+++In Memoriam: Update+++

[Ace Debonair]

Darn, I was way off.

Oh well, there's always next time!

[Conn Eremon]

His legion of origin is irrelevent now. Look to the future.

Is this a rationalization for that weird gene-lock on the Soulspear in the Soul Drinkers saga?

He's the founder of the Soul Drinkers - sons of Dorn but not of Dorn's line.

http://static4.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20110213013034/archer/images/b/bf/Gillette.png

Dukes.

Congrats, Muggs. PM me what you'd like made.

http://static1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20130509125225/archer/images/8/8d/Archer_ray_guns.jpg

Double Dukes!

 

Frakkin' job and its high maintenance, "Don't stop working because you're on your phone, or I'll cut you" rules.

Ah well. As Ace said, next time.

[muggs]

Boom! I completely missed the whole 'gets a character bit' too!

 

I'll have to get my thinking cap on!

 

I've got a 5 hour train journey tomorrow to mull it over

[Hyaenidae]

Honestly, I'm suprised no one translated Gcailis Solais in google first, lol.

 

Chalice of Light. Aka, a chalice, haloed.

[Dragonkin Arenis]

*head-desk*

 

Missed that bit.

 

I hope you do more of this kind of thing Heathens, partly because I'm desperate to figure things out myself, but mostly because I'd love to see of one of the Watch starting the craze of inscribing his armour with details ala the Excoriators. Y'know, date, weapon, enemy kind of deal.

Me and my mind.

[Hyaenidae]

The reason that Ridire-Captain Abysaryn Ekiam is now in charge of the Watch is because I have a very, very strong suspicion that Katalfaque will get rules in the FW books, alongside the other Successor founders of the Fists. On top of that, he apparently already showed up in The Imperial Truth, and his character clashed irrevocably with my vision. Due to that, I decided to change gears, so the story can remain mine a bit. So, I chose the one master who is not a master, who led the 2nd founding, and did not, or 3rd Founding, or did not, and is a Son of Dorn, or may not be.

 

Confused yet? Good.

[Aqui]

Confused yet? Good.

Makes sense to me, but then my natural state is confused. In any case, very nicely written and yet another aspect of events that haven't yet been explored - how and when were the Astartes created

[GrandMagnus]

Oh snap! Did not see that coming.

[Ace Debonair]

Honestly, I'm suprised no one translated Gcailis Solais in google first, lol.

Chalice of Light. Aka, a chalice, haloed.

I was too busy looking for meaning where there was none, myself.

I'm plenty good at 'crazy', but need to work on my 'borderline'.

[Wade Garrett]

But the gene locked spear that only works for those of Soul Drinker geneseed let Lysander use it...

[Hyaenidae]

Thus the initial story. It's not just unmarked gene-seed, it's pure, and faint, and everything in between, even potentially other Legions. After ten-thousand years of blending and proporgation... who knows? Perhaps the Soulspear can detect such genetic markers of Dorn's blood easier than the limited tech of 40k. Perhaps it's all a lie. Perhaps it was never a weapon created by Dorn. Perhaps it was his most treasured relic.

 

Perhaps.

[Tyrannicide]

http://i421.photobucket.com/albums/pp299/spencertrimm/ScreenShot2013-10-26at105530PM.png

 

"Walls Fail, Fists Do Not!"

 

 

http://i421.photobucket.com/albums/pp299/spencertrimm/helrus_final.jpg

 

 

 

[Pict Capture DX/235-2B-72] - Legionary Helrus, Specialist

 

VII Legion, Siege of Terra – Day 51

 

Armed with a Mars manufactured “Cythraul” pattern Meltagun, Legionary Helrus’ was relied upon to fulfill an anti-armor role in 3^rd Squad. As part of the restructuring of the Legion in the late stages of the War, support squads in the Airborne Companies were folded directly into the Tactical Platoons. This provided every Tactical Squad with designated weapons specialists and alleviated any over extension during the Siege, as theorized in advance by Lord Dorn. Similar measures were echoed across the Galaxy in the Empire of Ultramar, where Lord Guilliman was already enacting his reorganization of the XIII.

 

In other Legions, such as the Sons of Horus or World Eaters, kill markings may have been displayed upon ranged weaponry. Such practices were seldom found in the VII Legion’s ranks; for Dorn’s Sons did not place an emphasis on recognizing personal victories, rather notable actions of the squad, company, or battalion levels, collectively. Had the Imperial Fists decorated their weapons, Helrus would’ve sported several stripes, skulls, or comparable insignia for the many tank kills he registered during the Siege.

