen, and honor, and only when Sergeant Vyrr gives his blessing does Vyrr Tactical truly accept him, allowing the astartes to mark himself with the Iron Skull of Olympia once more.
This unique ritual can be seen in evidence here, during the Raid at Khadros, where Legionaries Jheken Szal (foreground), Maryk Voll (center), and Soca Ghaan (Rear), aspirants to Vyrr Tactical, fight under the shadow of Honorable Rhaskaon, a close friend to Veteran Sergeant Vyrr. Their actions during the raid would earn them full acceptance, and the right to fight the Warmaster's forces with the Olympian Skull on their Shoulders.
Edited by Phatsquirre1
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Tol’haryn Vyl, the Inheritor, Siege-Lord of the 52nd Grand Battalion

'He took up the Mantle of Warsmith after we were broken, and took on a challenge no-one else would. Your records will show him as a monster, but know that we only see him as a hero.'

-And'r Jolus, Veteran Sergeant, Jolus Despoiler Squad, to Elam Saron, Remembrancer.

‘The new ruler must determine all the injuries that he will need to inflict. He must inflict them once and for all.‘
-(attr.) Nikolo Machaeavelli, Philosopher, M2.

Tol’haryn Vyl snarled as he pushed himself to his knee, his body screaming in pain, the stimms flooding his body unable to halt the surging tide of pain that he felt as he picked himself up off the ground. 

He almost slipped in his own blood, arms threatening to give out as his leg bled profusely into the cracked pavement below, but he managed to right himself, and spat bloody saliva on to the torso of the XVIIth Legion Commander lying dead at Vyl’s side. He dimly registered the fact that his axe was still embedded in the Traitor’s chest, and reached for it, recognizing the whining sound of hydraulics as his servo arm strained under the Iron Warrior’s bulk, trying to support the one-legged astartes as he regained some of his composure.

The sound of crunching gravel behind Vyl sparked his reflexes, adrenaline momentarily overcoming the dosage of painkillers that currently flooded his body. Vyl snapped around as fast as his armor’s servos would allow, Volkite Charger primed to fire.

‘Damn, Vyl. Looks like you managed to survive that frenzy. Barely.‘

Voice recognition triggered in Vyl's addled mind, the trenchant tone of the Astartes in question revealing who it was, even without the imago of Sergeant Jolus showing up on the Navarch's HUD, barely penetrating the fog of drugs that once again threatened to overwhelm the wounded astartes. He coughed up words with a growl, feeling blood spill from his lips as he forced the syllables out.

‘Get me to the Apothecaries. Now.’

Barely a moment passed before Vyl felt arms under his torso and leg, lifting him up into the air, dragging him towards a dimly lit vehicle with a staggering, uneven gait. He turned his head as the bodies of Iron Warriors and Word Bearers passed by, remembering for the first time the butchery that had occurred around him.

‘Wait, Jolus- did your squad survive?’

The Sergeant's voice came over the vox, answering Vyl’s question, a tone of regret and fatigue tinging the Marine's usual demeanor.

‘Yes, Lord. Some of us survived, although most of us did not.’

Vyl smiled inside of his helm, content with his Sergeant's answer, and finally allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness, his mouth echoing the last thought the Siege-Lord had before the darkness took him.

‘That is no matter, Sergeant. They can be replaced.’

Tol’haryn Vyl, known as either the ‘Navarch’, ‘Inheritor’, or more commonly as ‘Siege-Lord’ to the 52nd Grand Battalion, is the acting commander of the 52nd, having taken control of the Grand Battalion after the flight from Auror and Warsmith Khyze’s incapacitation.




A veteran of the 52nd’s Tyranthikos Elite, Vyl rose to command over these ruthless warriors by not only being more ruthless and deadly than any other Siege-Terminator, but by also being shrewd in his use force and strategy, reserving the lives of his warriors unless expenditure was absolutely necessary. These traits found themselves to be especially useful in void-warfare, and it wasn’t long before Vyl could be found leading Naval operations, either in the close confines of ship-boarding actions, or in larger fleet battles, giving rise to the name of Navarch, an old title of the 52nd Grand Battalion that found itself personified by Vyl.

