Chaos Project: World Eaters Chosen.

[Lord_Starscream]

The first true unit for my Slaanesh army.

 

Behold, Lorenzo and his Noise Marines.

 

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I decided to build these guys as a mix of Imperial and Chaos parts, namely due to the fact that these traitors are not veterans of the long war. Some marine torso, legs, and heads were used, especially any spare Blood Angel ones I had around. I've got another 30 of these guys to build, once my other Noise Marine Sonic weapons arrive. Each squad is gonna have 1 Blastmaster and 3 sonic weapons, and each champion of the 12 men squads will have Doomsirens.

 

Also: More adventures with the traitor Blood Angels.

 

They Called him Lorenzo: The Blood of Excess

 

Sanguinius Reborn:.

 

That had been the name of this mighty vessel, once the Fortress Monastery for the Exalted Angels, before the 11th Black Crusade. A Battle Barge which had served the Imperium for nearly 6,000 years before it was... repossessed. It hung in orbit around Parok II like a dark spectre, but for all its grand power, its prestige, it was certainly not what it had been at its peak. The ship was far from fully maintained, it was evident even outwardly. Its engines clearly suffered several major leaks, and several decks were made inhabitable due to being opened up to space itself.

 

Flanking it were only 2 cruisers, and 4 escorts. The Angels once flew with the best, suppoting 3 Battle Barges, 20 cruisers, and dozens more escorts and support ships. They'd fought battle after battle in the Emperor's name against countless foes, Ork, Traitors, Eldar, and always they had served bravely in the Emperor's name. But those times had died now, they were gone.

 

Sanguinius Reborn, had become the Ecstasy of Thirst. A vessel which had not been sighted in Imperial Space for nearly a 1000 years. Its hull clearly showing signs of battle, clearly showing signs of hasty repairs, and of course, it looked battered by its time in the Warp. Once noble, it was now sinister, as were its attack dogs, the cruiser's known as Vega, and Angel of Excess. Named by their Lord, their master, Lord Vega, the Exalted Angel.

 

The 13th Black Crusade had launched, and the borders around the eye had exploded into complete madness, the Cadian defences were being worn, as if the great waves of the warp had somehow turned into a storm, crashing against it. Cadia itself was compromised, as well as hundreds of other worlds. Parok II was one such world, an Imperial Fortress World. It would have normally had a full compliment of the Imperial Navy in orbit, but the crisis had drawn them elsewhere. The wolves were of course, upon their prey now.

 

In a great throne sat the deep purple and gold figure. Its face was entirely static, unchanging, bronzed Gold reflected in the dim light of the bridge.

 

“Lord Vega.” Reported one marine, standing and turning to his leader.

 

Discipline had disappeared entirely under most circumstances. The Exalted Angels, as they fled the Imperium, fell deeper into their worship of Slaanesh. Each marine in the army was consumed by his sense of self, and self-importance. Formalities were largely saved for those you feared, feared becoming the plaything of. The chapter had been obliterated almost, of the 900 marines who fled the Imperium, a formidable, but extremely reduced 150 remained. The others died, they died against their former overlords, they died fighting Daemons and other Warbands, they died fighting Eldar and Ork, and worst of all, they died fighting one another. Members of the chapter were sacrificed more then once to satiate the needs and wants of others.

 

There was only one Exalted Angel now, Vega. And his army had become his blood, his blood. They had remade themselves, only the strongest amongst them survived this transition towards their perfection. If more yet had to die in the cause of the Prince of Pleasure, then surely they would. Vega's form shifted finally, as he pulled himself up.

 

“I do not detect enough loyalty in your voice, Ramirez. Perhaps you wish to... rephrase yourself.”

 

It was no idle threat. Often Vega found excuses to torment his men, and right now it felt as though there was a distinct lack of sensation.

 

“Lord Vega, master of the Blood of Excess, Exalted Angel of Slaanesh, and Exalted Master of all that which reflects in your mask. We have waited 2 days in orbit for the arrival of the Komodos*, the Empyreal Legion**, and the Night Lords.”

 

In truth, Ramirez despised his master. He remembered the smug arrogance of the Sanguinary Guard even before their fall to Slaanesh. Before he had been humble, and loyal enough to the cause of the chapter to simply disregard such feelings. Now? It itched at the back of his mind, clearly he, Ramirez, was the superior. Every moment the only thing that kept his mutiny in check was fear of his master. Even though he was sure his death would be an amazing experience in new sensations, they would be his last sensations. Ramirez knew full well that half the bridge would die rather quickly against their Lord even if they all rose up, and they certainly would not. Especially at the call of one of the lesser amongst the warband, such as himself.

 

The news given to Vega, however, was clearly discomforting for him.

 

“Get Lorenzo here. Now.”

 

=== === ===

 

The reflection in the mirror was his face. Always his face, unending, unchanging... immortal. The purple gauntlet of the man in the reflection moved up, tracing across the metallic surface. He felt nothing. There was no touch, no taste, no smell any longer.

 

Lorenzo, Lord Vega, Adan, and Hector had all been blessed by Slaanesh. He had given them eternal youth, just as Baal had cursed them with, but the Gods were fickle. All things required the sacrifice of something else. He could no longer eat. He craved the sensation of food on his lips, or a breeze across his face, but there was nothing but this cold, perfect exterior. They would always be denied, and thus they would always be hungry for it, hungry for more sensation.

 

Slaanesh may be fickle, but it was wise.

 

“You give me so much, but you keep enough away that I will always wish for more, don't you?” He consulted the beautiful, striking, shined mirror. He appraised himself nearly all moments of his spare time, often whatever drew him away from this reflection met his wrath. Narcissistic vanity, was his greatest sin against their former creed. Even in battle, once melee began, he imagined himself from the third person, perfectly striking down his vile, ugly, disgusting foes. If he could lick his lips, he would do so, just re-imagining the sensations of violence and sound around him. He would have to kill again, soon, just to feel a life slip from his fingers, for this was truly the greatest sensation of all.

 

Doors shifted open as three purple clad marines walked in behind the Champion. Lorenzo's doomsiren on his back shifted with his body as he turned to meet them, the two sonic weapons coming to a hum as his unchanging expression met the helmeted brothers. Even now he briefly wondered to what heights his pleasure could be driven to if he were to fire his weapon into his brothers, betraying them. They would scream and die, surely, but their screams at his treason would be of the most satisfaction. But it was hardly treason, they had interrupted him. They had interrupted him! He was admiring one of the greatest gifts Slaanesh had ever given to this universe, in all its perfection, and these lowly dogs had come to him.

 

Not one was from his own squad of Noise Marines. Each one looked as though they were the brutish, unknowing bands of lesser marines who had twisted to Slaanesh's will later on. They were not the true believers, they didn't understand.

