++ The Murderers' Call - A Night Lords Community ++

[Chandrian]

Might be wrong here, but i think Flint is talking about conversions to Night Lords, in regards to the new Tomb Kings models.  

 

IF i am right 

 

I agree,  there isn't much for your regular old Marine conversions.  Though i'm literally doing one of these right now >.  The Mortarch of Sacrament would be an awesome conversion for a Heldrake.....but i already bought stuff to convert to one ....

[Flint13]

I was referring to the new tomb kings stuff. They're awesome models, but I suppose everyone means conversion opportunities for more demonic night lords.

 

And Haelim, the solution to that problem is, of course, to buy more stuff ^_^

[incinerator950]

My wallet is currently cold and empty.

 

Personally I would love a weathered, rag tag look with grenades, extra pouchets, and scopes.

[Brother Ambroz]

The opportunities are more for daemon engines, dreadnoughts and vehicles rather than marines. I don't think any of those models (other than the riders) are anywhere close to marine size....

[Augustus b'Raass]

I see just awesome daemons for the wight models, but that's it. Vehicles need human parts - what's scary about a large spine on a vehicle? Animal carcasses haven't been scary since the Godfather...  

Edited August 19, 2014 by Augustus b'Raass

[Kol Saresk]

That Morgath could make a nice DP.......

[Brother Ambroz]

Why do they need human parts? Who said anything about the bones being animal and not something else?

 

Augustus, by the way, I need some help with the tentacle maker I just bought. Saw you used it and can I send you a PM about it?

[Augustus b'Raass]

Why do they need human parts? Who said anything about the bones being animal and not something else?

 

Augustus, by the way, I need some help with the tentacle maker I just bought. Saw you used it and can I send you a PM about it?

sure mate! But be quick, i leave on Friday night :tu:

[Koriel]

The NL contemptor is up on FW's website.

[Balthamal]

"Just as everything has it's price, so too does it hold consequence. It is inescapable, a fundamental fact of the material universe. How simple to think that the second millennium astramath Knewtain shock old Terra to it's bedrock with his postulations on the matter. As a warrior must be determined to see a conclusion so must he be prepared for consequence. A wise man would plan for the potentials before even beginning. A cunning man would ensure that all outcomes stand to benefit him in some way. A foolish man would proceed heedless whilst the coward would step back from action and damn himself as weak. But the powerful, the powerful care not for consequences as these occur in the mud and the filth whilst the power stride amid the stars" 

 

The Duke of Blades

The Crimson Testament

(1,9:23)

Pride

 

The dust was everywhere. Kicked up by warriors in the hundreds of thousands. Churned by corpses collapsing. Hurled into the air by bullets, missiles, grenades, beams of coherent light or super-heated air. The black sands of Istvaan V were swirling in an obscuring vortex along the length and breadth of the Urgal Depression. The grains were cloying in their attempt to cling to armour, to block the ventilation ports of the storm eagles and fire raptors strafing above or reduce the treads of land raiders and rhinos to gritty ruins. If the sages of bronze age Terra spoke in hushed tones of a battlefield born in hell, how little they'd appreciate just how much hell could be contained on one world, never mind one ash blasted valley of it. It was here, now, that warfare had changed forever, elevated from it's already lofty peaks of noble warrior brotherhoods, bestriding the galaxy in their Eighteen Legions, casting aside the unclean, the uncivilized, the unworthy to something more barbaric, more brutal, more primal. The greatest fighting force the galaxy had ever, or would ever bear witness to, was busy turning it's blades and bolters on itself. 

 

Never mind that four Legions had already purged themselves, or that another two were at each other's throats half a galaxy away. On this day, eleven Legions were massed beneath the banners of their sires at the utter pinnacle of war. Nobility replaced by more baser emotions; envy, hatred, hubris, spite. Such would be the tale of every meeting between loyalist and traitor in the millennia to come. 