The title, and attached symbolic rank became a rallying point of the 52nd after their flight from Auror, Vyl’s combat experience and exceptional command of the evacuation making him the natural leader of the 52nd’s efforts in the Salient Cluster.




Seen here during raid operations at Khadros, Vyl’s utilization of a IVth Legion specific helm is an twisted use of Legion Insignia, the irony of which is not lost on either Vyl or his warriors, who revel in the use of pre-betrayal IVth Legion honorifics. These markings are seen as not a source of shame, but rather as a source of pride and dark humor for the loyalist 52nd, who view themselves as true Iron Warriors, in comparison to those of the IVth Legion that betrayed the Imperium. The servo-arm and Volkite Charger borne by Vyl are typical of the access to esoteric armament prevalent in the upper-echelons of the IVth Legion, and his personalized Cataphractii Terminator plate hides the bionic replacement of his left leg, a wound suffered at the hands of the Word Bearers on Auror.


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The Duke Byzantyne

I remember the grinding tracks of the Duke Byzantyne at it crushed the ruined corpses scattered throughout the processional.

We were positioned to its left, one of the Battalion's Tactical Squads flanking our armor elements as they cut through the city’s avenues, clearing each block with efficient and ruthless precision. Vox-chatter from our brother squads called out every contact and movement, relaying pertinent information to tactical command. It was a beautiful, efficient machine.

One specific call from the squad to our left cut through the chatter, identifying a unit of XVII Legion Terminators moving down one of the causeways, the frantic back-and-forth reports coming over the vox-net betraying the effect the Terminators were having on their morale. 

Strategy dictated that the any nearby astartes would start to fortify the buildings along the causeway, setting up firing positions as heavier firepower was called up for support.

The Duke was that heavier firepower, and responded first, trundling to the causeway, rotating its turret to lock onto the heavy infantry before it. The enemy Terminators saw the Duke and knew she was trouble, turning to fire at the battle-tank, their auto-cannons and bolters chattering at her. Of course, Zastris, her commander, didn't care. He knew what his girl could handle, and an auto-cannon was evidently nothing to him. The Duke just sat there, and a moment later its primary weapon pulsed and fired.

Three rapid blasts erupted from the battle-tank in quick succession, each incandescent, like the white-hot fury of an angry sun. I didn't see anything, of course, but the impact craters and detritus I looked at afterwards told me what I needed to know- the first pulse landed just in front of the terminators, likely singing their armor and shields. The second shot burst amongst them, probably overloading the fields protecting them, leaving them bare to the third blast, which landed in the middle of the squad.

As the afterimages danced away from our eyes, we saw the resulting carnage, with well over two thirds of the enemy targets dead. The last two Terminators, bleeding profusely, staggered forward, making it just a few yards more until the Byzantyne’s Heavy bolters and supporting tactical marines cut them down. When Zastris had finished with the Terminators, he just turned the Duke around, and we kept moving forward, as strategy dictated.

I've seen a lot- But seeing the power of that Predator firsthand- that's not something you just forget.

-Mem-log of Lhortan Jhard, Legionary, Kyde Tactical Squad, on Hammer 2-4, the "Duke Byzantyne".

-Hammer 2-4, The Duke Byzantyne, in action during the Raid on Khadros

One of the most revered battle-tanks in the 52's Armory, Hammer 2-4, known as the "Duke Byzantyne" to the 52nd Grand Battalion, is a rare and venerated example of the Deimos-Executioner pattern Predator Battle Tank, and has served with the IVth Legion since its outset.



Deployed heavily during the Salient Campaign, The Duke has seen the worlds of the Salient Cluster before- during the subjugation of the Adakine Triumvirate by the 52nd Grand Battalion some 70 standard Terran years ago. Now, however, she fights a different kind of war- one against her former kin, battling armor elements she once served alongside. Grie Zastris, a veteran tanker who commands Hammer 2-4, says he feels a keening sadness from her Machine spirit, and argues that she is deadlier now than ever before, something that has been echoed by the 52nd's Techmarine complement.