 

As evident in the pict compilation above, thermic abrasion to the left side of the faceplate and shoulder indicate a danger-close discharge. Such an act could be deemed punishable by a Legion Officer for Helrus’ irresponsible conduct towards his armor, and likewise, his squadmates. Minor infractions of this nature were disregarded during the prolonged and savage combat of the Siege. He appears to be missing his Tigrus pattern bolt pistol, perhaps lost in the heat of battle.

 

Helrus’ most notable efforts came on OD-Day +91, when the specialist was redeployed with the rest of I Airborne to the Nord-Trebant municipality. The outnumbered Company spearheaded a counterattack on a Death Guard armored convoy, slaying Lieutenant Vaclavus in a vicious firefight that saw seven Airborne Legionaries massacred within minutes. However, the Imperial Fists made sure their losses did not go un-avenged before falling back. The last thing the XIV Legion Commander heard while his brain boiled and terminator armor vaporized into molten slag was the hiss and roar of a meltagun.

 

Helrus was formally declared MIA, and presumed dead, on approximately OD-Day +116, his body unable to be recovered after a night operation against the VIII Legion.

 

[Marshal Rohr]

Too legit.

[Hyaenidae]

The base actually looks like ash. That's nine different shades of cool, man.

 

Rock on, brother; he looks great. Hopefully the rest of the squad will be done before 2021.  :P

[Tyrannicide]

The base actually looks like ash. That's nine different shades of cool, man.

Rock on, brother; he looks great. Hopefully the rest of the squad will be done before 2021.

That's what I was going for, though I'm not too happy with how that white thing turned out on the base. (Psst, it's supposed to be marble)

I know, I know. I'm actually close to halfway done on his buddy. Should have him finished in the next few days.

[GrandMagnus]

Awesome IF, Darth.

[One-eye]

Your IF is really good, but the thing I like the most is the base. How did you achieve this ash effect ?

[Daemon2027]

Yeah I was hoping for a similar base effect for my XXth, but always goes a bit to 'clean' would love to know how you achieved the ash on your base.

[Tyrannicide]

Thanks, gents. 

 

The base was created by layering up Vallejo's Desert Sand paste. GW sand is sprinkled onto the base while drying. Afterwards it's painted in grey tones to simulate a rubble sorta look. I then apply AK Interactive's Pigment Fixer for proper adhesion and use black and brown weathering powders for a more realistic effect.

[muggs]

Great work Mr Potato, I like the empty holster - nice touch. The ash works really well too.

Is the soot on his left pad paint or weathering powder?

[Demus Ragnok]

Very nice Darth.

[Noctus Cornix]

http://i421.photobucket.com/albums/pp299/spencertrimm/reaver.png

 

 

"We are the scions of a God, the Wolves of a Warmaster"

 

 

 

 

 

Fall. . .

The world seemed empty in that span of time, all sense of weight removed from existence, all sound hollowed out save the rippling wind that sliced against his second skin. He was falling, and in that in that single moment, he felt a sense of ease as though the world itself could be forgotten. His eyes, weary from but a handful of years that had aged him into decay fell heavy, easing shut and darkening the world around him. His arms spread out wide, feeling the ever-so soft force of the wind resistance through his inactive armour. Such a sensation was a rare thing, and it would not last long enough for him to feel the true sense of clarity and reprieve from the weight upon his shoulders.. but he would savor it for as long as he could… For a moment, a simple fleeting moment, nothing in the world mattered… He was free.

“Ten seconds to activation. Twenty seconds to collision.”

Castus’s eyes jolted open at the beckoning growl of his Chieftain across the encoded close proximity vox-net, one of the few capabilities that remained functioning when the bare minimum of power was being churned from a silent power pack. He stared through the thick crimson lenses of his helm, seeing only the thick miasma of black clouds as he plummeted through the darkness above a world that died. He could see nothing in this stifling helmet, all sound receptors deactivated, his visor lenses dulled without the aid of a tactical-feed. His movement was hindered to the bare minimum of reflexes, joints locked in place to preserve the Warrior housed within. It was like a prison, a form-fitting cell that closed him off from the world around him. But that would not be for long..

3

2

1

“Activate.. Ten seconds to collision..”

With the most minor of cerebral reflexes, the engines of his back mounted power-pack roared to life with the beckoning roar of a MK IV Jump Pack howling as it coughed timid plumes of blue fire. Within a handful of heartbeats, his world became alive once more, his vision awash with the crimson tactical readouts and retinal targeting scanner while the right corner of his vision displayed the rudimentary diagnostics engrained into the machine spirit of his suit. He his fingers clenched into fists flexing to test the disengaging joint locks, the sensation of every power-feed cord sending almost euphoric jolts through his nerves. A soft smile played upon his youthful features as he savored the elation of being a true God-son… And now Lap Dog was alive.

