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Hmmm... I'm thinking I should leave this like it is. It would explain why this Techmarine was put in charge of this gun and not doing something actually important to the Chapter. Next step is to prime and paint him, as I now know he will fit together... mostly.

Still having issues... but making progress. Also, in my mind all Marines (except for maybe Grey Knights and Black Templars) should be dirty and messy in battle. Hopefully, I can get this thing cranked out.

Why does the Firestrike Servo-Turret have a Tactical Rock? It doesn't even connect to the model!

They are the Green Templar: hunters of forbidden relics, executioners of knowledge, and the hammer that keeps the Dark Age of Technology buried forever. Successors of the Salamanders, they strike where the Imperium dares not tread, leaving nothing alive that could betray what they hunt. FINAL COGITATOR ENTRY OF CAPTAIN SÉBASTIEN YORKE: They came aboard without ceremony. No warning chime. No challenge from the augur decks. One moment the Gloria Invictus drifted on idle in Imperial voidspace, her holds full and her ledgers clean. The next, the boarding alarms screamed like dying things. Green armor. Not Salamanders green—colder, somehow. Bone-white pauldrons marked with a templar cross. Two chapters merged into one impossible purpose. I could only guess who these Green Templar really were. I invoked my Warrant. “I am a Rogue Trader—Sébastien Yorke—of the Imperium,” I said, forcing steel into my voice. “By the authority of the High Lords of Terra—” They did not answer. They advanced, deck by deck, methodical, unhurried. Not butchers. Not raiders. Auditors. Sealing bulkheads, marking crates, tagging cogitator cores with red sigils that pulsed once and went dark. My armsmen fired. Some died screaming in fire that clung to flesh and armor alike. Others vanished under bolter fire so precise it felt personal. No warnings. No demands. Only collection. They found the vaults. I followed them, flanked by my Seneschal and what remained of my honor guard, shouting words like talismans: Warrant. Sanction. Cold Trade. I told them the artifacts were catalogued, secured, studied under Mechanicus charter. I told them I had saved worlds with the technologies they now sealed away. A warrior turned toward me. His helm lenses burned like coals. “You have saved nothing,” he said. That was the only sentence any of them spoke. They brought the seized relics to the docking bay—xenos engines wrapped in null-shrouds, crystalline cogitators older than the Imperium, weapons that hummed with sleeping suns. My life’s work. My legacy. And then Vulkan He’stan arrived. I recognized him at once. You don’t trade the stars for three centuries without learning the faces of legends. The Forgefather walked among my cargo in silence, the Primarch's Spear mag-locked at his side, his gauntlet brushing dust from devices that had cost me entire systems to acquire. Hope flared in my chest. Fool that I was. “Lord,” I said. “You see—this is sanctioned. This is lawful. This knowledge—” He stopped before a device I had never dared activate. He studied it for a long moment. Then he shook his head. Just once. No condemnation. No command. He turned and left my ship. I understood. The Green Templar waited until his vessel cleared the hangar before they began the purge. They did not destroy the artifacts first. They destroyed the records. My ledgers burned. My cogitator banks were slagged. Servitors dismantled into wet meat and scrap. I was seized, restrained, pulse-bound—not by mercy, but by necessity. The Apothecary moved among the wounded, scanning every survivor, preparing his tools. He would ensure no trace of forbidden knowledge survived. When he finally approached, I would've sworn I saw the disgust through his helmet as he recognized what was buried within me—the source of my long life. For the briefest of moments he studied it—buried, ancient, alien. The narthecium unfolded. Pressure. Heat. A wet shock. Gone. Four hundred years collapsed in seconds. The Apothecary crushed it in his gauntlet. Strength drained. Vision dimmed. The last thing I saw: green armor moving past me, methodical, unconcerned, as the charges finished counting down on the remaining vaults. I had thought the technology kept me alive. I was wrong. It only postponed the moment I became unacceptable. ☆☆☆ PERSONAL LOG: SEREN KORRAN, SALAMANDERS STORMRAVEN PILOT — DAY 47, ALPHA RIM PATROL I did not look at the ship as it burned. Hands steady on the Stormraven controls, the engine hum drowned out the void-detonations behind us. Auspex returns flared