 

The standoff between both parties was short, as Ramirez brought himself to speak to Lorenzo. Amongst even his peers, Lorenzo had become infamous for attacking the crew in fits of paranoia, not just excess. Somehow, Ramirez thought to himself, this man had become the most trusted lieutenant and champion of Vega. When Leopoldo rose against Vega in their brief internal conflict before siding with Abbadon in his black crusade, it was Lorenzo who had savagely lead the counterattack against the 'uninformed minds' of the mutineers. His loyalty, as well as the loyalty of the remaining traitor Sanguinary Guard had not been forgotten by Vega.

 

“Lorenzo, Lord Vega has requested your presence. He seems to have a task for you.”

 

Lorenzo's body language shifted, his left leg always seemed to shifted back and forth across the floor when he was conflicted, and now it did. His masked face turned to gaze into the mirror one last time, the optics of his power armoured Deathmask had fully integrated with his eyes now, and he viewed his perfect form one more time, even though it was sullied by lesser creatures being in his space.

 

He walked towards the three with his sword drawn, a long, slick blade taken from a Chaos Temple within the Eye of Terror. Each of the marines knew to step aside, or be exposed to the weapon's cruelty. Lorenzo did not ask people to step aside, they did, or he extracted their lives from them, for his own twisted delights.

 

The dimly lit corridors of the Ecstasy of Thirst concealed much of the horror which took place in the ship. Slaves and servants hid in the shadows from the sadistic figure. People disappeared in the night to be dragged away and tortured, more often then not, to death. The least lucky were those who survived. Of the community of slaves on the ship, the cruelty of their masters knew few limits. Thankfully, when serious moments like impending battle, or power struggles were occurring, they found a reprieve from the sick minds of Lorenzo and his ilk, generally because their maliciousness and psychopathic emotions were directed towards far less benign beings.

 

Amongst the slaves, there was often relief upon hearing of a crushing defeat of the once glorious Exalted Angels who heralded the word of the Emperor and his Imperium, even with their own lives on the line.

 

Lorenzo stopped in front of a young woman, clutching her child, his mask shifting in the light directly above him, giving his form an creepy aura of light. He regarded her and the child, his head shifting to one side, his fingers tightly knit around his sword. Perhaps one day that lump of meat in her arms would grow to become one of them, a replacement slave-astartes for the glorious cause of Slaanesh. He walked past the shadow the woman hid in without another word, before arriving at the lift to the bridge, Lord Vega awaited.

 

When the doors to the bridge opened, Vega stood over the dead body of a mortal bridge crew member, his throat had been slit open and spilled in front of him. Finger marks from where Vega had grabbed him had literally dug into the man's chest with a brutality that went beyond just anger, it was a rage and thirst. The same one which Lorenzo suffered. To never know taste, or smell, to be denied by the very one who gifted them.

 

“Lord Vega.” Lorenzo said, gesturing his hand as he took almost a bow before his master, the only one aboard this vessel the creature known as Lorenzo would ever call Master beyond Slaanesh itself, or perhaps his own vanity.

 

“Our allies are over 2 days behind schedule, and Warmaster Abaddon wished this planet to fall before his final push towards Cadia to secure the flank of the Black Legion in their thrusts towards Imperial Space.” Vega said, his breathing even, despite the murder of one of the bridge attendants. His mask turned and met that of his 'brother' in Slaanesh's gift. They'd served together in the first company for almost a century together even before their turn towards Slaaneh's glory.

 

Lorenzo knew, knew what Vega was asking. They would take the glory for themselves. They would use terror and their overwhelming abilities to undo the Guardsmen who protected this world. And Lorenzo knew he would share in the glory of this conquest by being his master's right hand.

 

“What is it that you require of me and my assets, Lord?” He enquired, walking around the dead body with a level of cautious, suspecting Vega's rage had passed, but caution would still be advised near his old friend.

 

“You will be the tip of our spear. We will assault the main capitol and attempt to destroy the chain of command rapidly, so we can force the majority of our enemies into submission. Each one that submits will also submit to our sensations. Think of it, millions of slaves, all ours, because the others are foolish enough to lag behind. This world could be ours, a new Rotos. A haven for sensation, and shedding off the cruel limits which are placed upon us. We could forge this world into a gift to Slaanesh itself. And think of what we could be given then.” Vega mused, fantasized even.

 

He imagined himself being attended to by daemonic servants, his every whim being there whim. Exposing himself to the most elaborate, sick minded physical and mental exercises. Perhaps Slaaneh even blessing him with true immortality, daemonhood, to watch mortality itself become a non-issue for him in his greatness. Even more people would knee before him, heralding his praises, shouting his name. And then, he would finally be able to taste blood again, to let it touch his lips and swish in his mouth, his thirst finally able to be satiated, even for but a moment.

 

“I am honoured you put your faith in me, Exalted Lord Vega. I will make sure each of my victims scream your name in their final moments of ecstasy before they expire. Your image will be the last one they see before they are sent screaming into the warp.” Lorenzo promised. “All I require in return is your favour, master.”

 

Lorenzo knew that he was the success. Should Vega fall, ascend, or become an ever greater master of battle, it would be he that would rise with him. Plans to overthrow or kill Vega were far from his mind, for Vega pushed them forward. He was the one who drove the blades through their former masters. He was the one who rallied them to bring the Chapter to glory. And it was he who brought them to this glorious haven of Chaos, where they made their final communion with Slaanesh, so that they may truly be his servants.

 

He couldn't way for his Siren to sing, and for the chorus of screams to begin.

 

“Your loyalty is noted, Lorenzo. Get your best units ready. Tell the Techpriests to prepare the predators for battle. And ensure that our two other... brothers... are prepared to lead as well. Favour from Abaddon and Slaanesh await us.”

 

=== === ===

 

The shriek exploded outwards as the huge Blastmaster unleashed its next assault. The insides of an Imperial administrative build exploded outwards, the shockwaves from the sound blasting limbs from guardsmen who'd taken shelter there out from all directions. Brother Antonius shrieked with pleasure as his weapon allowed vibrations to carry through his body.

 

A scream of distorted sound blasted nearby once again, almost seemingly melting through the human defenders who'd taken cover in a make-shift bunker, built from the foundations of a bombed ruin. Lorenzo twitched with pleasure himself as the sensations rose through his body. His hearing was just good enough that he heard the men inside the bunker's last shrieks, as they were drowned out by the glorious sound of the Doomsiren.

