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###################################000aAbADDDSGFYIOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SkreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEeeeeeeeeeee111

 

Yes very good Third Brain the ordnance assembly is progressing very well! According to the Plans of The Master, Of My Plans!!

 

Yes Seventh Brain, the eavesdropping relay from the Nanite Servitor Bugs allows me nigh total coverage across the ship! Good work, still the draconic energy power source does burn out if any of them stray too close to any powerful psychic resonance sources. It was to be expected that a certain amount of refinement would be in order. Yes, Yes my audience with Lord Akan went well and according to the Plan. I, We, The collective gestalt are, have influence on the ships of the warband. Also so it seems that as I planned, after the limited pheromone, scrap code and reversed obliterator virus introduction to the ships, their systems and environmental controls!!!!!!!!001010100111001011##1#1#000

 

Fourth Brain! Watch that Scutter assembly unit! It, They are were interferring with the Hexagremmetic Dampening Fields. ~~~~~~~010101 Ah All is fixed and fine! Blessed be the No No don't say that word, the phrasology has changed! Hail The Dragon!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 00101

 

As I was saying that the Deviant Salamander MeatBag has risen to the pre-eminent fore as Melta Gunner, however that I, We are considered as is right for a similar role although my place is tied with that of Hastur Rook, latterly of the Imperial Fists. If I could but gain more favour in this endevour I, We could gain the Melta position and get in to the other squad away from That miserable Lizard Sarganath!

 

Fourth, Twelfth and Seventeenth Brains, Dampening Fields to 110 percentiles! I, We, The collective gestalt Must Not be disturbed!! There is much as ever to formulate. SkReeeeeeeeeeeee 010101010010100101111100010101

Lol, c'mon you procrastinators, vote already, before Scion infects us all with scrapcode uploads!

 

Here's some of the more 'famous' pirate flags out there (Link to flags), for some inspiration, and so you can see the artistic style of that time if you are unfamiliar. I personally enjoy the simple and plain, yet frightening, feel such flags induce. Back in those days, seeing the Black Flag hoisted high was cause for sheer panic...and to red upon that flag was to know death was coming for you...

Sarganath and the Son of Medusa. Rook would also make sense but why tie him up like that when he could be placing explosives, determining sneaky routes through for Nightmare, troop location for Apostolos, and other things of the like? Meanwhile a melta gun could be useful for a crazed techmarine. Make the beam more acute and you have a welder, even more acute and its a gas powered sautering iron, adn it can be the opposite of both as well.
In their downloads section. The Renegades Army List is basically their Siege of Vraks list. I couldn't find it on the FW site until I googled it.

 

If you want Arkos though you still need the books. I forget which one he's in. Shame they didn't add the special characters in, although I guess there's less of an incentive to buy the books... Hmmmm...

 

EDIT: Also, in the books, there's a Nurgle list as well. Can't remember if there's a Khorne one.

Ok. I see how its going to be.

 

 

Malodrax

Two Days After the Break Out

 

 

His shoulders burned. It wasn't the sort of stabbing pain that brought regular men to their knees, tears in their eyes from the sheer pinprick agony of it. Neither was it the slow, pounding migraine pain that wore at the edges of consciousness until even the smaller amounts of light and sound were beyond bearable. No, this was the aching, burning pain that came from muscles strained beyond the stresses they were ever intended to meet, of bones bent just barely to the point of breaking -- and held that way for days on end.

 

Hastur Rook opened his bloodshot eyes, coming out of his mediatative state and opening himself up to the full sensation of pain once again. He rolled his shoulders, trying to move the steel beam chained to his arms and across his back so that at least the spurs in the surface of the beam did not dig quite so deeply into his naked flesh. It mattered little; he already had crimson wings where his blood had run down and dried across the broad plane of his back. His hands closed into fists and he slowed flexed his arms, the corded muscles of his superhuman physique straining in counter-point to the enforced cruciform it was being held in. Just as every time he did so, the beam bent, ever so slightly, but as he let the tension bleed from his arms, the beam flexed back to its original shape. It pulled his arms back up to their full extension again; his arms were not quite pulled out of their sockets, the tendons not quite stretched to the snapping point. He ground his teeth against the pain, knowing that his gaolers wanted only to see him suffer before they put a bolt in his brain.