and died as Sébastien Yorke’s vessel came apart, compartment by compartment, exactly as planned. The Forgefather stood behind me, silent. I knew—everyone in the forge-clans knew—that he despised the Green Templar. Not for zeal, but for certainty. They were a tool he would never claim, only point toward the rim and loose like a blade. Because they were the best. No one hunted forbidden tech more thoroughly. No one left questions. I had seen the cargo. Xenos engines bound in prayer-chains. Devices whose light bent the air. Knowledge that could have fed worlds, healed atmospheres, ended wars I had already fought. Vulkan He’stan inspected only what he must. Human craft. Provenance traced. Lineage confirmed. Anything born of alien thought he did not touch. Anything that might have helped all mankind—destroyed. That was the limit of his mercy. The Promethean Creed teaches fire tempers. That what survives is stronger. I had repeated those words a thousand times on Nocturne. But there was no tempering here. Only selection. Only annihilation. As we cleared the blast radius, the ship’s death registered on my displays. A brief flare. Wreckage scattered. Then nothing. No life signs. No records. I said nothing. That is my shame. The Forgefather remained silent behind me, a presence like cooled steel. He had done what he could. The rest, he left to monsters. ☆☆☆ AFTER-ACTION RECORD: GT-RIM-4471 Subject: Void-vessel Gloria Invictus — Cold Trade contamination confirmed. Disposition: All artifacts, records, and biological carriers purged. Vessel expunged. No recoverable legacy remains. ☆☆☆ Somewhere in the void, as my life faded and the Green Templar disappeared into the dark, I thought I heard a whisper of my name—but no one would ever speak it again.

THE MAN IN THE BOX The Crusade Fleet hung over Mars like a crown of steel. The Verdant Oath and her escorts gleamed in the thin light, engines humming a low, patient warning. Dust storms swirled beneath the atmosphere, curling around the temples of the Adeptus Mechanicus like smoke over fire. High Sentinel Varyn Drakus walked the bridge, reviewing manifest after manifest, fleet strength, Blade assignments, and tonnage. Every calculation balanced, every number accounted for—or so he thought. Then the arithmetic failed. “One thousand and one,” said the Chapter Master. The strategium was silent save for servitors and distant engine hums. “Read it back,” he added. The human Fleet-master hesitated. Not long enough to defy him, long enough to be afraid. “One thousand and one, High Sentinel.” Drakus’ gaze hardened. Silence settled over the strategium like a fog. “Explain.” “I cannot,” the Fleet-master admitted. “The roster is sealed above my authority. This anomaly was not present an hour ago.” Drakus extended a hand. The data-slate was placed into it with visible reluctance. He scrolled. The cogitator whined, chimes stuttering, before unlocking a partition he had never authorized. Designation: Withheld Heraldry: Absent Status: Active Classification: Brutalis-pattern Dreadnought Drakus closed the slate. “No Green Templar stands interred,” he said quietly. No one contradicted him. “Locate it,” he ordered. “Do not alert the Mechanicus. Do not log the search. If questioned, you are reconciling tonnage.” He turned back to the hololithic fleet display. “If it exists,” he said, “it exists inside my Crusade. I will know why.” ☆☆☆ The Brutalis Dreadnought waited in a lower cargo hold of the Verdant Oath itself. Its ceramite was bare, talons locked in mag-lock restraints, edges deliberately dulled. Twin multi-meltas hung inert. Strange-marked tech-priests stood watch, robes layered with sigils from dozens of hands. “Deactivate the restraint fields,” Drakus ordered. One turned, mechadendrites twitching. “Authorization is restricted. This asset is under—” Drakus drew his bolt pistol and fired. The first head ruptured against the bulkhead; the others froze, logic-loops stalling. “You are aboard a Green Templar vessel,” Drakus said evenly. “There is no higher authority present.” He fired again. And again. When the last fell, the bolt pistol locked open. Drakus glanced at it, then keyed his helm. “Techmarine Rodrigo Peral,” he said. “Report. Bring the rites for Dreadnought activation. Requisition an additional magazine for my sidearm. I am short.” ☆☆☆ Rodrigo Peral completed the final rites. Power flooded the sarcophagus. Hydraulics hissed like indrawn breath. A voice emerged—deep, vox-cracked, yet carrying the cadence of a brother long in the wars. “High Sentinel Drakus. At last.” Drakus leveled his bolt pistol. “Identify.” “I am the First. A Greyshield forged