 

Barbastellan Lasiurius, The Red Judge, knew nothing of that then. He knew only that he was standing in the midst of a billion mass-reactive shells screaming around him, shrapnel ricocheting off armour and leaving red ruin when finding a weak point.  The warriors in cold black and scorched emerald were dying by the scores of thousands but they were Legion, they were taking no small number of foes to the grave with them. If they had been facing down unaugmented humanity, they'd have already won. The Forsaken were clustered around a series of low hills on the battles western edges, doing little more than gunning down targets of opportunity, a task made even more ridiculous when only preysight offered anything more than a hurricane of dirt and that too became constantly overloaded by the flares of lascannons and plasma weaponry raking the air around them. Some within the Legion would have bristled at being left on the periphery, Barbastellan couldn't have cared less. When Sevatar and Malcharion had relayed the orders agreed upon by the Primarchs, he had simply acknowledged the command and seen to preparing his men. He had no special wish to slay as many of the X,XVIII and XIX as he could, he merely wanted them dead so that his company wasn't gunned down in return. No emotion, no politics. Simple.

 

He had even managed to avoid the Primarchs themselves thus far. Mannus was dead, decapitated by Fulgrim which in turn had left the vox a howling gale of screaming ecstasy from the III Legion, he had simply tuned out at that point. Vulkan had borne the brunt of Mortarion's forbidden arsenal, engulfed in a nuclear fireball that had flattened both Barbastallan and the Iron Hand he'd been crossing blades with. As for Corax, he had almost killed Lorgar before fleeing from the Night Haunter.

 

Wonderful he thought. Something else for our mad father to brood over. 

 

Shadows resolving in his preysight pulled him back to the moment, flushing a hot surge of battle stims through his system in preparation for more blood-shed. There must have been hundreds of them, judging by the sensors reading heat and motion blooms in his vision. The first of them pounded out of the dust and ash, a pistol bucking in one hand, the other clutching a boarding shield, emblazoned with a white hand, now stained with blood and smoke. Iron Hands. Barbastellan reacted without any conscious thought. Bringing his first blade crashing into the shield, pushing it ever so slightly out of the perfect blocking form, he whipped the other round, rolling his wrist at the apex of the swing and brought it up under the guard and through the gap between breastplate and bicep, the angle of the blow shredding hearts and lungs before the dead Iron Hand could even crack off a final shot.

 

More were hurling themselves forward, a ramshackle collection of squads all seeking a weakness in the line to break through. They had seen their gene-father die. There was truly nothing left for them but to see as much blood shed before succumbing to the inevitable. Nazun, stood at his shoulder, his massive blade carving armour and flesh apart with equal ease whilst Kaspian remained several paces behind, his bolter kicking and the banner of the XIV clenched in his fist. Triraen, the final member of his inner circle was a mile or so to the north, several squads there had taken casualties from the massed fire of the Salamanders and he was busy with his craft. As for Liagond and Muratsash, both were with their men out in the wider battle; Liagond with his Terror Squads among the Raven Guard whilst Muratsash circled the battlefield, with the Raptors and Outriders although he and his brethren easily outdistanced both on their jetbikes. He was content to cut down any who had managed to breach the ring of death haloing the valley.

 

More of his men were dying now. The Iron Hands were pushing hard, all caution thrown aside and were pouring fire at a punishing rate into the hills. Even as they were cut down the rain of shells didn't cease or diminish in any way. It was only then that the further heat blooms became visible several hundred yards back. There were other warriors coming, either loyalists laying down fire to support their fleeing brothers or fellow traitors shooting indiscriminately ahead. That answer became apparent all too quickly. Emperor's Children, their once pristine purple armour bearing battle's scars and desecrations of a more personal nature, stalked after them. They didn't bother aiming, simply firing from the hip as they advanced, not caring whether Iron Hand or Night Lord fell. The only thing they seemed intent on was creating as much noise as possible. At their lead a group of swordsmen, uselessly flourishing their blades even though the fleeing Iron Hands were barely within pistol range let alone steel. Barbastellan clenched his teeth behind his helm, he knew them, by reputation and by the names daubed in crude paint over the armour, the Chemosian script burning against his eyes with unwelcome pressure. Aldranath. Ca'varth. Almanos. Caesarius. Khaladar, their Prefect.

 

They saw the Night Lords massed before them, murdering the last of  the X they had pursued. Each unhelmed, madness on this battlefield above all others, they bore telling expressions; boredom, arrogance, avarice, desire. Only Khaladar remained helmed, the crest still pristine white despite the slaughter occurring all around. He simply raised his hand and Ca'varth stepped forward, pride dripping from his gaze down to his sneer.

