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+++In Memoriam: Update+++

Marshal Rohr

By Marshal Rohr
in + WORKS IN PROGRESS +

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Hyaenidae Venerable Brother

Hyaenidae

Posted
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http://a3.l3-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/110/dad1bd2007ae4bd0aa299f0dda5db5cf/l.jpg

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[Pict Capture DX/65-904-6288] - Astral-Warrant Pokrovsk, The Living Engine (Command)

With a mix of bleak humour and respect, Astral-Warrant Pokrovsk is known as the Living Engine for two reasons. First, and most obvious, is the extensive and crude bionic reconstruct of much of his body, a result of catastrophic injury sustained while serving as a member of 2nd Squad (Tactical). Still held by oath to the Edict of Nikea, Pokrovsk was nearly killed from traumatic chest cavity damage by a plasma burst during the 21-4 Compliance against the tech-heretics of The Collective. Only through the dedication and hard work of Forge-Warrant Mikhail and Chief Apothecary Barras did Pokrovsk survive, though his injuries removed him from front-line service until the Purge of Olympia.

The second reason became evident during the Purge itself, when the shackles of the Edict were removed. Rated as Beta (Plus) Telekine of immense quality, Pokrovsk is capable of literally tearing down walls with his mind, throwing Soldiers from the towers, and casting defensive turrets from their mounts. As the Heresy carried on, he became even more devastating, reaching a peak upon the blasted surface of Terra herself. Loyalist armour ground to a halt, their engines gutted from within. Artillery breaches sealed shut and barrels bent, killing dozens at a time. Grenade pins pulled while still held upon plate. Buildings pulled down atop defenders. Massive pistons within appendage housings of God-Engines twisted and buckled, bringing the mighty to their knees. Pokrovsk was a walking, breathing siege engine, in every respect of the word, and swiftly a death sentence was placed upon his head by Loyalist Legionaires, lest he cause any further pain.

Pokrovsk's shattered and sparking body was found at the bottom of a self-made crater, headless, on OD Day +33. A dozen elite White Scar Headhunters and a handful Sisters of Silence, deformed and broken, scattered the killing ground Pokrovsk had created.

His golden skull adorns a spike upon Chogoris to this day, very close to the gate of the V Legion Fortress, both honoured and despised in death.

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[Pict Capture DX/23-11-778B] - Apothecary Amqui; 1st Squad (Tactical)

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[Pict Capture DX/545-81-7454] - Brother Malahue; 1st Squad (Sapper)

Russ Brother 92 Venerable Brother

Russ Brother 92

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Phenomenal writing heathens you have indeed given us what we waited for, but now I want a vid pict (if one of our esteemed brother artisans would do the honour) of Povrosk tearing apart a Warhound or bringing a broken Emperor Princeps to death...
Ace Debonair Venerable Brother

Ace Debonair

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I just read this whole thread in one sitting.

I'm totally, utterly overwhelmed.

I could paint and assemble models non-stop for a hundred years, and write for a hundred more and never create anything as brutal, beautiful and magnificent as the stuff in this thread.

If I had any painting skill, I'd go make some White Scars right now (as precursors to my Stonebound because damn it, I'm a DIY guy to my boots) and start vehemently stomping traitor faces. But since I lack the dexterity to actually paint eye lenses without spilling over onto the helmet (and vice versa) I might just wait a while before I rush off to buy bits.sweat.gif

Iron Hands Fanatic Venerable Brother

Iron Hands Fanatic

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I just read this whole thread in one sitting.

I'm totally, utterly overwhelmed.

I could paint and assemble models non-stop for a hundred years, and write for a hundred more and never create anything as brutal, beautiful and magnificent as the stuff in this thread.

If I had any painting skill, I'd go make some White Scars right now (as precursors to my Stonebound because damn it, I'm a DIY guy to my boots) and start vehemently stomping traitor faces. But since I lack the dexterity to actually paint eye lenses without spilling over onto the helmet (and vice versa) I might just wait a while before I rush off to buy bits.sweat.gif

You could always paint World Eaters? White basecoat, diluted blue / black wash - apply liberal bloodsplatter.

See - who needs detail when you can cover you models in arterial spray?