by the Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl himself, of pure Vulkan gene-seed, before your Chapter received its name or its Blades. I was held in reserve—pure, untainted—until the moment came.” Greyshield? Drakus thought. Cawl’s vaults supplied our Primaris reinforcements, yes—but no record exists of a pre-founding internee. No sarcophagus was delivered with the gene-stock. This thing claims a history we never claimed. “Why were you interred?” Drakus asked. “In what battle did you fall?” The talons twitched against the restraints. “I was defeated… by a vile machine. It thought itself alive. It wore the form of Man, spoke as kin, but its heart was cold code. I struck it down, but the cost was grievous. The Mechanicus saved what remained of me. They interred me so I could serve still.” The words hung heavy. Drakus felt the chill of recognition—not of truth, but of pattern. The abomination it described mirrored the speaker too closely. “Where have you been since?” he pressed. “Name the forge where they rebuilt you. Name the Tech-Priest who sealed the rites.” A longer pause. The multi-meltas hummed faintly, as if testing power. “I… do not remember clearly. The wars blur. The void is long. I awoke here, among my brothers. That is enough.” Drakus’ gaze hardened. Vague. Evasive. No Marine forgets the forge that birthed his second life. Rodrigo Peral shifted, mechadendrites probing the hull readings. “Lord, the neural bridge reads… inconsistent. I need a second opinion. Apothecary Severo Marqués—report to the hold. Bring your auspex and bio-probes.” Severo Marqués arrived swiftly, white armor stark against the dim lumens. He knelt, connecting leads to the sarcophagus ports. Scans flickered across his narthecium display. His posture stiffened. “High Sentinel,” he said quietly, voice tight. “There are no life signs. None. The biomatter within… it does not resemble an interred brother. No secondary heart, no catalepsean node activity. It is preserved, yes—artificially—but it is wrong. Dead far longer than any Dreadnought could sustain a mind. And yet it spoke.” Drakus rested his gauntlet on the ceramite. The hull thrummed under his touch, almost expectant. “Then tell me,” he said, voice low and final, “who—or what—has been speaking through a corpse’s shell.” Drakus keyed the vox without looking away. “Peral. Prepare to vent the hold. Open the outer hatch on my mark. Eject this… thing into the void.” Silence stretched. Then the voice cracked—less lucid, more desperate. “I am Green Templar! I am the First! Forged by Cawl, pure Vulkan blood—do not cast me out!” The Dreadnought’s talons flexed hard against the mag-locks—metal groaned. “No. I have served! I purged the machine that thought itself alive! You cannot—” “You are the machine,” Drakus said evenly. “And you will serve no longer.” The restraints snapped like brittle bone. Hydraulics screamed as the Brutalis tore free, massive frame lurching forward. Twin multi-meltas whined to full charge, barrels glowing infernal red. Bolt rifles on its forearms spat a storm of mass-reactive shells, hammering crates and bulkheads into ruin. Drakus drew his power sword in a blur. The blade ignited blue-white. “Peral—hatch! Now!” He charged low, aiming for the knee joints where armor gapped for movement. Rodrigo Peral dove for the control panel, mechadendrites stabbing into access ports, overriding lockdown protocols. Warning runes flashed crimson across the deck. Apothecary Severo Marqués raised his narthecium, vox crackling urgently: “All nearby Brothers—this is Marqués! Hold breach—hostile Dreadnought asset! Reinforcements to bay seven, priority!” A squad of Chapter serfs—ship’s armsmen in void-sealed carapace, lasguns and shotguns at the ready—poured through the inner hatch at the alarm klaxons. They opened fire instinctively: las-bolts splashed harmlessly off the bare ceramite, autogun rounds pinging away like rain on adamantium. One serf screamed a Promethean litany and charged with a shock maul raised—only for a casual backhand talon to send him flying into a wall, armor crumpling. A massive talon swept in a wide arc. Marqués twisted aside, but not far enough. The claw raked across his chest plate, tearing pauldron and rib-guard in a spray of blood and ceramite shards. He staggered back, collapsing against a munitions crate, one arm dangling useless, white armor blooming red. “Marqués!” Drakus roared. Tomas Varn—barely out of his indenture, face pale under his helm—broke from the firing line and threw himself over the fallen Apothecary, lasgun blazing point-blank at the Dreadnought’s torso. The bolts did nothing. The Brutalis