“Five seconds to Collision.”

With one fluid motion, the cyclopean primary vent of his Jump Pack gave a single burst of force, sending him reeling forward in a tumble as his hand grasped for the bolter mag-locked to his waist. Another burst from his secondary vents and he was righted upwards, Brutus pattern bolter held tightly in his hands. His vision did not falter to his side, knowing that through the black smog he would find the digital outlines of his kindred doing the same as he. Eyes of faded emerald remained firm, staring through the crimson field upon the yellow silhouette that grew ever closer as he fell. By now their targeting auspex would have registered the heat signatures of activating power armour. It would only take 2 seconds to proceed with evasive maneuvers and completely avoid their certain detail… Too late.

 
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The Wolf howled through the roiling black sky, a bellowing roar that came from the hulking engine that breathed fire upon his back. With a great seismic crash, the hunter collided with the prow of golden vessel, ceramite boots shattering thin adamantine plates that buckled beneath the force and shattered intricate circuitry beneath. His body rode with the force of impact, crouching low like some primal beast and grasping at the hull with his only free hand. There was no time to recover, ever precious heartbeat beckoning him to act flawlessly or this entire mission would end in failure. Without pause, the maglocked segments of his boots sealed his bulk into place, allowing him to use the shockwave of landing on a moving object at such speed to lift himself upright where he would been hurled away harmlessly like some pathetic insect. Fingers moved fluidly in form, bringing the kin-slayer bolter to bare and face his prey.

For but a fraction of a second, he could see his prey as they were, two warriors in gilded yellow armour strapped into safety harnesses at their command thrones. In that brief moment of peace, they looked at one another through matching crimson lenses. For a brief moment, he wondered about these warriors, to see those crimson lenses and question of why they were so similar… But from the corner of his eye, he saw one of the pilots jolting a hand towards emergency seal….

“No..”

A single gauntleted squeezed the trigger and the Wolf’s world was consumed with the sharp bark of a discharging bolter. The shells impacted with the reinforced glass plating, the first two rounds cratering the thick wall before the third followed suit and shattered the entire plating. Not a moment later and the cockpit was turned into a charnel house. Bolt rounds pounded into golden ceramite warplate, their drill-like tips digging deep into the layered ceramic before detonating and turning the armour into all but useless weight. The command console was ripped asunder, fragments and sparks decimating the innards of the Storm Eagle cockpit. With ease he confirmed one of the pilots to be dead, a single round catching him through the eye lens and peppering brain matter along his comrade’s shoulder plate a moment later. The wolf didn’t even have a chance to check the second pilot before his entire world jolted to the side, yanking him like a rag doll as the vessel jerked harshly to the right.

With a curse upon his breath he disengaged the maglocks on his soles and with great reluctance allowed the force to send him hurdling away. His body collided along the back of the ship, his helm cracking against the adamantine plating that sent his vision reeling for a moment. By sheer long his free hand lashed out and snatched a outlaying groove along the hull, digging into the roof vents that buckled beneath his grip and leaving him to hang like some scrap of parchment helplessly in the whipping hurricane of wind. His vision returning and the retinal display of his helm falling back into order, he jerked his head to the side, searching for another way to down the vessel. There, just beneath the wing above him, his eye caught it just before the targeting reticule locked on, a primary engine..

Teeth gritting together, he used his one free hand to lock his bolter back into place, only to find that he was no longer holding it, undoubtedly ripped from his grasp when he was flung from the prow.. “The Crimson King will have my head for that…” The words came in a hush mutter from under his lips, instead grasping at the chain axe at his side and letting the teeth growl as he tested the activation rune.. He paused for a moment, a deep breath sucked in through his lungs before exposed outwards. A moment later, a raised for dug the tip into the broken vents where his hand had just been a moment ago, and with a combined effort of a kicking jump and the burst of force from his jump pack, he hurdled himself over the lip of the sideways Storm Eagle before letting the draft of wind drag him away.

With a single twist, his body shifted and down came the gunning chainaxe. It bit deep into the sensitive metal, adamantine teeth chewing at the coughing engines and ripping through power cabling like paper. Using the pull of the wind, he allowed it to drag him backwards, leaving a vicious scar in the engine that now spewed black smoke and left many of the teeth in his chainaxe broken. Nearing the end, he plated his boots upon the rear of the vessel and kicked himself off, flaring his jumppack to let him body correct itself in his fall and ease the descent. The golden eagle fell towards the earth below, lost in clouds of smoke save for the distinctive plume of black smog that carved its way through the mist.