[Disclaimer: I am in no way suggesting the 12th are easy to paint, or lack detail, or that by painting World Eaters you are a bad painter - so please don't try and sacrifice me to your 'Blood God']

Oh and, just to say: this thread is so full of awesome my brain hurts - you guys are doing a great job of creating the kind of grimdark atmosphere the 30k setting suits so well. KInda makes me sad there weren't any official Iron Hands forces at the Siege. Then again, with the IH remnants allying with loyalists left right and center, with the White Scars even.......

God that just reminds me of how badly I want there to be an Iron Hands force fighting on Mars when FW cover the Martian civil war.

Ace Debonair Venerable Brother

Ace Debonair

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Hmm. I do like the World Eaters' pre-heresy colours, but if I'm painting anything it'll be loyalists. Besides, I couldn't do the World Eaters' mindset justice.

On the other hand, there's not much reason the methods you describe wouldn't also work for White Scars stuck in the middle of a brutal battle.turned.gif

Gah, I've got to get some practice in. Stuff like weathering and battle damage would be entirely new territory for me.pinch.gif

Looking at it again, this is one of those threads that reminds me I have a long way to go as a painter.sweat.gif

Monstra Sumus Venerable Brother

Monstra Sumus

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Hmm. I do like the World Eaters' pre-heresy colours, but if I'm painting anything it'll be loyalists. Besides, I couldn't do the World Eaters' mindset justice.

On the other hand, there's not much reason the methods you describe wouldn't also work for White Scars stuck in the middle of a brutal battle.turned.gif

Gah, I've got to get some practice in. Stuff like weathering and battle damage would be entirely new territory for me.pinch.gif

Looking at it again, this is one of those threads that reminds me I have a long way to go as a painter.sweat.gif

Basically everything you said. It makes me look at what I can improve on from all of those involved here but it's also causing my fingers to slowly add more to my 30k Wishlist on Forgeworld...

Ace Debonair Venerable Brother

Ace Debonair

Posted
Posted

Hmm. I do like the World Eaters' pre-heresy colours, but if I'm painting anything it'll be loyalists. Besides, I couldn't do the World Eaters' mindset justice.

On the other hand, there's not much reason the methods you describe wouldn't also work for White Scars stuck in the middle of a brutal battle.turned.gif

Gah, I've got to get some practice in. Stuff like weathering and battle damage would be entirely new territory for me.pinch.gif

Looking at it again, this is one of those threads that reminds me I have a long way to go as a painter.sweat.gif

Basically everything you said. It makes me look at what I can improve on from all of those involved here but it's also causing my fingers to slowly add more to my 30k Wishlist on Forgeworld...

Well. I don't own any heresy-era marines, but this thread has inspired me to finally start painting again after a three or four month block.

I've already had a go at this weathering business, and while the end result is a bit more understated than I'd hoped, it's not nearly as difficult as I'd feared.biggrin.png

Battle damage... well, maybe on the next model.tongue.png

I might not ever get to the level of the stuff here, but by gosh it won't be for lack of trying.laugh.png

Who knows, if I'm a good boy this year I might even get my greasy hands on some heresy stuff for Christmas.happy.png

In the meantime, long life to this thread and all who post within it!

EDIT:

Blasted, blasted typos. One day I'll purge them all...

Durfast Spiritwolf Venerable Brother

Durfast Spiritwolf

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I'm on a cane for the rest of my life from a piss-poor landing. Still Airborne to the death. If I could convince my commnad to heavy-drop me in a wheelchair, I would, just to get a chance to pull silk again.

Still, just for you....

I was nearly there myself after being run after by an IFV. Thankfully, after some time in a chair, I walked away from that one. The steel plates in my jungle boots were seriously bent out of shape though laugh.png

'Tis and dangerous job even before they start shooting at you yes.gif

Hyaenidae Venerable Brother

Hyaenidae

Posted
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http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9su3R9mOiTY/TtqaLTwn_0I/AAAAAAAADMc/2fDu5WR9btE/s1600/z_graves_01.jpg

+PROLOGUE+

The room, it's walls a pristine white and it's marble floors reeking of counterseptic, was dimly lit, as if a funerary service were to begin. Sadly, such an analogy was painfully accurate. Ten of the greatest minds that humanity had to offer held whispered conference within it's confined space, geniuses of science and biology, bleached laboratory robes about their frames, their minds turned to disaster, lined faces serious with concern. Upon their shoulders rested the death of an entire Legion of the Emperor's grandchildren, and the crippling of the nineteen others. The task appointed to them by the Emperor Himself, beloved by all, for failing to protect humanity's protectors, was to salvage what could be saved.