 

And with each weapon fired, and each shriek of agony, his thirst grew. His rational mind almost disappeared in the feeding frenzy of agony. In his right hand a man was dying beneath his fingers and he barely cared. He turned to the attention of the frail punches from the man who was gasping his last breathes. Armoured fingers dug into ribs a moment later as he twisted the body. Screams of unimaginable pain came from his already dying for as Lorenzo just breathed, taking in the moments of dying for what they were, and feeling the life pass away from his bloody fingers.

 

“Let none survive! Feast! Take this in brothers!”

 

They were fighting on the top level of the city now, but they'd pressed too hard, too fast. Despite indulging in their sick tastes, they'd paved a road to defeat. Guardsmen resolve had stiffened over the past hours, instead of washing away. Despite orbital support leveling strong points, they were losing marines. What had once been 150 astartes at arms, was now 115, with a bare chance that some others could be saved.

 

Only meters away, near the obulant palace doors of the Governor, Vega cut a swathe through the veterans defending the occupants within.

 

It was an amazing thing to behold.

 

Rushing towards the guardsmen, who were firing desperate, Vega's weapons were exposed. With the strong motion of his right arm he threw his power sword first, cutting one man nearly in half, he'd not even had time to scream. As he made it to the battleline a moment later his hand gripped his blade once more, drawing it from the corpse as a king drawing a blade from stone, before it found its next deadly mark. Dozens of men fought on, stabbing upwards with their bayonettes impotently as Vega parried and dodged, blocking and fighting with only his right arm. Finally, holding the great spear Lucio, he assaulted.

 

The spear swept in unnatural motion in his left arm, his only true, biological arm, before sweeping about, hitting a wave of guardsmen as they fought for their lives knocking them, cleaving some in two, and gashing through the stomach's of others. The spear came to a swirling stop as men gathered themselves, preparing for combat to resume. However, the men hit by this grave weapon began to scream. Then their bodies began to tremble and shake violently. And then they exploded, their last moments not being of only agony, but ecstasy. Their bodies exploded not into just parts and blood, but into a wave of acid as well. Their comrades screamed as it melted through flesh, weapons, and armour.

 

But just as this occurred, another volley of heavy guns was heard in the distance. More artillery, the great killer of the battlefield. When the shells landed, parts of Guardsmen and Astartes alike were sent scattering from where they once fought.

 

“Orbital support.” Lorenzo voxed a moment later. “Silence those guns! Or your screams will replace their fire when we return to the Thirst!”

 

The vox however, was dead on the other side. The Imperials had finally managed to jam communications. They were becoming isolated as Guardsmen came in. Even now Lorenzo witnessed as his brother Leoncio rushing back with nearly 20 marines at his back.

 

“Cover them.” Came the blunt order to Antonius as he pulled up the Blastmaster, the others pulled up their bolters. In pursuit of their comrades a rush of Guard infantry attempted to cross the rubble strew street.

 

Flashes of bolter fire and waves of sound bombarded them before they could reach safe point. Limbs were torn free from their bodies as bolter rounds and sound tore through them. Lorenzo himself motioned to Leoncio before voxxing to him.

 

“I expect your most refined slaves for giving you such colourful support, brother.”

 

The other masked marine's head shifted, looking back towards him as he and his men took cover. If he could scowl he would.

 

Vega himself came over the vox a moment later. “Withdraw to the buildings, make them suffer as we do. Let their pain be their reward for holding us back this long!”

 

“Lord Vega,” Leoncio returned. “We must request extraction. They have rallied and we will not break them.”

 

A furious shrieking roar came over the vox from their master, a sound almost inhuman in nature, at the idea of being forced back.

 

“I will see their bodies strewn out before me, dissected and left to me to drink in! I will not be denied! This world is mine! I am the Exalted Angel!” In the distance one could hear the guardsmen screaming as they exploded from the touch of Lucio, his spear. But they were not relevant. In the distance the guards' artillery opened up again. This time their shells found their mark near Vega himself as he personally stormed the gates of the palace. His body was blasted back and rolled away as chunks of guardsmen followed him in the series of blasts.

 

Vega was nearly 30 meters from the rest of the warband, and now exposed.

 

“Move to support our Lord!” Lorenzo shouted. “Set up a parameter in these buildings! And get that damn vox back to the ship!”

 

It was then however, that a shriek was heard... but not from a noise marine.

 

Overhead, three blue and tinted gold frames soared above, their vicious talens showing before they came back around. Unholy fire swept across the guard in several buildings they were using as hard points. The fliers swept towards where they knew the artillery as well.

 

So, the elusive reinforcements, now 4 days later, had arrived.

 

Above them, 30 raptors blasted past, heading towards Guardsmen units now reeling and in disarray from the areal assaults now taking place. The vox opened up within moments before the voice of their 'savior' was heard.

 

“We will be compensated accordingly for our assistance.” A commanding voice said.

 

Lorenzo would smile if he could.

 

“Prepare to assault the main gates once again! We will take this world!” he shouted, just as Dreadclaw assault pods slammed into the massive roof of the palace, sliding their doors open as more Night Lords made their way to the planet. This would be glorious. He noted movement in the corner of his eye as well, as Lord Vega found his feet, his power armour was scorched and some areas looked as though they may not be functional.

 

“Find me the captain of the Guard's artillery. I wish to hear his screams.” Vega ordered.

[Lord_Starscream]

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Small update showing my colour scheme.

[Lord_Starscream]

Notes: Model is nowhere near done, just throwing an update out for people to know that I'm not dead, and I'm working on tons of stuff. I got sidetracked with a few Warhammer Fantasy things, and work. I'm still working on Fantasy as well, but I'll be putting more effort in getting my 40k stuff up to par.

Anyway, lemme know what you think. He's about 60% done (before painting, that is), I ordered in a bunch of scrolls for him and his weapon, once those are applied he's going to look much better.

A thousand whispers, from the dark
gods.

A million cries for mercy, from the
weak mouths of the faithless.

A corpse on a throne, deaf to their
cries.

With their sacrifice, the world is
cleansed.

These words were uttered in an ancient, dead, long forgotten language. Standing atop a great platform of pure
white bones, and daemonically constructed material, made real, was
the Dark Apostle Menoetos. His features were scarred by the Eternal
war, including the loss of his right eye. But truly he was blessed by
their Dark Intrigue, not by their immediately apparent gifts, but by
his own past.

The imposing Chaos Space Marine, as he
preached before the chanting, kneeling figures of the Word Bearers of
the Sacred Host of the Eternal Martyr, had been a Word Bearer long
before much of his flock had been alive, both veterans of the Long
War, and otherwise.

He was blessed by being hand picked for
his talents by the Dark Apostle Kor Phaeron. During the Great Crusade
he'd become a great Chaplain of the 10th Chapter's 5th Company. When
his former master, then Master of the First Company, Kor Phaeron,
enlightened the Chaplains of the Word Bearers, he had been among
them.