 

A rhythmic tapping came to him; it was distant first, but as it came closer, it became easier to make out. Clang, screech, clang screech it went. Rook forced his left leg under himself and pushed up, every movement slow and purposeful. He staggered a bit as he got his right leg straightened up, but was able to keep his feet. The heavily scarred left side of his face pulled down into a frown; the right side, a bionic replacement for what was burned away by the Eldar, was obviously incapable of movement. Clang, screech, clang, screech. The sounds got louder until, finally, they halted at the front of his cell door.

 

The ancient adamantaium swung open, bathing Hastur Rook in weak, yellow light. He flinched away, his one flesh eye squinting against the sudden glare. The light was eclisped as a shadowy, humanoid form stepped between him and the source. The shape gained definition as it moved closer, resolving into the hulking form of a Mk. III Iron-armored Astartes. The warplate was obviously corrupted; spikes of bone, inlaid with glimmering steel, rose from his templar-faced helmet and the black-and-yellow hazard-striped pauldrons. The rest of armor was the color of bare iron. It had obviously seen battle recently -- there were pockmarks from bolt round impacts, a giant dent in the left side of the chestplate that looked amazingly like the imprint of a fist, and several jagged rents from chainsword hits. Rook growled deep in his throat at the site of his tormentor, and unleashed a gobbet of bloody spittle that splattered against the skull icon graven into the center of the armor's expansive chest. Its wearer laughed, a deep rasping chuckle distorted into a static-filled rumble by the helmet's vox-emitters. The Iron Warrior reached up and removed the helmet, presenting Rook with the face of his enemy for the first time in all his months of captivity.

 

"Hello, Sergeant," Warsmith Welund Kranz said, his voice like the sound of gravel being ground under foot. His face was criss-crossed by old scars, a metal plate covered his skull from above the brow and back across the cranium to the base of his neck, and his teeth had all been replaced by machine steel prosthetics that glinted dully in the light. The Warsmith leaned in closer to Rook, his lips spreading into a thin smile. "And how are we today?"

 

Bowed by the weight of the spar across his shoulders, Rook forced steel into his spine. He straightened up, grinding his teeth against the pain, until he stood at his full height and could look the the Traitor more or less in the eye. "The Emperor is my strength and my salvation," he said through a locked jaw. "He is my high tower and my deliv --"

 

The gauntleted fist of the warsmith smashed into the augmetic side of Rook's face. He stumbled to one side, the force of the blow snapping his head around. He fell against the wall of the cell and held himself there for a moment. He pushed off, righting himself, refusing to go down to his knees.

 

Kranz laughed. "Your constitution always did impress me. . . a little." He launched another punch, burying his fist in Rook's abdomen. The Imperial Fist folded over the punch, bent nearly double. Kranz pushed him away, and though Rook stumbled back, he again refusing to fall to the ground. Coughing as his lungs fought for air, he threw his shoulders back, spar and all, and forced himself to stand straight again.

 

"You can punish my flesh all you want, Traitor," Rook spat, "but my spirit will never break!"

 

The warsmith took a step back and regarded his captive in silence for a moment. "Really." He gestured to the various damage to his armor. "Did you notice this? Did you even think to ask what had happened?"

 

Rook snorted. "I heard the gunfire. The clash of blades. Did one of your underlings try to usurp you?"

 

Kranz's facial muscles twitched, though what emotion he was hiding was lost on the Imperial Fist. "On the contrary. There was a break-out."

 

"A break-out. . ."

 

The warsmith nodded, and tapped the fist-shaped indentation in his armor. "See this? Your friend, the captain, did this. With his bare hand."

 

"Darnath?"

 

Kranz nodded. "Lysander, yes. Powerful cretin. . . but that's beside the point."

 

"And he's dead now," Rook snarled. "He did his duty -- "

 

"No he's not," Kranz interrupted.

 

"He's not what?"

 

"Dead." The warsmith crossed his arms, gauging Rook's reaction. "He lived, and before you ask, he is not back in chains."

 

"Then where. . . ?"

 

"Escaped."

 

Rook swallowed. "Escaped." The word came out in a whisper.

 

"Escaped, indeed. He broke his chains --" Rook tensed his arms again out of reflex "-- and killed his gaolers. He freed thirty-two of your companions. Twelve survived to leave my fortress, including this Lysander."

 

". . . escaped."