pivoted, one multi-melta barrel tracking. A searing beam lanced out—white-hot promethium fury that slagged Tomas Varn’s carapace in an instant. Flesh and armor vaporized in a burst of superheated steam; his scream cut short as he slumped, charred remains shielding Marqués’ body like a broken aegis. Drakus locked his mag-boots to the deck with a heavy clunk, anchoring himself against the growing pull as Peral’s overrides began cycling the outer hatch. He lunged again, power sword slashing deep into the exposed knee servo—sparks flew, fluid sprayed, the leg buckling with a tortured whine. The Dreadnought staggered, talons raking blindly. “I am one of you!” it bellowed, voice fracturing into static rage. A fist hammered down; Drakus rolled aside, the impact cratering plasteel and sending shockwaves through the hold. The remaining serfs braced against cargo stacks and support struts, gripping handholds, autoguns still barking futile defiance. Peral’s vox cut through the chaos: “Hatch at fifty percent—five seconds! Lord, the machine is fighting the cycle!” The outer hatch hissed wide. Void roared in like a living thing—sucking air, debris, loose tools toward the black maw. Mars’ ruddy glow framed the opening. Drakus deactivated one boot momentarily, lunged to Marqués’ side, and clamped a gauntlet around the Apothecary’s pauldron. With a grunt, he hauled the wounded brother back, mag-locking both boots again. Marqués groaned, secondary heart laboring, but alive. The serfs clung desperately—some to chains, others to each other—bodies straining against the gale. The Brutalis slid inexorably toward the breach, talons gouging deep furrows in the deck as it clawed for purchase. Drakus drove his sword one final time into the shoulder mount, severing multi-melta feed lines—one barrel died in a sputter of sparks. “You will serve the Chapter,” Drakus said over the howling wind, voice steady, “but not as you imagine.” The Dreadnought’s last talon slipped. It tumbled out, twisting in vacuum, ceramite glowing cherry as atmospheric friction claimed it on the long fall to Mars. Its vox screamed one final, garbled plea—“I am—!”—before silence swallowed it. The hatch sealed with a thunderous clang. Emergency repressurization hissed. Drakus knelt beside Marqués, checking the wound. Grievous, but survivable with immediate rites. The Apothecary’s narthecium auto-injected stimms. The surviving serfs slumped, breathing hard, faces ashen. One saluted weakly, blood on his gloves from a comrade. Rodrigo Peral limped over, scorched mechadendrite dangling. “The roster is correct now. One thousand. No anomalies.” Drakus stared at the sealed hatch, then at the charred outline where Tomas Varn had fallen shielding his brother. “Technology bends to the will of Man,” he murmured. “Not the other way around.” He rose. “Tend to the wounded. Secure the hold. Honor the fallen—Tomas Varn among them. The Crusade continues.” The Chapter endured—bloodied, vigilant, and one step closer to the truth of who had tried to poison them from within... And the man in the box would fight no longer.

Theoretical While building an army, one might find themselves having crossed a line, where the project begins materializing beyond the Kill-Team or individual squad level. Like models in their squads, the units begin to coalesce into a recognizable force. It's not something I can really visualize with grey plastic - the painting lends itself to the phenomenon. The small slips and errors made on specific models goes away, and the trees become the forest. Practical With my Tactical Squads and Devastator Squad complete, things are starting to come together for the Cardinal Guard's 5th Company. 1,000pts of 4th Edition Space Marines doesn't stretch very far; with 15 models complete, that leaves 6 more in power armor, a Dreadnought, and a Razorback. My opponent has been working away in the background on his Salamanders, and needs to tackle 7 Terminators (Commander, Librarian, and Command Squad) and 2 Dreadnoughts. Hobby Progress Looking at this quick snap of a Tactical Squad, he's leaning into 3rd Company's lore - these sons of Vulkan look like they've been through Hell. I'm excited to see what he does with the Terminators and Dreadnoughts. Devastator Squad Donetal (and the rest of my army) look downright inspection-ready compared to the battered Salamanders. At this point in time, with every model assembled, we could play some games. I'm juggling self-control and curiosity, playing with only painted models versus learning the rules and our army lists. Finding openings in our schedules and speed of painting will be the decisive factor.