A second failure would not be tolerated.

The oldest of the group, her body bowed with age, pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes shut tight. She had been His student and prodigy. She had made the first incision upon those who would become The Firstborn of the Astartes. She had theorized, then applied, the creation of carapace that bound Legionnaire to plate. Her legacy and reputation had been unsullied, until the blight had appeared within the gene-holds on Terra. She and her compatriots had done all they could, but nothing could stop the swift rot from withering every Progenoid it touched. Only the Emperor's intellect and power could stop it, and by then, it had been too late. Lowering her arthritic hand, she looked up at the other nine and spoke, her voice heavy with regret.

"The III Legion is dead. There is nothing left to save. Only by cutting Progenoid from the dead that yet live can their numbers be reborn, but the demands of the Great Crusade cannot be halted. The survivors of the Palatine Aquila will fight, and will die unharvested on unknown battlefields, and their name will fade into shadow."

Another voice, this from a relative youth of the group. "Then withhold them from the field. Draw them to Terra, and re-harvest their gene-line. Salvation is still in reach."

She snorted in derision. The younger generation had no concept of whom they dealt with. "Legion Astartes, child. Legion. Astartes. They would no sooner cease fighting then we would cease breathing. We cast and molded them into peerless warriors, and taught them only war and brotherhood. Honour and pride is all to them, survival less than nothing. You want to tell the Bearers of the Palatine that they are to be taken from the Crusade in it's infancy? Go ahead, I dare you to." She shook her head, remembering the results of mistaking a Legionnaire as a science experiment. " I once tried to tell an Astartes his course, tried to force him into further experimentation while his brothers went to war without him. The Firstborn nearly killed me." The image of that giant with hazel eyes, the tattoo of the IV upon his neck, holding her by the throat a, meter from the ground, was ingrained in her memory unto death. She never made such a mistake again, and forthwith had treated them with far more respect and caution. "No; either the III will be blessed with a miracle and find their Father amongst the stars, or they will die."

Another voice, this one distorted by the vox-speaker that replaced his cancer ridden larnyx. "There are further issues, beyond the Palatine Blades, that we can actually affect, ma'am."

She turned and nodded to him. "Speak then."

He returned the nod with thanks. " The blight damaged a portion of each of the Legions gene-seed, to some degree or another. The Emperor's cure stopped the blight, yes, but it also altered the genetic structure of those progenoids that were near death and spared. Many of the normal genetic markers we know are either misplaced, altered, or non-existant. Those that we could identify are being sent to their respective Legions, but there are thousands that cannot be verified as belonging to any specific bloodline, or carry only faint markers."

A new voice, quiet as a mouse "Then destroy that which cannot be verified and is filthy, and carry on."

Another, gruff as an ursine. "We just suffered a calamity that may very well halt the entire Crusade, and you wish to compound this tragedy? We would be exterminated for incompetence by Him for such an action, and I wouldn't blame Him for doing so."

The Vox-Voice growled back to life. "You do not understand. There is nothing defective or tainted on a biological level, only that it's source cannot be confirmed. I am assured to a ninety-eighth percentile that induction and implantation can be carried out with this orphan gene-seed.”

“And the Legions would reject them;” interjected the quiet voice. “They are indeed warriors, and like any warrior, they are superstitious, especially of the bloodlines of their star-scattered Fathers. A Warrior who has no trace would never be accepted.”

The old woman digested this, her complex mind racing, attempting to remember all she had learned of the Legion's complex traditions. Finally, she spoke. “Then we prostrate ourselves to the Legion Masters, and ask them to take the Orphans that match their gene-markers the closest, into their orders, induct them into their warrior cultures. Should they fail, then they die, and what is lost would have been anyway. If they survive and succeed, then they will do so besides those with whom they shed blood, and bleed for, and the Imperium of Mankind will be stronger for it. Such is the way of brotherhood amongst their kind, and such actions will cross the physical boundaries and incorporate them with their adopted Legion's spirit.”

Vox-voice raised his hand. “My apology, ma'am, but I have already followed such a path. I have made contact with the VII and X Legion Masters, and each has agreed to take five hundred of the unmarked to replace losses during the Haumea and Pluto conflicts, respectfully.”

The Old Woman smiled. “Good. Their noble acceptance will act as a catalyst for the others. We may not be able to preserve the III Legion, but we shall protect what we can....”