 

"And I thought he would come down here, where the rest of you are caged." He smiled. "But he didn't. He heard your cries, though. I watched him as he turned away, as your Brother Brant, the next cell over, waved from between the bars of his cage and screamed for release. I watched Lysander and his brothers walk away. The only way to get Brant to shut up was to put a bolter between his teeth."

 

Rook snarled and spat, "You lie!"

 

This time, Kranz allowed the smile to pull at his thin, bloodless lips. ". . . do I?"

 

The Fist gave an inarticulate scream of rage and charged the Iron Warrior, who calmly kicked one of Hastur's legs out from under him. The veteran sergeant at last fell to his knees with a grunt.

 

The Iron Warrior knelt in front of the Imperial Fist, glaring at the other Astartes until Rook finally raised his head to meet Kranz's stare. The warsmith's face, lined with age and the scars of ten thousand years of battle, still bore the same knowing smile. "Your anger is not directed at me," he said quietly. "I am your enemy, not your betrayer."

 

"You betrayed the Imperium and humanity -- your entire species!"

 

"But I did not leave you here to rot, did I?"

 

"No."

 

"I visited you personally once a week, I sent someone to visit every single day."

 

"No."

 

"Your brother -- your friend, the hero-captain -- he did not even bother to try to free you, or Brant, or Nelius, or Roget, or Ackrimmon. He did not even say good bye or vow to return for you."

 

"Stop!"

 

"We aren't the betrayers, Hastur Rook, we are the betrayed! Your precious Emperor betrayed us, just as Lysander betrayed you!"

 

"I said stop."

 

"So where is your conviction now, Imperial Fist? Where is your strength?"

 

"Shut up!"

 

"Your salvation? Your high tower? Your deliverer?"

 

"NO!" Rook screamed, swinging his right arm around, steel beam and all, and smashed it into Welund Kranz's face. The warsmith reeled back, spitting broken iron teeth and blood, to land on his back. Rook rose up, flesh-face twisted into an almost inhuman rictus, and flexed his shoulders one last time. The spar across his back groaned at the pressure. Stress fractures webbed across the bare iron as the beam flexed, then bent, and finally, with an ear-splitting crack, broke in two.

 

Kranz climbed back to his feet and grinned at the Fist. "There it is", Welund hissed. "There's the anger, the hurt, that feeds them."

 

Rook shook the chains and shattered iron from his arms, wary still of the warsmith. "Them?"

 

Welund Kranz stepped back and gestured out of the cell. "Come with me, Hastur. I have so very much to tell you."

In their downloads section. The Renegades Army List is basically their Siege of Vraks list. I couldn't find it on the FW site until I googled it.

 

If you want Arkos though you still need the books. I forget which one he's in. Shame they didn't add the special characters in, although I guess there's less of an incentive to buy the books... Hmmmm...

 

EDIT: Also, in the books, there's a Nurgle list as well. Can't remember if there's a Khorne one.

 

There is a Renegades List Errata FAQ wherein lies Arkos.

@1000heathens - Melta Gun tally, to date.

 

Sarganath: 9

Maximillian DeWitt: 7

Hastur Rook: 5

Tritus: 1

 

So is the 6th place in Squad now open as Chapter Master Ignis Domus hasn't posted a replacement for The Purinator within the 3 day limit that you gave him?

 

I vote for Hastur Rook for Icon Bearer.

WOW! everyone is just creating these amazing tales about their character!....or in scion's case a good look into his mind...er minds....

 

If only I could manage such things darnit....

 

Dewitt is quite interesting, and I really like the look into Rook's change of heart, quite in depth

@1000heathens - Melta Gun tally, to date.

 

Sarganath: 9

Maximillian DeWitt: 7

Hastur Rook: 5

Tritus: 1

 

So is the 6th place in Squad now open as Chapter Master Ignis Domus hasn't posted a replacement for The Purinator within the 3 day limit that you gave him?

 

I vote for Hastur Rook for Icon Bearer.

 

Thanks for keeping tally, mate. I started typing it up earlier, but had a family emergency and had to duck out. I'm gonna keep the voting going for a little bit longer, simply because of the roller coaster ride votes for Rook and DeWitt. A little competition within the Reaver's ranks is always welcome... <_<

 

Mr. CMID has until 2100, GMT -9, to post a new character, at which point the slot will open for any newcomers who dare raid under our Black Flag.