He had seen the glory of their
defilement, he had been there for the cursing of their Croziuses'. He
remembered as he was shown how to dismember his first live sacrifice
to the Dark Gods, how to perform the rights, how to summon the
Daemons from the Warp and bring glory to their new dark masters. He
was blessed by his ability to
participate in the great crusade against Ultima Segmentum, fighting
the Ultramarines and their pitiful allies across a dozen worlds. He
followed his supreme master, the great Primarch Lorgar, all the way
to the Gates of Terra.

One of many, he'd been but amongst one of many of the faithful, chanting,
shouting, and fighting at the great gates of Terra itself. He'd been
commissioned to lead the faithful, a combination of heretics,
daemons, and Chaos Space Marines, in an assault on the second layer
of walls, acting as shock troops. They had been massacred, but never
in their advance did they stop their merciless march towards the
Imperial Palace. They defiled, and ruined all they touched that day,
on the supposedly holy soil of Terra itself.

But as it was now apparent, 10,000 years later, even amongst the chants
within their great conquest, the city of Toro on an obscure planet,
sitting too close to the Eye of Terror for its own good, that
Menoetos and his ilk had failed to stomp out the Imperium of Man.
They had defiled false idols, he had lead the procession in their
violent and bloody toll on the locals who would not see the light and
indulge the Dark Gods, but where once he felt every victory was
blessed and a further step towards triumph, they increasingly felt
hollow. In most ways now, he turned towards his own ascension, as the
Primarch had spoken of. The rise he'd seen for himself, when man
became... became... one with the Gods.

But for now, the chanting was a great sea which his mind sailed through,
his brethren calmly chanting the great blessings to the Dark Gods.

Blood to Khorne.

Knowledge to Tzeentch.

Decay to Nurgle.

Excess to Slaanesh.

From outside, one may see Menoetos as a figure unable to be assailed. He,
the Dark Apostle, the spiritual leader of this Host, knew he could
rely on his brethren for now,
but he could not speak for later, not whilst their Champion
challenged him so openly.

Eos Ixion.

Heavy armour swayed and moved, as unnatural eyes looked at those who bore
the Red Armour other than himself. They had come to call him the
Spear of the Gods. The Spear that would penetrate the lies of the
False Emperor, and his Corpse worshippers. A spear to pierce
ignorance, and let the light shine through. Many honours had been
bestowed upon him, sacred rites and blessings.

Ixion himself had been of the last Chaos Space Marines recruited from
Cholchis, before the Heresy itself became the open conflict it was.
He was not there for the Great Crusade, or the humiliations the
Legion had been forced to face, but he had been tested by fire. He'd
been tested by an ocean of fire. Of the hundred others chosen the
same day as himself, he was the only one to survive the Heresy
itself. He was the only one to survive the Gates of Terra and the
Long Retreat. And now? He fought the Long War.

To Menoetos's recollection, having been near when the boy had been
recruited, the boy's father had killed the child the Legion had
selected, a child from another family in their village, in order to
show his dedication to the Dark Gods, he had desecrated the body. The
Word Bearers were impressed by his devotion, and selected Ixion, in
exchange of the lives of himself, and the rest of his family. The
father agreed.

During the Heresy, Ixion could have died a thousand times, and in a thousand
different ways. He had been there at his side for the closest call,
when a great Imperial Fists dreadnaught had broken through their
lines at the battle for High Ridge on Criss IV. The machine tore
through their comrades, but through their faith, and determination,
not only did they survive, but Ixion had fastened a salvaged Melta
Bomb to the great beast, and blasted out its chest cavity, leaving
fluid and dead flesh to be exposed to the world.

But now? He was no longer the young Chaos Marine of the Heresy. He was
the most accomplished amongst the Host, even the Gods openly blessed
him. Before Menoetos, stood a warrior bearing trophies from fallen
enemies. But, most apparent, were the two massive, curved, jagged
horns blessed to him upon his greatest victory.

The Host was on the precipice to utter destruction, the Gods had
seemingly withdrawn their favour to the faithful. Their chief
Apostle, Denroth, had fallen before the blade of Silver Knights of
whose kind they had yet seen. To the Word bearers they seemed to be
the vengeance of the Imperium made manifest. They had arrived on the
world Denroth had sought to conquer through the conjuring of Daemons
and beings within the warp who stirred restlessly.

When Blaarogthnar, the Great Unlcean One, had been slain, along with his
plague host, and Angarak, Herald of Khorne had been brushed aside as
if he were a simple Unborn, Denroth lead the host into direct
conflict with these... Grey Knights. The Host assaulted with all
their fury, outnumbering the enemy three to one. What had once been
good odds, turned against them. The faithful died, their minions,
Daemons and mortal alike, died. When Denroth fell, Menoetos had done
the only thing he could to save his new Host, he fled. His fear of
retribution not by the Imperium, but by the Host itself, or by the
very Gods. The would need to redeem themselves. Most of the
leadership in the Host had died to the monsters in Grey below, and
thus, organization was hastily made through new Aspirants, one of
which, was Ixion.

It was discovered, that the leader of these Knights of the Imperium was a
man named Augustus Imperius. He wore beautifully crafted artificer
armour, and bore a blade of legendary prowess. The man had been the
one to slay Denroth. The Knights themselves were not unscathed, but
bore the confidence that only certainty of victory could bring. The
Word Bearers, for all their fanatical devotion, faced doubt, and an
increased worry of disgrace and defeat.

When battle was joined again, at the zenith of the planetary invasion, as
Daemons spewed from the Warp and Unreality had seemingly burst into
reality, the Word Bearers once again did battle with their
counterparts. In the midst of the madness of the Warp, in the midst
of the Chaos of Battle, Augustus had slain yet more of the Faithful,
his men, had ruined the Word Bearers as well, many brothers fell to
their glaves and blades, to bolter and fire.

Ixion, Aspiring Champion, met Augustus in battle, just as things looked
their bleakest. He spoke a prayer to the Dark Gods in his mother
tongue, he held his chainsword faithfully, and he met the Grey
Knight. It was a battle of desperation.

Ixion was clearly the underdog. He fought almost more to delay the Grey
Knight then to defeat him. His chainsword struck to little effect,
and he barely managed to avoid the deadly precision of the attacks
which had already claimed his master, a man far more experienced them
himself. But where as others may have lost confidence? Ixian had
faith that the Dark Gods would carry him through. When Augustus
finally overextended himself, the Perfect Warrior offered a small
opening, and Ixion took it. He charged, diving into his adversary and
and disarming both of them, the swords fell free and all that
remained were fists and armour. Powerful blows were struck, with
staggering force even, Augustus's hand tore off the helm of Ixion,
intent to smash his bare head open on the ground. Instead, in taking
such effects to remove the helm of his foe, he hadn't noticed his
advasary reaching to a fallen plasma pistol on the ground. Shoving
the barrel into the champions' chest, he fired two rounds.