Whether or not this is true, the fact is that the 52nd Grand Battalion will continue to rely on the Duke Byzantyne, her plasma weaponry proving to be one of the few weapons capable of stopping the Tactical Dreadnought Armor-clad Kohanim of Sor Jakre's Word Bearers.

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 Ancient Rhaskaon

The Broken King

First Warsmith of the 52nd Grand Battalion


To die, to sleep -To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come...”

― (attr.) The playwright Shakespire, M2.



The thunderous crash of artillery rang out- the unceasing barrage mixing with the sound of thunder as shells fell with the rain on the Iron Warriors’ positions. Each round burst meters above the wall, void-shield generators further back protecting the 52nd from the constant shelling. Every being on the wall flinched at the shell’s impacts- every being except one.


The Contemptor stood immobile at the wall’s parapet; helm tilted up, looking for all the world like a man seeking solace in the stormy heavens above. Rivulets of rain streaked down the dreadnought’s body, etching dirty tracks into the worn armor of the Contemptor’s shell, pooling in the intricate designs etched onto the dreadnought’s war-plate. Flashes of exploding ordnance lit up the construct's bronzed faceplate- revealing synthetic eyes that hid the stare of a warrior who had seen far more than most ever would, the skies above the only remedy to a succession of nightmares and horrors un-countenanced by mortal beings.


‘See anything?’


The words broke the massive dreadnought’s contemplations, the *whirr-shzzt* of servos accompanying the turn of the Venerable’s head and torso to regard the warrior that addressed him; venting gasses turned to steam in the downpour, giving the machine an air of terrible power- like an Industrial age behemoth, come to life.


‘No, Sergeant. I sense nothing yet. It is quiet here, for now.’


The dreadnought turned back to its thoughts, and Kysandr took the opportunity to look over the machine. He saw steam sizzling off of the fingers on the dreadnought’s left arm, where its obsidian claw hung low. Gold and Bronze Inscriptions covered each knuckle, echoing the design on the dreadnought’s chest- the head of the ancient Mynotaur- Lord Rhaskaon’s heraldic emblem, gifted by the Legion Commander upon his promotion to Warsmith, so many years ago, before their gene-sire had been found. In contrast, the construct’s right arm terminated in a massive, heat-scarred rotor cannon, its barrel-mouths as large as Kysandr’s fist. A black banner, tattered and bare, save for a brilliant white Aquila, swayed limply above the Assault-Cannon, its unadorned features clashing with the beautifully detailed shoulder-guard from which it hung, its labyrinthine detail housing Lord Rhaskaon’s ion-shield- a gift rumored to be from House Ataman for some action many decades ago.


Every inch of the massive being before Sergeant Agathon held some sort of historic significance, and he felt humbled by the dreadnought's presence. He wondered what thoughts occupied the mind of such an ancient and heroic warrior, but before he could ask, the dreadnought lifted its massive claw, gesturing out at the expanse of no man's land. 


‘They come now. Alert Vyl, tell him that Lorgar’s heathens are moving, and Angron’s children walk with them, in company strength. They will be here within the hour. We will hold them until support arrives if necessary.’


Kysandr nodded and turned away, already moving to the relay station further back, his thoughts forgotten in the face of action.




Behind him, the dreadnought turned to watch the Sergeant, who reminded him so much of another friend- currently lying broken in orbit above, dying, like so many other faces Rhaskaon could never forget- their lives cut so tragically short, each one occupying a part of his mind, while his own grotesque life ground on- unceasing and unkind. He whispered to himself, unheard thanks to the bustle of activity surrounding him.


‘I was thinking of how far we've fallen, little brother. Thinking of the past, and what could have been.’


Ancient Rhaskaon, known alternately as the “Broken King”, and “Taurys” to the 52nd Grand Battalion, is one of the oldest astartes in the 52nd Battalion- one of the few that left Terra at the outset of the Great Crusade.