Around him, yet more fell, two vessels of the same gilded yellow but smaller and sleeker of the more standard Storm Eagle pattern. Others fell aswell, Valkyries that housed mortals of the Imperium’s army plummeting to their deaths, all save one that was already a burning wreckage that had broken apart still in the air. Across the vox-net he could hear his brothers confirm their target’s destruction, a few remarking of the particular way they killed the helpless pilots or ripped the vessels asunder with great pride. With a single index finger clicking to the side of his neck, his chimed himself into the vox-net, taking a long ragger breath of exultation for speaking.

“This is Lapdog… I have ripped off the Eagle’s wings..”


------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Just as his brother Darius predicted, the sweep through the wreckage had been less than eventful with little sport to be made. The entire human contingent had been wiped out, their pathetic mortal frames broken or engulfed in flames as they perished alone and in agony. Little more could be said of Astartes warriors as well, most of them dead or shattered to the point where they could offer no resistance. They each died as their kind must, a single bolt round to the skull to put down a worthless dog. As he waded through the wreckage, he glanced upon their shattered armour, their gilded yellow armour rent asunder and stained with dark crimson and soot.

His eyes fell upon a single corspe’s collapsed frame, a freshly made cadaver made with the rev of his chainaxe across the soft armour of the yellow warrior’s throat. He had given little resistance when he died, his right gone in place of a ruin and mangled mess while the other had locked firmly around one of his kind that he had tried to drag from the wreckage.. He almost pitied the thing in a way, atleast if given the chance, such a warrior could prove a challenge… Gazing over the black and white heraldry that marked each of their shoulders, he moved his eyes along the scarred and ruined image. He knew this symbol, though it was unfamiliar to him, like some alien symbol in a tongue he only barely understood. “Imperial… Fist..” But his mind was pulled away a moment later, the sharp static of vox distortion crackling in his ears.

“This is Red Water. We’ve located the target…”

They converged on what remained of the Transport Storm Eagle, the pack of the Crimson King moving in unisons with the newly descended pack of the Blood Scent. They converged on the wreckage, encircling it as they whispered through the mist and attacked with silent precision. They gunned down what remained of the defenders, but a handful of Imperial Fists fighting with valiant effort but they died as one must when faced with exhaustion, pain, and overwhelming numbers. They were offered little reward for their service in the line of their Empire, precision bolt rounds piercing through the soft cores of their knees and necks while detonating hands to leave them vulnerable for the final executing strike.

Their end came less than five minutes later as the last of the convoy died with his head severed by a brutal strike from the Crimson King’s crackling power axe. Lap Dog moved into the circle of wolves, moving around the cornered prize now too crippled to fight. The warrior’s armour had been torn and violated by shrapnel and bolt rounds, both legs laying useless now with each knee cap blown open and his hands removed in a similar fashion… Yet this was hardly the reason as to why he garnered such interest from the packs. Unlike the warriors who had given their lives to protect him, the astartes’ warplate was of ivory white, now stained with ash and blood. He was not of the V Legion, for no insignias of the lightning bolt marked his armour nor did he bare any of their identifying heraldry.. Instead his armour was decorated with ornate, unblinking eyes ritually shattered and defaced, the obvious pockmarks of Legion symbols removed with the faded image of a raven colored hound standing sentinel over a crescent moon.

“What is it?...” He heard one his brothers mutter from the background, the same thought surging through his mind as he stared curiously over a warrior he had never scene. His head cocked to the side, observing the broken warrior who even in his disabled state writhed and lashed out against his captors who pinned him down. His mind writhed through the many lessons they had been taught, recalling the history and tales that his brothers had often not bothered to listen to.. The symbol, his eyes focusing on it through the black and gold death mask of his helm, seemed so unknown.. yet so familiar…

“He is a relic.. an ancient artifact of Legion’s past…” The words left his lips without even noticing it at first, moving slowly forward as if both by instinct and a cold curiosity. “He was once like us.. A Wolf…”

The warrior in white armour sneered in a mix of disgust and fury, his noble features left strained by agony and age yet even still he showed his defiance. “Don’t be so quick to compare yourself to me, whelp… This Legion forgot itself just like its master did.. You’re nothing more than butchers who murder your own kind.. And for what?! Sport? Because your Lord has demanded it of you?... Have you no honor? My brother wolves are no more.. I am all that is left.”