The first round melted through the torso plating on the artificer armour,
scorching flesh and melting it, the second round blasted through the
back plating of the armour. Augustus made no sounds of pain or agony,
but did look shocked, his eyes before they went dead had a look of
disbelief about them. With their master defeated, killed by the hands
of the faithful, the Grey Knights moved to secure his body,
funnelling them towards a killing zone of fire when the Word Bearers
realized their new objective. The Word Bearers themselves, upon
seeing the death of the one who had killed their master, began to
chant, began to march once again, their weapons being the chorus they
followed.

After the battle, after redeeming themselves, Ixion found two small horns
forming upon his skull, and had pulled the leg armour from his dead
adversary. It would be made to serve the Dark Gods.

And with each victory, each challenge taken since that time, the horns
had grown. They grew more, and yet more impressive. Many in the Host
had started to turn to this Champion, instead of to their proper
master, Menoetos himself. And thus, the Host had slowly become
divided.

With heavy steps moving towards the platform which Menoetos stood, Ixian
stopped just below him.

“Apostle.” He said, inclining his head. “The Faithful had cleansed this place
of its sin. Perhaps now, we can move towards greater goals? Perhaps
the Gods can be appeased with a more plentiful sacrifice? I have
sought council from several other Lords in this subsector. I believe
that we can make war on Venkoff, the heart of these systems.”

Menoetos, for his part, did not respond, at least not at first. To him, it was
becoming increasingly clear that Ixian had to die. That would appease
the Gods, and himself, far more then any planet.

[deathspectersgt7]

Oh yeah he rocks .

[Lord_Starscream]

The Dark Apostle, Menoetos.

[Lord_Starscream]

HUGE Post. I've been doing tons of work. Let me know what you think guys, got some updates for 4 different Warbands.

World Eaters:

Lord Braak:

Havocs:

Iron Warriors:

Warp Smith Progress:

Defiler:

Word Bearers:

Night Lords: Painted

[Lord_Starscream]

My Night Lords leader, Draethos, is nearly complete and here is the update.

Stage 1:

Final Stage:

During the 13th Black
Crusade...:

Prey.

The Predator had become prey.
The battles raging around the Eye of Terror had become frantic,
savage, and more brutal then in the past 1,000 years. Abaddon the
Despoiler had lead his 13^th Black Crusade to the Gates of
Cadia and nothing would be the same as it had. Daemons and Warp
Storms surged through Segmentum Obscurus. Chaos Warbands and
“Legions” brave enough to push through this vulnerable area did
so with great risk. Some travelled through the Storms, unknowing
where the Dark Malicious Gods would have them go.

Draethus had ordered the Hunt, sending
he and his Night Lords Warband past the battles of Cadia, and into
Obscurus itself, raiding and slaughtering across a dozen worlds. The
situation had become complicated however. When they moved to raid the
fortress of Parok II, they had come across the renegade Chaos Space
Marines known as the Blood of Excess, or what was left of
them. These marines hardly made up a company any longer, what was
once a mighty Space Marine Chapter, then a powerful raiding force,
had been squandered into a ragged company, inhabited by vicious, vain
creatures who sought only their own glory. Worse yet, they were
Abaddon's pets, a warband whose loyalty was clearly to Abaddon, or
rather what passed for loyalty amongst the Blood of Excess.

Lord Vega had been greatly difficult to
get along with as well, even with his Chapter in shambles, the
renegade was arrogant and demanding. Draethus, who discovered himself
under the plots and influence of Tzeentch, found the creature to be
bothersome at the best of times. The Komodos had been all but
turned back as well, unable to join in the assault on Parok II. Even
as the Empyreal Legion joined them, the Warband of Tzeentch
followers had been utterly maimed, nearly annihilated even. Two five
men Chaos Space Marine squads, six Chosen, and a Dreadnaught were all
that remained under the command of Lord Tantalus. When they had
finally found the shattered remnants of this group, all Tantalus said
was “It was all apart of the Plan.”

He was of course, referring to
Tzeentch's plan.

The Night Lords had been reluctant to
commit to a force with Renegades, and yet more reluctant to assist
the Despoiler openly, namely due to their own past conflicts with the
Black Legion. Draethus himself had killed Lord Gorg, a Black Legion
Chaos Lord, leading 80 Chaos Space Marines in the Gothic War. Then
Brother Jericho, had proven his skill in battle for the first time,
felling a foe far superior to his stature. Even during the Heresy,
“Jericho” had never been required to fight such formidable,
individuals on his own. The annihilation of the warband as well, and
the theft of their geneseeds, had made their particular Night Lord
warband, the Vengeance of Terror, less than popular with the
Black Legion.

But, the Black Crusade and its assault
was too great an opportunity to pass up, they needed supplies, they
needed revenge, and they needed to keep their skills sharpened
against the Imperium.

Even now, with Parok II a burning ruin
in their wake, the situation had become dire. Their 'task force' was
really three ships, and perhaps 3 companies in all. The Lions share
of this being made up by the Night Lords themselves. The largest of
the three ship was the Grand Cruiser Dread. The next was of
course, the Strike Cruiser Vega, given the ship Exalted
Angel had been lost above Parok II, and the Ecstasy of
Thirst had been forced into retreat, heading back towards the Eye
for promised repairs. Finally, there was the Carnage Class
Cruiser of the Empryeal Legion, named simply the
Eye.

What was worse, they required repairs,
new supplies, weaponry, and the entire sector had become a complete
war zone now. There were no easy prey left.

Tarogn, standing on the bridge of the
Dread, or Draex, looked over to his Lord. His wings had
continued to mutate, now changing in colour to match his heretical
armour. What had once been pale flesh, had become red skin, slowly
his master was becoming the very image of the heraldry of the legion.
His Lord sat there still, however, his helm removed, his cold
unnaturally icy blue eyes peeled ahead, he was still in deep
contemplation on what they were to do.

“My Lord.” Finally Tarogn spoke.
“Draethus, we are not far from Craos IV,”

The icy eyes shifted towards the Raptor
Champion with a cold gaze.

“And you know full well Craos IV has
become a major supply and rally point for the Imperial defence. We
had three companies, perhaps badly damaged. Fool hardy battles are
not in our best interest.”

Tarogn felt a sharp nerve being pulled,
anger rose in the Champions' voice as he spoke.