Rising in rank over the years, Lord Rhaskaon earned the right to lead the newly formed 52nd Grand Battalion into war at its inception- and is respected by many amongst the IVth Legion Astartes for his resolute and stalwart leadership, especially during the Salient Cluster Campaign, where he orchestrated the downfall of the Adakine Triumvirate alongside the XVII and XII Legiones Astartes. It was this same campaign that would prompt his internment into the sarcophagus of a dreadnought- falling during the final days of the campaign to one of the Adakine’s Vivisektorii; massive war-constructs similar in capability to the Knights of the Imperium.




While highly capable in combat, Rhaskaon has always viewed himself as more of a strategist than a warrior, and since his internment, he has lent his considerable experience to the various Warsmiths of the 52nd, acting as a councillor to each commander of the Battalion, and a mentor to the 52nd's various Navarchs and Storm-Lieutenants. Since the Betrayal, however, Rhaskaon has become increasingly active in combat operations, lending his hand to a larger number of engagements, rather than advising the 52nd’s Officer Cadre.




Seen here alongside Vyrr Tactical, Rhaskaon bears the Aquila Furvus- known as the black eagle- in place of his usual heraldry, hung alongside newly consecrated mortis notes. Typically, each sable note will list the astartes killed in a given action, and the growing number of notes affixed to Rhaskaon’s hide indicates a level of grief far surpassing his mein. 



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Thanks guys, I appreciate the compliments http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/biggrin.png I'm hoping to have more up sometime this week- just have to make sure finals don't distract me from what's really important...http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/rolleyes.gif

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Of Wounded Souls

Havoc Squad Sargaethon


'Namyr was my closest brother once, but he is long dead. Never doubt that for a moment. He died on the fields of Istvaan, and although his body may walk amongst us now, it is more shade than astartes, more spirit than man. What he seeks, I do not know, but I can only hope that he might find his way to the grave before long- granted a peace that was stolen from him in life.'

-Rudra Taskyr, Sergeant, Taskyr Support Squad.



They were dying, and they were dying hard.


Havoc Sergeant Namyr Sargaethon watched as the bridge collapsed, its support beams brutally torn from its structure by his squad, thousands of auxilia personnel and armor units falling into the chasm-river below. RAK-04 Transports, RAK-16 AFV’s, Various Main Battle-Tanks- all were lost to the iron will of gravity, and Sargaethon watched impassively as a pair of Mars-Pattern Stormhammer tanks tumbled helplessly into the depths- a waterfall of blood, flesh and metal forming for just a moment as those unlucky enough to be trapped on the bridge died.


Many astartes might have felt pride or vindication at the resulting toll of enemy dead. Sargaethon knew that both he and his squad did not. He had no interest in what glories he and his team had achieved- that was more the style of Sergeant Taskyr and his rabble. The only glory Sargaethon sought was in the mission’s success- he did not care for who or what else had suffered, or what may have happened. Friendly or enemy, good or evil, what died had died, and that was that.


He waited until the thunderous sound of collapsing iron and steel abated before turning on his heel, striding into the waiting Rhino, never once looking back at the destruction in his wake.


As he stood in the Rhino’s bay, he recalled the face hidden under the blood-red visor of his helm; cold, dead eyes- devoid of emotion of any kind- always studying, searching, ingrained training routines seeking out the weakest points in everything he saw. He waited a second more before he pushed down the memory of what lay beneath- once again shrouding the terrible disfigurement he bore for eternity under the brutal mask of his Mk. IV plate.


The four Havocs in his squad sat watching him, aware of what was happening, but they said nothing- uncaring of the moment of self-indulgence their Sergeant had just openly displayed. They knew, just as Sargaethon did, that it didn’t matter. They knew pride was weakness- and Sargaethon would never allow himself to be weak again. Not after Istvaan.


After all, pride was weakness- but victory was strength.


Unit Sigma-3-2, known as Havoc Squad Sargaethon, is one of the 52nd Grand Battalion's Havoc Support Squads, and has maintained a kill-tally far in excess of most other support units in the Battalion.