Monday? More like FUNday when you have a brand-new Glacial Geek Battle Report! https://youtu.be/S5XVpdno1hw This week my Genestealer Cult take on the Salamanders! The call came in with an urgent message. The local Planetary Defense Force had been overrun and anarchy had taken over. Imperial Society was on the verge of collapse. The rebellion seemed to be led by a Genestealer Cult. Normally this call would be sent on to the Deathwatch, experts in purging the Alien, but this case was special. The planet in question was in the same system as Nocturn, the homeworld for the Salamanders. They could not allow a planet so close to their home to fall to vile xenos worshipers. Vulkan He'Stan himself rallied a force to go and liberate the planet. Would the Salamanders be able to root out the Cult and bring order back to the planet, or would the Four-Armed God gain another planet ripe for a Hive Fleet? Watch and find out!

I finished my Master Tu'Shan model, armed with his Thunder Hammer: Stormbearer, and his Combi-Melta: Prometheus.

I was wondering how other players tackle this. Let's say you are playing the Dragonspears, a successor chapter to the Salamanders. You want to add Vulkan He'stan to your army. Do you: A) Paint him up as normal (1st Company Salamanders), but base him like the rest of your army so he looks like he belongs (The Salamanders Forgefather is visiting your army.) B) Paint him up as a member of your army. (That's not Vulkan He'stan, that's Vul'kan Hes'tan, the Dragonspears' Forgefather!)

Hey there, I'm not quite sure if this is the right subforum but I'll ask either way. FWs Retribution introduced the Disciples of the Flame, a Shattered Legion force, which rediscovers and rescues the former Salamanders Legion Master Cassian Vaughn, does a road trip on a prototype ship called the Ebon Drake, supports a Forgeworld against Alpha Legion and Iron Warrior forces, defeats said forces and integrates the remaining IW detachment. While doing so, they start to venerate Vaughn and they even found a cult, which has a lot commonalities with another cult on the mentioned Forgeworlf od Mezoa. But that's it, or not? Everything I found belonged to Retribution and it is stated that the Salamanders themselves purged all of their records which included the Ebon Drake and her crew. Further, all evidences are hidden deep within the chambers of Terra's archives. IMHO, I really enjoyed this part of Retribution. It shows that the Salamnders can be more religious than one might assume. Further, it got a lot of potential in terms of internal struggles within the Legion itself. How would Vulkan react to them? Would the cult further spread its influence? Members of other Legion got attracted as well, even the IW leader became the right hand of Vaughn. Could this cult became a major threat to the AdMech with Vaughn being something like a prophet / entity of the Omnissiah? What might have happened to them? Purged? Becoming blackshields? Even renegades or traitors? Did they evolve into a informal Salamanders successor? Could this cult survive 10K years, only to be brought back by a Primaris force via recruited witnesses / followers? I assume that this is "just" another strand which will never be see its conclusion and which is left open for the fanbase to play with. But I wanted to be sure if there is a short story, an audio, whatever in which they might reappear? Further, if I'd be interested in Shattered Legion stories during the HH, which ones are recommandable? I've read something of an omnibus, is that correct? So overall, what do you guys think of the Disciples? Missed opportunity? Nonsense? Or what? :) Best regards, Kelborn

THE STORM BEARERS CHAPTER OF THE ADEPTUS ASTARTES Born of Man. Die for Man. Greater than Man. Origins Not all that is Man is created equal, and this stands true even for those who came of Man but have become far more than Man. The Emperor’s Angels of Death, transhuman warriors formed into Chapters, are Founded every few centuries. Not all of these Chapters are formed equally. Some are born poor, bereft even of a home world, bound to an existence of vagrancy across the stars. Auspiciously born from the blood of the 18th gene-line, in the 18th Founding, the Storm Bearers were more fortunate. To them were gifted an unconquerable fortress upon the orbiting moon of a world specially selected for suitable recruitment, as well as an immense Star Fort and numerous outer system planetary defenses with which to defend their home. The Aetna System was not only well placed to provide easy access and monitoring of several nearby subsectors, but had also come under a most unconventional siege. No enemy had yet been encountered, but evidence too substantial to ignore suggested a great threat had worked its way in. The Storm Bearers first action as an independent force was to root out and