“And our supplies are badly in need,
our ships need supplies and refits. The Mechanicus have promised me
the Daemon Engines will be ready, if we use surprise, and assess our
foes before we bear down on them, that world may crumble, and we can
use its extensive supplies to swell our own stores of supplies and
equipment. Perhaps we can even repair our vessels. We cannot waste
this opportunity.”

Draethus had, in the past weeks and
months, felt more detached, he felt more and more of the madness
Tzeentch promised, and that his Daemon Weapon Terrordar whispered to
him. It asked for rituals, it asked for targets to murder. He felt
his skin crawling even as Tarogn spoke, not at his friends words, but
at what was happening inside his mind, how he felt increasingly
consumed. He despised needing help... but knew he may soon need to
seek out the assistance of a Sorcerer. The thought even
disgusted him.

“Tarogn.” The words finally left
the mentally worn Lords lips, his frame shifting as he came to rise
from his throne. “I believe, you just may be correct.”

“Get me in contact with the bridge of
the Vega, immediately.”

When the response came, a gold and
purple clad figure stood at the screen, his head's attire stating who
he was more then anything, the Sorcerer Baal.

“Ah, Lord Draethus, what an...
unexpected time for you call us.” The words left the
armoured figure's helmet with a certain derision hidden behind them.
In the background, a slave, who was hanging from the ceiling by
chains moaned in agony, before shivering in pleasure as one of the
Marines lashed him. When the moan left his lips, the room's lights
seemed to flick itself, as the Sorcerer's fingers twiddled amongst
themselves, moving in strange ritualistic fashion.

“My Lord Vega is indisposed at the
moment. He is embracing his needs, and attempting communion with-”

The Night Lords on the bridge were not
impressed by the dressed up answers and needless talk. All they saw
was this lump of armour and flesh blathering as they found all
Slaanesh worshipers tended to blather once their self-importance grew
too high.

“Baal, you will get Lord Vega
to your bridge very rapidly, or I will see to it that your cursed
ship sales no further in the warp, and finds itself a blasted ruin in
the depths of space.” Draethus threatened bluntly.

He found such threats were the only
things that could motivate these petty creatures.

Baal's demeanour completely changed,
from one of arrogance and excitement, to one of masked anger and
frustration.

“My Lord will contact you as soon as
he is able. I of course will graciously pass along your
declaration, and I am sure as always my liege will bask in your
honeyed words, with all the dignity that his position offers.”

With that, the communication ended, but
within a few standard minutes, the scene reopened.

Five dead slaves littered the bridge,
and the tormented man had been cleaved in half, his arms and torso
hanging from the ceiling as blood dripped to the floor. Vega had
clearly been made upset.

“Draethus.” He said bluntly. “What
is it you bother me about when I am busy? My affairs are far too
important to be meddled with by you and your Nostro dogs.”

Draethus smiled for the first time in
days, the sound of frustration, frustration at being in the position
of the inferior, could be clearly heard behind Vega's words. This was
very, very pleasing to hear to the Night Lord, who had come to
appreciate Vega for what he was... an arrogant, selfish fool. At
least in the eyes of the Vengeance of Terror.

“We are going to make a strike
against the world Caros IV,” Draethos said bluntly. “Prepare your
navigator to follow ours, I will inform the Empryeal Legion to
make haste as well.” The Empryeal Legion were even less
relevant than the Blood of Excess, and Draethus knew they had
little choice but to follow suit.

To Vega, the words uttered in his
direction were not only far too... commanding, as if he was somehow
one of the Night Haunter's disgusting bastards. The destination was
even more offensive.

“Craos IV? Tell me, have you lost
your mind? That is quickly becoming an Imperial Staging ground and
Rallying Center. Three companies will be nothing but a gust of wind,
blowing against the Gates of Eternity.”

Their forces have already moved
ahead, pushing their attack. All that remains are regrouping armies,
which we will be able to sweep aside. The Great Master of Change has
given me this prophecy to follow... brother.

The voice of Tantalus, speaking
directly into his mind. The Wings of Dread despised it when Tantalus
called him brother. The Renegade space marine was hardly in Midnight
Clad.

“I grow tired of your whining
Vega. You, the fool who wasted most of his chapter and warships on
Pavok. You, who arrogantly promised Abaddon your unwavering support
for his campaign. Well, allow me to made things clear for you, if you
do not make your navigator prepare to follow suite, I will blast that
wretched craft of yours out of the void. Am I making myself clear
enough for you, Vega?”

The Champion of Slaanesh felt tense,
his eyes, if they could narrow past his metallic face, would have
glared directly at his oppressor. Every fibre of his being told him
to assault the Night Lords ship, but instead, after several moments
of restraint, he motioned his hand.

“To Craos, then.” Was his final
words before the screen went blank.

“He may try to kill you.” Tarogn
warned , turning from the bridge towards the nearest exit.

“Yes, he may. We can only hope. It
would give me a perfect excuse to eliminate him personally.”

=== === ===

The Angels of Luris were a chapter
founded of the Dark Angels, with a noble history dating back nearly
3,000 years. Their history was one of honour. Luris, the home world
of the Angels, had been reduced to ash and rock, destroyed by the
Black Crusade itself. The chapter had fought hard, fought with all of
the resources available to it. Its sacred duty had always been to try
and capture the Fallen, being so close to the Eye of Terror itself.
And in this duty, they had succeeded time and again, heralded as
honoured brothers amongst those who carried the geneseed of Lion El
Johnson.

When the world was battered under
orbital fire by the forces of Chaos, lead by the Iron Warriors,
finally the Angels relented. Better to save what strength they had
left, better to save themselves to fight another day. What little was
left of the once noble chapter, had found its way to Craos IV. Their
Chapter Master, and Captain of the First Company, were all that kept
even the semblance of a Chapter together. A few scattered veterans of
their first company, and a few squads of marines. They had fallen
far, from their once high and mighty place.

Along with them were remnants of three
other chapters, shattered in the battle around the Eye of Terror. The
Red Giants, the Emperor's Swords, and finally the Steel Hammers. Each
of these chapters had been rend violently by the conflict, so badly
they could no longer participate. This world had become their way
station and little else for them. The main strike force that had been
here in their place had left weeks ago.

The commanding officers of these forces
gathered often, discussing what moves their chapters could make next,
but it was a solemn time for them, for they knew their roles in the
campaign had been reduced, and with great shame, they had lost
territory and equipment the Imperium could not do without. They had
once been the hunters of the stars, seeking prey.

And now, the wings of another predator
circled their chapters corpses, as the three ships lurked in the
blackness above them, preparing to probe their meal, waiting to
commit, waiting to capture and kill prey of its own.

[Lord_Starscream]

Updated with a few more add ons and some better light.