 

I recently got IA 9 and 10, and have been studying them religiously the last two days so as to better understand our targets, the renegades within our own ranks who participated in the Badab War, and some of the local planets. I'll let y'all know what I come up with, of course.

 

Still need votes on Meltagunner, if anybody out there still hasn't voted. Also, if anyone would like to still pitch a flag idea, I'm very open to any ideas anybody might have...

Here's my shot at a character. I thought the story was more interesting than the modeling possibilities, but oh well.

 

---

 

Philobarbaros, the Traitor, formerly of the Alpha Legion, formerly of the Emperor's Swords:

 

Philobarbaros was one of the more fortunate converts to the Alpha Legion, following the destruction of the Emperor's Swords Chapter. Like many others, the Alpha Legion's subliminal messaging had resulted in the development of a dormant personality which came to the fore on that fatal day on Ghorstangrad. However, during his development, by miraculous chance, he had missed the one sign that would have inculcated absolute loyalty to the Legion. While he desecrated the Aquila and repainted his armor to match the color of his new confederates, he hid his disinterest behind a dark-green mask and paid lip service to the Legion's inscrutable dogma.

 

This would serve to save his life two centuries later, when, on a Hive World close to the Maelstrom, he and his squad-mates were attacked by members of a Genestealer cult. Philobarbaros' last thought before everything went dark was a recognition of betrayal: for all its secrecy and all its spies, how could the Legion not have known of this xenos threat? But his rage was forgotten when he awoke surrounded by the corpses of his squadmates, and was replaced by horror: he knew he should have died. He knew what his still living meant. And he knew that he could never return to the Legion, tainted as he was. Unsurprisingly, this thought did not bother him. He had betrayed his comrades once: he could do so again.

 

He wasted no time: hijacking a Rogue Trader vessel, he piloted it to the Maelstrom, where he traded the ship, the navigator, and Legion secrets for passage to the Eye of Terror. There he sought out Fabius Bile, and asked him to remove the foul taint from his body. He was ground down from sleepless months (for the one time he slept, he dreamed of alien horrors, barren worlds, and a ravenous, commanding choir of voices that demanded absolute obeisance) and had little to offer, even in the way of service. Yet Bile accepted him for the challenge the operation required.

 

It took countless months of agonizing experiments. There were times when he was kept painfully awake (for would not dare to be sedated) on the table, cut open, and even temporarily forgotten as Bile's attention was caught by some new oddity. New organs were replaced and then removed as the alien taint tried to take hold. New methods were tried and then abandoned. It seemed as though Bile was always teetering on the edge of failure, which drove the Manflayer to greater extremes as the procedure took on personal importance: he would not be bested by xenos filth! Finally, however, after an operation that lasted a fortnight, Bile pronounced Philobarbaros 'cured', as it were.

 

The Traitor Marine looked at himself: his body was a scrawl of scars and his skin was paler than he had ever remembered it being. One eye was now a different color than the other, a new dark green set against his natural gray. Strangest of all, he had no memory of the time he was Bile's patient. It was later revealed that his old personality, the one that still saw itself a member of the Emperor's Swords chapter, had returned to the fore, and had born the entirety of the agony. Amused, Bile had said, "At the beginning, it denounced me and mine in the name of the False Emperor. By the end, it was quite, quite mad."

 

With a strange fondness for his pet project, Bile had sent Philobarbaros on his way, to the Maelstrom. He took shelter from his former comrades under the watchful eye of the Tyrant of Badab until the opportunity to serve under Akan the Reaver presented itself. With nothing else to do, he pledged his loyalty to the King of a Thousand Heathens, knowing exactly how much his word was worth.

 

He still does not sleep. While his dreams are no longer marked by a horror from beyond the stars, he would prefer not to face the figure that now stalks his dreams: a mad echo of his former self, clad in the white and gold of the Emperor's swords, screaming the words of the oaths he broke, and the treachery he wreaked upon his own gene-seed.

 

---

 

I'll admit, I'm not a fan of the length of the name, even if I enjoy the irony it implies (φιλοβαρβαρος means 'lover of barbarians, or foreigners' - it was used on Herodotus when he refused to participate in the chauvinistic 'superiority' of Greek culture, and spoke of the history of other, barbarian nations. I'd be open to other suggestions.

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