extinguish this threat, thought to be the Polyphemians, an ancient Etnaphemian myth that could potentially be the oldest known record of the foe. The Storm Bearers thought it superstition, and blamed the failure of the locals in locating and eliminating the threat on their superstitious nature. Superstitious though they may be, the threat was real. The enemy was real. The deaths of dozens of Space Marines attested to the power of the enemy, and yet such was its cunning and stealth that only the dead were left as evidence of its existence. Even the Steropes facility, a hub-bastion that coordinated the extensive network of defenses surrounding Aetna’s outermost planet, was susceptible. Analysis of recordings made on recovered Space Marine suits revealed the impossible truth. That the enemy was everywhere and yet the suit’s wearer would simply forget the creature’s existence once it had left the battle-brother’s sight. The recording was disseminated across the Chapter, and soon other recorded encounters were uncovered. Study of the creatures in the recordings commenced, and countermeasures were extrapolated and put in place. The Chapter’s Librarians began to concentrate upon the sensation of a sudden shift in their brothers’ memories; unable themselves to simply fixate and locate the xenos breed. This task fell to the Chapter’s Techmarine corps, who would modify the Chapter’s supply of suits to provide recognition whenever such creatures are witnessed, and log it so that the wearer would be reminded once the creature leaves sight. This advantage allowed the Storm Bearers to finally uncover and bring ruin upon the xenos hiding in their midst. The struggle against the xenos would last nearly two hundred years before the last uncovered nest could be put to the sword, though possible sightings and unsubstantiated reports would continue indefinitely. With the Polyphemian threat neutralized, the Storm Bearers would settle into their role as guardians, the superstitions and weaknesses of mortal man now laid bare. For millennia, the Storm Bearers would be the bulwark and the tempest both, as the Imperium required. Their exploits, particularly those of their long line of Lightning Bearers, would earn them great glory. In time, they would be given the greatest honor of providing the seed through which another Space Marine Chapter would be born. This Chapter would take the name of one who had fallen long, long ago, as the Storm Giants reborn. Home World Brontes was once a more civilized world, well onto its way into becoming a proto-Hive World. This did not suit the Storm Bearers, who wanted their world to inspire a more warrior spirit rather than simple genetic suitability. The Storm Bearers would be far from the only Chapter to affect directly the fate of their home world, but few would go so far as to reverse cultural progress and systematically destroy all evidence of an advanced civilization. The survivors, who were many as the Storm Bearers kept casualties at a minimum, formed smaller, local communities. Retained knowledge of metallurgy and other skills stalled regression in the equivalent of the Bronze Age. This setting has been encouraged and even violently enforced by the Storm Bearers. The planet of Brontes is a volatile one. Its large, harsh seas make for difficult ocean-faring, and traffic between its extensive, rocky island chains and small, isolated continents is light. The erratic orbit of its satellite moon of Mene, upon which the Storm Bearers’ fortress-monastery resides, plays havoc with the planet’s already fluctuating magnetic field. Storms of immense size and ferocity form with frightening regularity out among the tumultuous waters, their titanic fury when they hammer upon the shorelines inspiring the Chapter and giving them their name. Combat Doctrine In contrast to their Nocturnean kin, the Storm Bearers are deliberate and cumbersome, but far from slow. The Chapter maintains a large fleet of Thunderhawk vessels, preferring to arrive upon the enemy like a great storm cloud upon the horizon, though they are far from adverse to orbital deployments, drop pods striking the battlefield like bolts of lightning. Speed of delivery is imperative, their military strength gathered tight to lend the blow as much weight as possible. This preference has made them adept at offensive siege warfare, using their heavy, lightning assaults to shatter defenses, as well as to isolate and eliminate enemy commands no matter how deeply defended or concealed. Organization The Storm Bearers are strong components of the Codex Astartes, finding deviations as distasteful as any conservative Successor of the Ultramarines. Within the Chapter’s auxiliary forces there is, perhaps, a greater deal of communication and interaction than may be commonly found. Ongoing threats faced by the Storm Bearers has seen such