Havoc Squad Sargaethon has been a bulwark against the tides of Sol Jakre's Word Bearers and allies, taking on many times their own number time and again, always managing to emerge victorious from the fires of war. The only unit in the Battalion to escape any significant casualties so far, Havoc Squad Sargaethon has capped itself at a mere five astartes- its leader flatly refusing to accept any marine seeking entrance to this highly elite unit.


Havoc Sergeant Namyr Sargaethon, the commander of the unit, has even refused direct orders regarding the makeup and loadout of his unit- a troubling sign that has only gone unpunished due to the impressive tallies earned by Sargaethon's squad.




This transgression is only the latest in a long line of problems. Once a proud and noble marine, Namyr Sargaethon's attitude changed drastically after Istvaan V, largely due to being subjected to torture at the hands of the VIIIth Legion shortly before the 52nd Battalion's escape. His recovery, a slow and extremely painful process, was only exacerbated by the stress of the escape, and drained the marine of the vitality and comradeship he once held in great abundance- the psychosomatic wounds he suffered still plaguing him to this day.


While on the outside he is whole, his broken mind refuses to accept his return to full health, and the demons he faces have pushed him down a path that has isolated him further from the already fractious bonds so common in the IVth Legion. The few that he once called friend, such as Sergeants Zemuel Khrytos and Rudra Taskyr, have tried in vain to bring him back, but have instead been forced to watch the cold, clinical, and ruthless echo of their former friend slowly subsume whatever personality he once held.




Regardless of whatever has become of the wounded Sergeant, the fact remains that the shade that now walks among the 52nd is utterly lethal- the calculating and efficient mind now inhabiting Sargaethon's body reshaping the Sergeant into a true scion of the Lord of Iron- a worthy inheritor to the genetic legacy of the IVth Legion.


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  • 3 weeks later...

Hey everyone-


So in a bit of a different kind of post, I wanted to show you all what is on the painting bench- ETL has me all kinds of fired up.


My first pledge was of A Spartan Assault Tank, Warsmith, Praevian, Tyrant Terminator Squad, and Castellax.


As of 5/17:


Praevian and Warsmith






All together:



None of the above are done (yet) but they're close enough for me to start planning for my next pledge. I'm not sure what it will consist of exactly, but with only around 30~ unpainted marines left in my IVth, I'll probably be looking at the larger models in my collection. 


With that said, I'd like to ask you guys what I should do on my Tyrants. I was planning for the entirety of the tops of the Cyclone Launchers to be Hazard-Striped, along the lines of the artwork I've seen of them- but after reconsidering it seems like it would be a bit much with all the black on the shoulders.


The other options are to either: 

1. only stripe the currently bronzed part of the launchers, which I have seen done, and looks fairly good, or

2. apply hazard stripes to the shoulders, which would force me to remove the launchers for painting, but is closer to the fluff.


I'm leaning towards option 1, but see merit in 2 as well. In either case, I wish I had actually thought this part through before priming them. Serves me right for rushing through things I guess...http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/rolleyes.gif

Edited by Phatsquirre1
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Looking awesome, Ninja!


That warsmith is super theme-y. 


So for the Tyrants, I'd shoot for option 1. I think the small strip of hazard striping would look pretty great and it sounds like it would be far less of a pain to do compared to option 2. 

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Thanks Flint13 http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/smile.png


I think you're right about the Tyrants. Option 1 wouldn't crowd the model too much, and would be a LOT easier, although I can't deny having an attraction to the color scheme that MWG Steve used on his IW Tyrants. http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/rolleyes.gif   


I ordered some tape to mask off the cyclones yesterday, and will probably try both ideas and see which one looks better in person. Hopefully i'll remember to post some WIP photos once I get both variants painted (likely this weekend) so I can get feedback on them. 

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Hey guys,


As promised, here are some WIP shots of the Tyrants.




I tried Option 1 (The hazard stripes on the edge) but it just seemed off- after playing with the models, I moved the stripes to the main body of the Cyclones (A la MWG Steve), and liked the look a lot better.