[deathspectersgt7]

sweet cool looking NLs brother.

[Lord_Starscream]

Night Lords and World Eaters update.

Night Lords Chosen: Painted

World Eaters: Chaos Lord Octavio Diablos (Work in Progress)

World Eaters Berserkers:

World Eaters Havocs:

The Bloodhounds of Khorne:

They had been War Hounds once, they had
renounced that name long ago, when they found their Primarch. But how
could one renounce what they once were so easily? They were World
Eaters, but they were the Hounds which consumed those worlds.

It was on Terra, at the gates of the
Palace itself, that the “Bloodhounds” of Khorne made their name
amongst their brethren. Twice, three times, four times over they
collided with the defenders, never relenting, never stopping for
rest, always pushing ahead despite the losses. It wasn't until the
best of the Imperial Fists 5^th Chapter marched out, that
the Bloodhounds were finally stopped in their tracks. It was a battle
worthy of song, worthy of their blood. The clash had been dramatic in
the extreme, leaving few on either side available for battle.

When Horus fell, there was a great
silence amongst all the Legions. The battle almost seemed to wane,
halt on its own accord. Even the blood lust of the World Eaters
seemed to halt with the death of the greatest amongst the Traitor
Legions. In that moment, victory had turned into bitter defeat. The
World Eaters themselves were rebuked.

In their withdrawal, all the Legions
came under assault from the forces of Terra, attempting to push their
adversaries out of the Solar System with haste. When the vessel
Crimson Rage was boarded by the Blood Angels, in a feverish
battle in the twilight of the siege of Terra, the ship began to leave
the system, with the Angels still aboard the ship. What became of
them were terrible maimed frames of men, and those that were
strongest, were thrown into the cages on the ship itself.

Of those who fought, only one survived.
He'd been tormented so long he'd seemingly forgotten his true name,
his brothers having all died before his eyes. In the cages, in the
gladiator battles with the warriors of the World Eaters pitting
themselves against him, for eight years this Space Marine
loyalist was victorious. He killed dozens of the Bloodhounds.
Even when the nails completely took them, driving them into complete
fanatics, his own rage was so great, his own fury was so
overwhelming, that their attacks simply crashed like waves against
rocks.

In all that pain, rage, agony, he'd
become known as the Daemon of Rage, amongst the crew. It was no
longer seen as sport to fight him, but a punishment. World Eaters,
and loyalist Captives were fed to him almost as if it was a kind of
sacrifice to Khorne. The Angel himself, found his own sanity
wondering, his own daemons plaguing him, and the Blood God calling.

When Captain Erok Vhalg was mutinied
against, for a failed offensive against the lapdogs of the Imperium,
the leader of the Bloodhounds himself, found himself in a cage with
the monster he had helped make. The battle lasted eight, agonizing
minutes, and ended with bloody fists beating the head of the aspiring
Chaos Champion's head into the floor, blood splattering from mush of
what had once been skull and muscle.

It was then, that the monster spoke his
first words since his last brethren had died.

“There must be more blood, more then
this trivial pittance you offer me.”

He took on the name Octavio Diablos.

When the Apothecaries attempted to
modify this champion of Khorne to accept the Butcher's Nails, instead
they found themselves slain.

Octavio found such pitiful augments to
be an insult. Their blood served the blood god as well, it would
seem. To Octavio, to use cybernetic enhancements was to be weak
yourself, to be incapable of serving the Lord of Slaughter with your
own two hands, and your own will. When the betrayal of Skallathrax
occurred, many in the Legion found it liberating, to break their
chains with the old traditions, to go their own path. Lord Octavio
Diablos was one of them, having risen amongst the corpses of his
Legion to command the Bloodhounds himself.

New Chaos Space Marines recruited from
the slaves, were no longer exposed to the Butcher's Nails, instead,
the nails were used as a punishment for those who failed in their
duties. When it came to failing to take objectives, or a failure of
moral in battle, they would be given the nails, and face the fate of
being a failure, now only to be used as a weapon whose life had no
value any longer. Instead, communion with Daemons were more common,
to touch the essence of Khorne itself was to experience rage and
blood lust as no device could ever simulate.

For thousands of years, the Bloodhounds
raided the space around the Eye of Terror, clashing with dozens of
loyalist chapters. Their greatest accomplishment was the butcher of
Veko II, every man, woman, and child were sacrificed in their furious
rage. It was here that Octavio became the 8^th Chosen
champion of Khorne, and bound the daemon Koorok, Greater Daemon of
Khorne, to the Axe of Unending Thirst, Chor'tok.

When Adaddon the Despoiler called upon
the Legions and Warbands to assault the Imperium with the 13^th
Black Crusade, Octavio saw his opportunity to drench as much of
Segmentum Obscurus in the blood of the lapdogs of the False Emperor.

And so, the Bloodhounds, Warband of the
World Eaters of Khorne, began their bloody march towards Terra,
towards vengeance.

[Lord_Starscream]

[Lord_Starscream]

Champion: Triglav

Triglav was brought into the World Eaters Bloodhounds after the Legion's began their retreat into the Eye of Terror. He was tutored personally by Octavio. He rejects the Butcher's Nails, in favour of communion with Daemons. He listens to the whispers of Blood Letters and Juggernauts, as do his squad. His constant being near the daemons of the warp have warped his features and armour, but for the better. He and his men make constant pacts with the foul forces of Chaos, in order to obtain more power, power which they use to claim more skulls for the Skull Throne.

Kortax the Lesser:

Kortax was the only of the Chosen to be at the gates of Terra, to have fought during the Heresy itself. His title comes from an act of cowardice in times ago, something which he has never been forgiven for, and something he has sought to redeem the whole of his existence since that moment. Sanctioned for death, not come cowardice, but from the ceasing of function of the Butcher's Nails, he has survived for centuries. With each passing day, he sheds more Blood in the name of the Blood God.

Taurkoth:

Taurkoth is amongst the most violent of his brothers, if it was possible to distinguish this. His blade was claimed from a champion of the Black Legion, which he met in combat during the very Black Crusade which he now partakes in. He is least trusted amongst the Chosen.

Golithov:

Largest of the unit, he always uses his size to intimidate. Often this has occurred even at the least opportune time, such as attempting to intimidate Chaos Lords, or Terminators. He has also been characterized as quintessentially lucky. His power fist was claimed from the body of the man who'd been Chosen before him, a man who Golithov thought was very short...

Vekorn:

The only Chosen not originally of the Legion, Vekorn was taken in from Raven Guard, after a failed attempt by the Bloodhounds to break out of the Eye of Terror. Vekorn was the only captive taken, and over weeks and months was subjected to Daemons, and a breaking down of his psyche. Even now, he is about as stable of a box full of dynamite in a burning fuel factory. He is of few words, and often screams as if he is the one being attacked, when he is driven into a rage filled charge towards his enemies.

