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"Alex?" Alexandros, Shield-Lord of the Halcyon Wardens, swung green eyes toward his companion. Pyrrhicles stood beside him, his aged features wrought into worry. Alone among the Halcyon Wardens, Pyrrhicles was not an Astartes. Instead, he was a man who had been gifted all the Imperium could offer to bring a man a step towards an Astartes. His lined face revealed Pyrrhicles was fighting a losing battle against time. Alexandros focused on the hidden depths of anxiety within his friend's eyes. Few things could inflict such a state on the veteran champion. The Primarch gathered his thoughts before he stated the horrible truth wracking his mind. "The Emperor is gone." Confusion joined anxiety as Pyrrhicles absorbed the news, comprehension far from him. "Gone?" Straightening himself in his throne, Alexandros saw the entire bridge crew's attention was upon him. "Damage report," He ordered, his voice ringing strong and clear. The task broke their reverie. As they bustled with their new task, Alexandros whispered to Pyrrhicles' ears alone, "Gone. The Emperor is no longer with us." A fearful pause blocked the half-Astartes for a moment. "He is slain?" Pyrrhicles asked, his voice a ghost of a whisper. Was he? Alexandros wondered as his eidectic memory recalled the event. After a moment, a measure of relief passed through Alexandros. "No. No, it is not his death I have sensed." That left confusion and similar relief upon Pyrrhicles' features. "Then, how is he gone?" Alexandros' lips twisted into a frown. "I... don't know." His eyes swept across the bridge of the Elpis. "First, let us deal with the disaster we can control."

Dear Brothers of the Lost, This thread is dedicated to visualize our Primarchs. As their are only pictures of Gwalchavad, Icarion, Raktra and Alexandros, I want to see pictures from the rest. Either you could paint one or you find a prominent lookalike of your primarch. So guys, GO FOR IT. PICS FOR THE BOARD GODS!!!!

So it hit me that the Primarchs all have some pretty famous wargear, but that many of these weapons actually go unused in the world of 40k. Sure Abaddon got the talon, and Khârn got Gorechild. But other than that (and I suppose the Lion sword) most of these weapons are I guess lost with their Primarch. EXCEPT for the weapons of Ferrus Manus and Sanguinius! Apparently the Iron Hands somehow got Forgebreaker back, as did the Blood Angels for the Blade Encarmine and Spear of Tolesto. So my question is... if you were a Space Marine, would you want to break these weapons out and put them to use? Or do you think they are better suited locked up for reverence? If I was an Iron Hand I would definitely take that hammer and smash some skulls. Side-note, how does Azrael wear the Lion Helm? Does he have a big head?

Ok, so I’ve been thinking about loyalist Primarchs and how they are to return. GW likely to make as many Primarchs return as they can, simply because they’ll sell and make more $. Knowing this, I’ve been thinking about Dorn, and how if he were to return, how he could do so in a way that was plausible, interesting and not still following the previous lore. He’s already been hinted at as alive in the Beast Arises series, though I have struggled to find a way to meet the above metrics. My favorite theory had been that Dorn faked his death so he could return to the Imperial Palace, take the place of the Custodian General and never leave the side of his father. This though falls flat now that Guilliman has entered the throne room, as he would have caught his cosplaying brother. So here’s my best attempt at a Dorn return. Dorn intends to die. He has watched his father die. He has been humiliated by his fallen brother. His legion has been broken. The dream for humanity is forever lost. All that remains is an honorable death, one to end his pain and leave a memory for his gene-sons to strive over. The Primarch fights a tide of traitor Astartes in the midst of a boarding action. His gene-sons are dead. Only Dorn lives, and with the wild abandon of a man who no longer wants to breathe. The endless foes wear him down. He has been cut in dozens of places. His armor is broken and battered. Dorn watches an axe take his hand, and doesn’t care. Dorn watches the final blow come, and is happy. Finally, release. But it never lands. For the Emperor’s light breaks into Dorn’s mind, the very voice of his father commanding him to fight, that Dorn’s role is not yet fulfilled in the Master of Mankind’s plan. The Emperor unlocks the shackles within Dorn’s mind, releasing the psychic potential within. Dorn awakens. The traitors assaulting him are all dead, the dozens of bodies smoking like burnt meat. Dorn can feel his brain tingling, can feel the warp like a shadow, a presence he did not truly notice before. But more importantly, the memory of his father’s voice lingers. The Primarch flees the battle, leaving his dismembered hand. The Imperium and traitors will think him dead, and Dorn wants it so. For Dorn knows he is now a psyker, perhaps rivaling in strength of Lorgar during the Heresy. His brothers might think him mad or corrupted, his own sons such as Sigismund would be horrified. Dorn arrives at his homeworld of Inwit, and enters his abandoned palace. There on this world will Dorn explore his new abilities. He wanders the frozen wastes of this world, where he cannot attract attention. He summons daemons and slays them. He peers into the past, from Old Night to the Eldar Empire to the war between Necrontyr and Old Ones. He reaches into the warp to talk to his deceased brothers’ souls. He hurls fire and lightning from his hands, forms beautiful sculptures out of light. He rages at his father’s immense warp presence for answers that never come. Every time the Primarch’s mind is exhausted, he retreats back to his palace, and his Pain Glove. There he receives penance and solace, in thought-ending pain. Sometimes he will remain there for years at a time. Millennia pass. Dorn leaves his palace and looks to the sky. The Great Rift stretches across the galaxy. The Archangel of the Imperium is ready for his destiny. PHEW. Ok, that’s my best shot. If you can do one better, please do, I’m not entirely satisfied with this (can anyone really spend 10,000 years torturing themselves and training magic?) So please, flush any ideas you got here, even completely different ones. One more thing. If you’re tempted to simply reply with “Dorn shouldn’t return,” try to resist that urge. I totally get it, from a narrative perspective it really makes more sense if he just died. But I’m trying see if there is a way for Dorn to return without it being really dumb, as GW’s probably going to jump the shark with it.