I also tried using 2mm tape for the hazard stripes at first, but getting the lines aligned correctly was a total pain. http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/wacko.png


After doing some research online, I found that a pen was more useful to get straighter lines. I bought a Faber-Castell Artist Pen in a .35mm- suffice to say it has changed my life. Definitely some of the best four dollars ever spent. http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/laugh.png




Interestingly enough, the Cyclones ended up having a weaker bond to the models than I thought, and removing them was easy enough to do. While I hadn't intended to remove them at first, I'm really happy that they came off now. I can actually reach the full Shoulders of the Tyrants, and now I'll be able to put transfers on them without losing my mind. I'll still need to highlight the launchers a bit and paint the rest of the models, but I'm extremely happy that they've come out this way, especially since I have a huge box of FW Resin arriving next tuesday.

Edited by Phatsquirre1
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First ETL Pledge is done.


I'm really happy with how the Tyrants, Spartan, and Praevian came out. The Praevian especially, since he ended up exactly as I imagined, and gave me an excuse to use some of the other Transfers on the IW transfer sheet.


As for the Tyrants, even with all the transfers hidden, it's nice to know that there are markings under the cyclones. That said, I don't anticipate painting any more for quite some time. 


Without further ado:


(Photos redacted- aka removed thanks to the great photobucket betrayal)

Edited by Phatsquirre1
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Thanks Flint! http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/tongue.png


I agree, Warsmith Khyze is very sinister. But there's a good reason for it. Hopefully I can get it all across in his fluff post, but let's just say he's been stuck between a rock and a hard place...


On the other hand, the Spartan has been nothing short of amazing, both to build, paint, and play. I was originally very skeptical of painting such a big model, and worried I'd overcrowd it with details and stuff. However, thanks to some friendly oversight (I'm looking at you, Nova_chron) and some luck, it just came together like magic. In fact, I'd rather paint four more spartans right now with an old brush than another squad of Tyrants.  http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/msn-wink.gif

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Well guys,


looks like fluff might take a backseat right now, seeing as this beast just hit my plate:






This is my Warhound Scout Titan, Aedifex Perditae, of the Legio Crucius.


I have pledged it to ETL 2016, and hope I can get her done in time.


However, this is definitely going to be a labor of love over speed, seeing as this model is more than just another expensive toy I bought.


This Titan is something i've dreamt of owning since I got into Warhammer when I was young, and I remember seeing a Warhound, long before the Reaver came out, at the store I used to go to in middle school (Groovy Gecko's Comics and Games). The owner of the FLGS, Kelly, had a Lucius Warhound on one of the shelves, and I've always been reminded of the time he let me (a bumbling 14 year-old) look at and play with his Titan, whenever I see one pop up on a plog or website. Nothing compared to that feeling, and the thought of owning what was (at the time) the biggest FW model there was stuck in my head like caramel in my teeth.


It's been a long time since then, and sadly, Groovy Geckos is closed, but ever since then I've tried to justify buying one for myself. This summer, I found that I could, and the result is above.


I really hope I can do this model proud, and know that it will be a huge challenge for me. I'm super excited for it (maybe a little too much so, considering I made pew-pew noises as I was unboxing it), but hopefully, with some motivation and luck, I'll have this beast done before August 15th, 2016.


Thanks for reading guys,


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Hey guys,


So after a solid 4-5 days of building, pinning, dry fitting and swearing, I present this WIP of the Aedifex Perditae




She's been both a treat and devil to put together.


The hip pistons, especially, were tough, seeing as my sleep addled brain managed to glue the rings in the most awkward positions imaginable to get a good fit for the titan. http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/blink.png This in turn elicited a good hour and a half of frantic cutting, gluing, and scouring the floor for each piston as I repositioned them.




I can't say how glad I am that greenstuff exists...http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/biggrin.png


There's still a lot of sanding and other bits to be attached, but the hardest parts are done (I hope), and I'm especially happy that I managed to get a good amount of magnetization on the Warhound's Hips. Hopefully I'll have her fully built by next week, and then I can start painting this truly massive beast.

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