Veles:

The weapons expert of the Chosen, his weapon of choice is the flame thrower. Often, he is the calmest of the squad, and is always leaving a watchful eye out for this one may not pick up on, when in a complete rage. All the same, Veles spills blood in the name of Khorne, and communes with the Daemons of the Warp... he just takes the patient approach.

Svetovid:

The closest companion to Triglav, the bearer of the Banner of Raaaknalg. He was implanted with his geneseed within days of Triglav, the two survived their trials together, and have been battle brothers for one another's entire lives. This loyalty between them, though strong, is much stronger from Svetovid... perhaps one day, he may find this to his disadvantage. For he would not kill his brother... but his brother, if prompted, may just kill him.

The Banner of Raaaknalg:

Lorken:

Nyroth:

Kalek:

Rage, Blood, Hate-

The body hanging beneath the maddened brute gasped, his lungs desperate for air, pained noises were cut off by half moans, and the gurgling of blood. The life slipped away within moments, a huge set of Lightning Claws tore from the victim, blood seeping from huge gashes in his genetically enhanced body. So fell the last of the valiant defenders of the first trench line, held by the Angels of Luris. He'd been what looked to be a sergeant, all Triglav knew was that his blood had been spilled for the Blood God.

Feral snarling raged barked in the back of his mind, bringing him back to the world of cold air and wild noise. Bolter fire rippled around them as he turned his face towards his next victim, a Guardsmen who had ventured too close. His flamethrower spewed its furious assault forward, and Triglav threw himself into the flames. His power armour seemed to almost seer in the fire before his clawed hand reached out, slashing through the front of the man's face, carving into the bone. There was little time for screams or agony, as the claws had rend too far through the bone and into vital systems of the respiratory system and brain. With his head in torn chunks, held together by the back of the head only, the guard's body collapsed, the flamethrower itself still spraying wildly as he fell dead, and Triglav found his next victim.

The slaughter drew out for hours, hours of feeding the Daemons of the warp their prey. Before this battle, he'd communed with the voices of Khorne, of Khorne's furious daemons. Each one only spat hatefully and with fury as to the fate of their victims, and what that fate should be. Each one twisted him, each one drove his mind to clarity on the meat that the Blood God demanded. He was no berserker. Each body he felled, he felt them fall. Each victim he eviscerated, he did so with the mind of a man, he knew their fate, and his fury was only enhanced by it.

The damaged ones, the Berserkers, the ones built in his Primarch's visage, were imperfect killers. Yes, they would rampage, and their fury was of legend... but it was a shield for them, they knew not what they did when the nails took them, they only knew rage and it blinded them, they could never grasp their actions beyond the most simple. They charged and slashed and broke bones, simply because of the implant.

He charged, he slaughtered, he roared with triumph, broke bones, and slaughtered, because it was the will of the Blood God Khorne. To do so for any other reason was pointless, there was only one point to existence, to slaughter in the Blood God's name and little else.

To his left, a familiar figure holding the Banner of Raaaknalg, named for the Daemon they'd bound to their banner, approached him over the pile of Imperial dead.

“Lords Octavio and Braak have demanded news of this defensive line.” Svetovid remarked, his helmet still barring the scars of action from several weeks earlier. They'd not the supplies to make the needed repairs yet. Two skulls hung from his belt, both former Chosen themselves, who had found it to be their place to hold the Banner of Raaaknalg, not Svetovid. They quickly found this to be untrue, and also found themselves dead, their skulls added to the pile.

Screams were heard only a few dozen meters away, as Veles sprayed down the last bunker, filled with cowering Imperial rats, with his flame thrower.

“As if they don't already know the fate of these cowards and fools.” Triglav snarled, his head turning towards Svetoid.

“Of course, brother, but they wish to heard the chants of victory from our mouths.” Came the response.

Triglav had been trained, mentored, and shown the ways of Khorne from his very beginnings in the Bloodhounds, the World Eaters from Octavio himself. As the 'deficient' members of the Warband died out, it was Triglav and the others who came to be their replacements. Only one of the Chosen, Kortax the Lesser, had seen the gates of Terra.

He had earned his title Lesser long ago, when he had been at Skalathrax. Kortax had survived by fleeing battle, and hiding amongst the bodies of dead comrades, rather then face the cold, or face the fury of Khârn. For this, when he was salvaged along with the other survivors, he came to bear the title of shame... Lesser. The Apothecaries determined that his implants had cease working correctly, and that he would be dead within a few short months.

Yet even now, thousands of years since Skalathrax, Kortax lived.

The elder warrior stepped over the bodies of two dead Space Marines, his power weapon brimming, his eyes glowing red with an unnatural glow. Some whispered he touched the warp itself to save him from his implant, his failed implant. He did not give off the traits of a possessed, none of them did, but their existence was so close to the Unborn, that none of them felt completely sane any longer, and none had been untouched by the Warp. Each bore his mutations, as did their armour. Kortax was merely first among them in this regard.

The stone charm he carried with him, a fragment of rock from Skalathrax, seemed to hang ominously next to a recently plucked skull.

“That was the last of them.” He breathed through the respirator. “We must find more to hunt, the pacts we have made demand it. Another 500 skulls must be shed from their bodies.”

Another 500 bodies, and they would be once more gifted by Khorne. Perhaps with an inspired rage, or perhaps with a new mutation, or of dark whispers from the warp. But the agreements had been made, and sealed with their own blood.

The small contingent of Dark Angels spawned genetic spill off would not help the defenders. This world would become a bloody, weeping soar in the stars.

Lord Khorne's favour would be assured with such a sacrifice. The Black Crusade continued.

[Emperors Immortals]

Exalted Angels fluff is truly top-notch - I absolutly love it!!! Im currently assembling my own Slaaneshi warband and I greatly admire what youve done with the corruption, have you considered doing a full IA article?

[deathspectersgt7]

Very cool love the converstions.

[Lord_Starscream]

Exalted Angels fluff is truly top-notch - I absolutly love it!!! Im currently assembling my own Slaaneshi warband and I greatly admire what youve done with the corruption, have you considered doing a full IA article?

 

Most of the stuff I'm writing is about the build up to the huge game I'm going to participate in once everything is painted. Its basically to justify how all these dispersant factions and units come together to form one giant force of Chaos.

 

I've come to determine that so far, all the points together, will be about 18,000-20,000 points when its all said and done, from seven different warbands.

 

All of these factions have to somehow get together for their one big battle against the Dark Angels, coming hopefully this Fall.