Greetings my fellow Unforgiven. It seems like the return of our Primarch is all but certain, especially with The Knight tarot card literally mirroring his Heresy model. However this has me caught up in a bit of an issue. Would it be thematically appropriate to have the Lion leading a Successor Chapter (in my case a 3rd Generation Successor) without any Dark Angels in the force? I feel like, despite the Lion being the Primarch, without some Dark Angels in the force it wouldn't be right to have him leading it. Instead, a force lead by the Lion should be primarily Dark Angels and include representatives of their Successors. TL;DR would it be thematically okay to have the Lion leading a Successor force without any Dark Angels, or should Successors be a token force in a Dark Angels army under the Primarch?

Alright, so I’ve painted up a fair bit of Heresy stuff over the last few years but never actually posted it - time to fix that. I have a few Primarchs done and over the last 18 months I’ve painted up 2000 points of Night Lords and 2000 points of Iron Warriors based around Betrayal at Calth and Burning of Prospero respectively. Instead of just photo dumping, I might just drip feed these out. First up - Angron. First Primarch I painted. http://www.bolterandchainsword.com/gallery/image/221590-angron/ Edit: Thanks to Kizzdougs on the assist with the photos. See below, should have this sorted from now on.:)

Ok, so some context first. This is just a tiny snippet of something that wouldn't leave me alone. The idea that all the Primarchs are taken in by the humans that find them. They fall from the sky and come from somewhere else and they're taken in as blessings and such. So an idea formed . . . Bright. The child closes his eyes, an instinctual behaviour he has come to realise stops the pain in his eyes. He wanders, feeling the grit beneath his bare feet. He has only recently mastered the art of walking, his small frame toddling along in the wilderness, but he has travelled far. It is something no normal child could achieve, but he does not know that. Instead he continues to walk, searching, yearning. He follows the black shape before him on the ground, the thing that moves as the brightness in the sky circles over him. There is something wrong, he can feel it. He is alone, but he should not be. He searches for that connection, to belong. There must be someone somewhere. Noises come from behind him. Like many things moving at once. The small child turns around, his eyes squinting against the brightness. Shapes appear, big ones. A noise instinctively tries to come from the boy’s throat, but it is a new and untested act, one that hurts his dry throat and cracks his dry lips. ‘That must be him.’ The boy cannot know the sounds the shapes make are words, he has never heard them before, but a meaning starts to form in his mind, an implication of what it is meant. ‘A child? I don’t think a child could’ve come from that pod.’ ‘But sire, look at how he walks in the wastes, no child would survive a second out here, never mind weeks. We almost lost Barsha just tracking this thing. Look at his skin, it looks like its covered in oil or wax. He is no child.’ The shapes coalesce into focus. The boy has never seen himself properly, just what he can see whenever he looks down at himself, but he knows their shape. His mind instinctively feels recognition as the shapes continue to make noises, continue to talk. They are like him. They are his kind. Finally come to take him away and protect him. He feels that connection begin to bud, a link to another being through virtue of being the same. He belongs. Family, the word echoes in his mind. He toddles towards the shapes, his small legs shaking with the effort. Hands reaching out to the men before him, almost begging to be embraced and comforted. One of the men strides towards him, he is coming to take the child home. The bright hurts the boy’s eyes, he cannot see properly. He desperately reaches out for salvation, for something. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore. The boy is so close to the man now, tears roll down the child’s face. Home. That is when the spear punched through his chest. The boy is savagely rammed onto the ground, the spear tip buried in his small chest. The cold metal stings as it slices through the child’s chest and he finally finds his voice, wailing in agony as he writhes on the ground, pinned in place by the spear skewering him. ‘Die, filthy abomination.’ The man’s voice is laced with anger, with disgust, concepts the boy doesn’t fully grasp but he understands the intent. He is hated. He does not know why. He only wanted to be loved. To not be alone. The spear twists. The child screams. Then with a savage yank, the spear is ripped free, splashing the child’s skin with the hot sting of his own blood. The shape moves away, leaving the boy behind. ‘Are you leaving it alive sire?’ ‘I have pierced the things heart, it will die soon enough. I do not want to wait in this heat to watch its last breath, it has taken enough of our time already.’ The boy cannot see the shapes anymore, his chest hurts too much to move. But he can hear them move away. He can hear them abandon him. The boy lies there, his heart pumping his blood through the wound. He can feel the warmth of his blood spread over the coldness growing in his chest, it is almost comforting. He does not know of death, but his mind somehow understands this is the end. He will die, he will stop being here. The child struggles, he can’t die. He is alone, he cannot die alone. Where are the ones who love him? Are there any who love him? He is alone. He will die alone. The brightness begins to fade, his eyes closing as a creeping weakness begins to take him. It is an embrace that promises him comfort. He can feel his heart slow, the pumping in his chest is weaker now. The tears still roll down his cheeks. He is hated. He is alone. He is dying. He does not know why. That is when he feels something else begin to pump within his tiny chest, something strong and ready. A second heart. It begins to pump with a strength the boy can feel resonate deep within him. He can feel his blood become sticky as it stops flowing freely. The pain lessens, strength returns. He will not die. He does not know how, but he knows he will not die. He is hated. He is alone. But he will not die. He rises. And the life of the Primarch begins. This Primarch goes on to hate humanity, he knows he is different. He knows he is faster, stronger and smarter than the weak race that once tried to kill him. He has no mercy in his hearts for them. He goes on to kill many of the humans on his homeworld, becoming the ruler of a terrified and subservient peoples. When the Empeoror arrives the Primarch explains his hate for these people, and the Emperor understands. He spirits his son away, leaving behind a force with orders to wipe out the world that nearly cost him one of his precious Primarchs, for while the Emperor expects beasts and nature to test his sons, he did not expect humanity to. The Primarch ends up developing the view that Astartes are superior to mankind, and makes it clear wherever he is that no human may dictate or command him or his Legion. Depending on whether this Primarch exists within the Horus Heresy as a Missing Primarch or another Alternative Universe will dictate how this attitude will affect him and how his story ends.

The Xian Guardians A legion of highly disciplined warriors proficient in the hand to hand combat and diplomacy. They dedicate their lives to protect any innocent living beings, using their diplomatic talents they have been able to save millions of lives from the suffering of war. Their home world is covered in mountains each one home to different temples dedicated to the "Xian", a belief that through the respect of all things, you leave behind a legacy of peace and prosperity. Here's my first rough idea for the 2nd missing legion. A legion based on Shaolin monks and Chinese Mythology. The legions kind and overly optimistic attitude towards others has allowed them to be very successful diplomats. This is defiantly going to extend towards peaceful xenos and results in them denouncing the imperium for their genocide against any thing not human or those who don't aline with the imperial truth. (New Colour Scheme) (Old Scheme) The colour scheme for these guys is based around Shaolin temples rather than the monks. I felt the orange and black of the robes would be to obvious. Though I may integrate these colours into legion units. The original colour scheme had to much green on it and it clashed with red to much, by simply adding some gold to it to replace some of the jade it's really improved it. Rather than use the standard roman numerals I decided to use Chinese symbols. The 2 lines meaning 2.

A project I could not put down until he was done! What a great sculpt. A lot of fun and cool textures to work with. This guy got a lot of time in but I really enjoyed it.