internal organs as the Reclusiam, the Forge or the Librarium cooperate and partner for creative means of overcoming these challenges, such as the task to eradicate the Polyphemian xenokind requiring the services of the Librarium and the Forge in equal measure. Though these auxiliary formations remain separate within the Chapter’s chain of command, to an outsider familiar with other Space Marine Chapters the distinction may not be so clear. The Storm Bearers regularly maintain a crusader force tasked far beyond the borders to their realm and protectorates, and as such, the Chapter has been witnessed upon worlds and in battles across the breadth and width of the Imperium. Leadership over these crusades will fall to one commander, overseeing many companies in his command. These commanders are given the role of representing the Chapter well beyond its sphere of influence, and as such are given the rank of Lightning Bearer. This rank comes with exceptional honor and glory attached, as well as promises of future advancement. There have been more Storm Bearer Chapter Masters who had once served as Lightning Bearers than not. Beliefs The Storm Bearers came to the Aetna System bearing copies of the Promethean Creed, the spiritual treatise that continues to shape their Salamander brothers. Over time, the Storm Bearers would make changes and additions, inevitably coming to very different conclusions and the applications of their beliefs. The Cyclopean Creed, as the editions held by the Storm Bearers came to be called, has grown to place less faith in humanity than its parent Creed, finding them inherently weak and susceptible to corruption. Though such an assessment is often born of distaste, the Storm Bearers see this truth as due to their exceptional vulnerability and need for protection. The powerful gifts the Emperor and Vulkan provided the Angels of Death be not for mortal use, though it does instill a strong sense of responsibility. The Adeptus Astartes are gifted with the thunder and lightning of war, so that they can do what mortals cannot and should not. While the Storm Bearers see themselves as superior and above the general populace, their beliefs continue to bind them to humanity in service rather than in rule. Gene-seed The genetic material of the Storm Bearers remain effectively pure, what few mutative deviations exist are of little consequence. The most evident of the Storm Bearers deviations is in the improper function of their melanochrome organ. When operating at peak efficiency, the organ enables the Marine to shift skin tone for absorbing multiple levels of radiation. This organ within a son of the Promethean will malfunction, what should be temporary becoming permanent. The interaction between Brontes and Mene releases regular, periodic bursts of exotic forms of electromagnetic radiation. The Storm Bearers’ genetic legacy is affected, causing hair growth and eyes to pale and whiten, while the skin darkens in color, though far from the extent as seen by their Salamander brothers. These physical changes separate the sons of Vulkan from mortal kind, a divide the Storm Bearers embrace. Battle Cry “Fire and thunder!” http://i.imgur.com/H4zfnWk.jpg Pict-capture of a Storm Bearer survivor Outside the remains of the Steropes facility

Hello folks, It's been a while. Haven't had much time or drive to do anything 40k-related in the past couple of years but I made a few purchases here and there, and the Pile of Grey grows larger. To try and combat that, I've set myself the task to paint every couple of days and to paint the stuff that I feel like painting. In the past, I've always pushed myself to paint models for a specific project with a relatively strict deadline and it never really worked out. I'm hoping this new, more fluid/flexible approach will work better. Anyway, to start us off, I've been painting some Tyranids recently. I got the Leviathan box last year and slowly built up a 1000-point army list for an escalation league in the late summer that petered out after a few weeks. Now, in 2024, a friend of mine is getting into 40k with a fledgling Deathwatch army and I've felt motivated to put some paint onto my Tyranids with the hope that we'll be able to organise a game for some point next month. Here's the result of the first few painting sessions: - 10 Termagants - a Winged Tyranid Prime I'm currently working on the Screamer-Killer from the Leviathan box. I've also got plans to work on some Adeptus Titanicus scale models, some Necromunda gangers, and some Space Marines for both 30k and 40k. Thanks for reading this far; take care!

I've been thinking of building a Salamanders Space Marine force, but I fail miserably when painting fire/flames. Any suggestions on alternative paint schemes for all the flame patterns that decorate Vulkan He'stan and his noble pyromaniac friends?