+OD Day Minus 1+

Abysaryn Ekiam was called 'Orphan' by his mentors when he was young and fresh clad in plate of the VII Legion, though he knew not the reason, nor cared. Only service to the Legion and the Emperor, beloved by all, mattered. After two decades of war and bloodshed, they simply called him 'brother'. After three more decades, he was named Captain, and given command of the ancient XXII Watch by his honour-brother, Demetrius Katalfaque. With the appropriate clearance that went with such an august rank, he looked into his own records, and found why they called him Orphan, found the truth to his curiosity, the reason his masters once looked at him with concern.

Still, he cared not. No matter to him that his bloodline was a scarred ruin from a time of sorrow, his lineage questioned. His mind, heart and soul belonged to Rogal Dorn and the Emperor of Mankind, and none would question his devotion. He was Ridire-Captain Abysaryn Ekiam, born of Akkadia Hive upon Terra, master of the XXII Watch, adopted son of Dorn, honoured with Cruithniian knighthood and the Gcailis Solais heraldry of their people, though it was not his own, shipmaster of the mighty barge Glory and it's attendant fleet, and a devotee to the confined war-art of ship-to-ship combat and crushing assault. He stood upon the walls of the Imperial Palace this eve, staring into a sky set aflame by his cousin's treachery, clad in his unique prototype tactical dreadnought warplate, his mighty scourge-blade Uridimma clenched in a tight gauntlet, prepared for the Last War. The roaring marble Lion of extinct Cruithniia, nobly resting on his shoulder, and the blackened fist of Dorn upon the other, flanked a scarred face that showed little emotion. Light reflected from the golden Gcailis Solais, set upon a small heraldic shield of rad-wolf bone resting upon the studded shoulder plate of his armour, glimmering like a candle each time a capital ship died in orbit.

He wished his Fleetmaster luck under his breath, hoping that they would survive the conflict, though holding very little hope that such would happen. Turning his dusky face away from the heavens, his straight, unkempt black hair pulled away from his grey eyes by a welcome breeze, an unsmiling mouth centering a tight beard, he reviewed the Watch who stood with him, watching the skies as well, waiting for the telltale fire-signs of massed orbital drop. Nearly half were still of Cruithiian birth, though the rest of the Watch now consisted of brothers from all cultures and worlds that had served the Imperium. It was the way of Unification, of Compliance, and it would be the fate of the Watch. Only service mattered, not the place of birth or the numberless cultures of humanity. Only service to the Imperium, and the Legion. Nothing more.

If he was honest to himself, Ekiam would have given anything to die aboard his ship, or better yet, on the deck of his foes, hip deep in their corpses, but his Father's orders were clear: Hold the walls, kill the besiegers, let nothing pass that yet breathes. And so, here he stood, thinking of a past that now meant nothing, looking to the here and now with the cold mentality of his Stepfather, proud to serve and proud to die, his adamantium boots planted squarely upon the birthworld he had forgotten, yet would die for with honour and dignity, love in his heart for his Grandfather's mighty realm, alongside his brothers who were as committed as he.

Ridire-Captain Abysaryn Ekiam would never be found wanting, and would be forever loyal, despite the treachery of those who had brought war to the Throneworld, who he had once called brother.

It was in his heart, after all.

::::Recovered recording:::Data-Stack 44-45-91::::Noospheric interface complete:::::processing request::::::Granted:::::

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[Pict Capture DX/31-23-1] - Brother Aodh Mk'aa

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[Pict Capture DX/82-66-72] - Brother Niall Blacach

Hyaenidae Venerable Brother

Hyaenidae

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Is that a Power Bat? I love it.

 

Maul, but yeah. It goes -whump-.  :P

 

Just give me the Ridire-Captain already! There's this foamy substance forming at the corners of my mouth. 

 

That's actually a possibility. He's about half built right now....

 

Great work as always heathens, especially loving the sporrans!

 

Used to be IG canteens, lol. Just seemed to fit, after some shaving.

 

A Scottish terminator of the Imperial Fists armed with a spiked power club. Can it be any better?

 

Of course it can. You'll have to wait and see, though.

 

 

 

@Everybody: Thank you for all your kind comments, i really means a lot.

 

By the way, the first person who figures out the mystery, gets a model done of them in either the gold of Dorn or the iron of the IV, their choice.

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