Lap Dog moved with purpose now, a methodical step by step with casual grace and caged violence that threatened to boil over… He dropped the broken chain axe from his grip, extending out the hand only to be greeted with the familiar weight of a bolter one of his brothers tossed to him. He might have thanked his brother, but he knew that is was not done out of charity.. They were finding this of interest, and they expected him to make it amusing..

“No. You’re not a Wolf.. You’re a dog, a rabid mutt that ran its use…”

The warrior snarled in protest, jerking forward as if to strike at his offender, but with no hands he could do nothing and was shoved back down onto his back with the force of the Reaver’s boot that pinned him firmly in place. “I’m more of a wolf than you’ll ever be, whelp… If I’m expendable, then so are you…”

A smile played upon Castus’ lips now beneath his helm, letting his free hand rise up to the joint of his neck armour and with a pressurized hiss released the clasps on his war-mask. He removed it from his head, revealing the youthful features of a boy perhaps no older than his second decade, the scalp lock falling down from beside his shoulder. Two pairs of Cythonian emerald eyes met in that moment, one cracked and broken with age and sorrow, the other so full of life yet utterly devoid of compassion. Lap Dog leaned in closer, letting his ceramite boot press harder against his prey’s chest, no doubt straining the already shattered ribs beneath. “I am what your kind would never be, cut off from your ‘pathetic’ sense of honour, your need for glory and feign attempts of civility… You were domesticated dogs who called yourselves wolves… I am the Wolf that howls to the Unblinking Moon.. And you?...”

The bolter forged only to kill brothers was slowly raised in his grip, the kin-slayer leveled at the snarling warrior’s face who now stared upon the black abyss of a cold barrel. That same smile as before played upon the young wolf’s lips, cold, void of all emotions save a primal hunger like some untamed beast.

“You are just a dog to be put down…”

With a squeeze of a trigger, the bolter roared with life, and a light was extinguished with the emptying of a box-fed magazine.
 
 
 

http://i915.photobucket.com/albums/ac352/Noctus-Cornix/20140122_024110_zps6c403833.jpg

 

http://i915.photobucket.com/albums/ac352/Noctus-Cornix/20140122_024148_zpsc94a91e6.jpg

 

http://i915.photobucket.com/albums/ac352/Noctus-Cornix/20140122_024216_zps13e02c12.jpg

 

Pict Capture KV/2395-5N-224, Legionary Castus 'Lap Dog'

 

XVI Legion, Siege of Terra-Day 27

 

 

 

Legionary Castus: Much of the information gathered on the XII Kindred are drawn from a personal log of Legionary Castus. His account hints that the Kindred were not drawn from any Legionary prior to the tragedy of the Istvaan III culling. Instead every member was of new stock selected into a special accelerated program. There can be no absolute confirmation of this account but if this is true than no member would be older than 23 years of age by the start of the Heresy. Autopsies of collected bodies reinforces this possibility. The accelerated program mentioned in Castus' log referring to very disturbing concepts, children raised and trained solely for the act of killing their fellow man. Executions of civilians, target practice with Imperial Army soldiers. Exhibition execution of captured loyalist astartes.

Other parts of the logs detail the Kindred making excessive use of tribal monikers and titles, each Legionary having his own title and nickname that is used more often than their actual name. Legionary Castus describes his Moniker to be 'Lap Dog' coined for his excessive loyalty to the Warmaster and his Equerry Malgohurst. This personal log was found on Castus' body in the ruins of a trench on Jupiter during the earliest stages of the Scouring Era. Cause of death is reported to have not been death by Loyalist fire or even friendly traitor fire. Autopsy credits the cause of death to be suicide, a single bolt round to the chin most likely moments after his final log entry.

Equipment: The XII Kindred received the only the best from their beloved master, Malgohurst. Modified and enhanced MK IV warplate, state of the art chain axes and Jump packs, and a unique pattern of bolter known as the 'Brutus' Pattern. Despite every legionary bearing the same colour and heraldry of a Reaver, each Kindred modified his equipment as he saw fit and was left up to personal tastes. Castus seemed to have modified his armour the least amongst his brothers, bearing a helm common amongst Reavers with the likeness of ancient warmasks from Cythonian Barbarian culture.

[Ace Debonair]

That model has an air of casual malevolence that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.

Top stuff, for certain.

[jeremy1391]

Nicely done Noctus! The concept of Astartes "child soldiers" is terrifying!

[Hyaenidae]

Brutal. I love it. The Kindred are coming into their own with such writing and modeling.