Having finally got my hands on Inferno and reading the Space Wolves section there is mention of the Trefoil of legions which were formed in greater secrecy than the rest. Those being the aforementioned Wolves, as well as the Salamanders and Alpha Legion. The need for secrecy with the Wolves seems plainly obvious, they were the executioners, designed and trained to kill/destroy whoever the Emperor decrees, even if that is other legions or members of humanity. The Alpha Legion are a legion all about secrecy so why should their creation be any different? Although I question what about their founding required an extra level of secrecy. Based on the Wolves secrecy it is likely because it was some sort of end game requirement that the Emperor needed the Alpha Legion for that other legions couldn't know about. So the only thing I can think of is that they were maybe to be designed as a secret police either for the purpose of infiltrating the other legions and keep the Emperor abridged of any dissent or problems that could need addressing by the "Executioners". Or they were to be the secret police across the galaxy, using their ability to recruit human operatives to keep the human populace in line. So two of the three make some arguable sense for their secrecy, but what was the Salamanders legion job that required that extra level over the others? Can understand if Vulkan needed extra secrecy what with his Perpetual nature and all. But that trait doesn't seem to have exactly transferred to his sons. So what about the legions foundation required them to be kept secret from the others? Does anyone have any opinions to the idea? Or other opinions on the Alpha Legion?

WELCOME to my forge this is where i will compile whatever randomocity happens to be inhabiting my desk. Once upon a time many moons ago i finally decided to make that brave step from lurker to Frater, seems like it was only days ago but now i look back in the short time ive been on this site ive accomplished more in my hobby life than in the entire decade ive been working on these wonderful little pastic space men. And this is where i attempt to keep track of it all perhaps eventually i will learn how to do the fancy things some frater do where they put links in this cover page to all of there glorious projects but until then ill just have to try to remember to update this page on a semi regular basis ( note "try" and "remember") Anywho for the next seven months ill be working on my army for the Tale of Twenty Hobbiests. A project im extremely excited about as this will be my first fully painted army!!!! Now i just have to re-learn how to play once its all finished . But im also excited because im exploring a different side of my favorite legion The Salamanders without becoming just another Red Marked Im going to write, build, convert, and paint them to show the legions darker sons those who strayed from the promethean creed for one reason or another. WARNING i never got a grade above a C in English class i make no clames at being a profesional writer in fact i know it needs a lot of work and is now the soul reason i regret not paying more attention in those afformentioned English classes keep that in mind when reading my fluff that its written around a 3rd grade level But if you dont mind my inability to propperly punctuate and my struggles with spelling then carry on as usual or just skip to the pics whatever floats your boat. Hello my fellow plastic and resin crack addicts. I've been trolling the pages here for quite some time. In fact it's where I've gotten a lot of my best ideas, inspiration, and techniques. What with the ETL V going on I've decided it's high time I enter the fray and start contributing to the community that's already given me so much. So on to the good part. This Year for the ETL I'm hoping to bring glory to my beloved SALAMANDERS. For my first vow I wanted to stay on the small side and not bite off more than I can chew. Since having to be an adult five days a week really gets in the way of my modeling. I'm starting with my first veteran tactical squad the only one from my BAC box that will be modeled as such. They will be known as the Helkytes a squad consisting of Istvaan survivors. They're led by a young Veteran Seargeant by the name of Daario Naharis (yes I'm a game of thrones fan as well) who is equipped with a MC power axe and a combi flamer as well as artificer armor wrought by his own hands and a volkite serpenta. Since the squad has been able to re-equip and re-supply the squad is equipped with vexilla, nuncio-vox, and two meltas, and melta bombs and supposing my math is accurate that comes out to 365 pts. Once they are completed they will be joined by the rest of my Istvaan survivors some of whom will be from the iron tenth and some will be sons of deliverance. Anywho that's enough rambling for now it's time for pictures which I will try to post regularly as progress is made any C&C is always appreciated http://s33.postimg.org/ibzc1uzf3/20160605_150824.jpg how to take a screen shot http://s33.postimg.org/5ixpzvyof/20160605_160035.jpg imageupload