 

"We wanted them alive gutter-rat. We would have made such sweet music of their souls as we dined at the divine feast of the Dark Prince. You lowly scum have no appreciation of what you have spoiled this day," each word brimming with condescension. 

 

Barbastellan forced himself to remain calm and not gut the preening fool. The amount of effort required truly surprised him.

 

"They were killing my brothers. I am not in the business of throwing away my men so that you degenerates can make playthings out of warriors who deserve death, not desecration," he spat.

 

Ca'varth opened his mouth ready to launch into a tirade but was stopped by Aldranath casually shouldering past him aside. The expression of boredom hadn't left his face but his eyes were now sharp and focused. He didn't like being talked to in anything less than obeisance and the Night Lord's tone grated his nerves raw.

 

"We are not here to speak with your ilk. We are not here to debate. We are here for toys for our rituals this eve. You have taken them from us. You will replace them." All said in a dry dispassionate tone. Ca'varth glared murder at his brother's back, his pride burning at being usurped as Khaladar's mouthpiece.

 

"Twenty five souls. From your men. Now," growled Caesarius, the hunger in his voice naked before everyone.

 

Barbastellen didn't so much as gesture, he simply looked at the swordsman, then at the ranks of Emperor's Children gathered behind. No coherency, no unity. Turning his gaze back to Caesarius, he breathed a signal word, across the vox, and aloud; "Ashrua."

 

Caesarius died first. Even had he spoken Nostraman, it's unlikely his reflexes could have avoided the hundred bolters that opened up on him at the command of "murder". Ca'varth and Almanos howled and launched themselves at Barbastellan. Neither made it, Nazun and Kaspian met them, revving chainglaives against the pristine steel of their artificer blades. Aldranath continued to stand in the centre of the storm, disinterest still blanketing him, as if he considered the death that had erupted around him beneath his notice. Khalador showed no such restraint. He threw himself straight at Barbastellan intending to gut him before anyone stole the kill from him.

 

The sound was awful. Not just the bark of hundreds of bolters as the Night Lords ruthlessly gunned down their erstwhile allies but the throaty roar of chainglaives meeting steel and the blows the two leaders rained on each other. Barbastellan knew from the outset that Khaladar was good. Very, very good. One did not join an elite blade fraternity among a Legion of blade masters if one lacked any semblance of skill. But his swordsmanship bled as much pride as his bearing. Silly little flicks, flourishes and twirls, all showmanship and no substance. If he had applied himself it's quite possible he could have killed Barbastellan in moments. He was not about to waste such an advantage. Knowing that a long duel would see him dead regardless of posturing, he poured all of his speed into beating the prefect's guard. His two blades should prevail against the one.

 

Shockingly, Khaladar saw through his tactics. Now he was focused. Now he was intent to kill rather than preen before his men. Death was no laughing matter when it stood breathing on the nape of your neck. He began a dizzying spiral of blows and it was all Barbastellan could do to hold him at bay, a series of kicks and elbows crashing into his helmet all that kept him alive. He knew the sequence, he was a master of it himself. The final blows were intended to push aside a pair of blades and allow a heart thrust. So it was something of a shock when a two-handed overhead blow can whistling towards his head. Twisting desperately he brought up the one blade to try and parry the strike whilst the other instinctively lashed out for the prefect's throat.

 

His sword cracked as the burnished silver blade passed through it and lodged between his collar-bone and the top of his ribs. The pain was brilliant white agony, enough to leave him coughing blood into his helm and his vision to blur. Thus it was almost laughably ironic that his sight cleared just as Khaladar's severed head toppled from his shoulders. His grip failed before he could even withdrawn his sword from the flesh of the man who had killed him. Looking around Barbastellan was almost surprised to see his company ringing the three surviving Emperor's Children. Ca'varth and Almanos were on their knees before the Temnochta'yan. Liagond had emerged as a wraith from the swirling dust to lean on his glaive, staring intently at Aldranath. 

 

There was no longer disinterest in his expression. Now he was looking hungrily at Barbastellan. Whether for the sword planted in his torso or for the blood leaking from the armour rents could not be said. He took several steps forward, stopping only when Nazvun raised his blade. Barbastellan never took his eyes from him. He simply reached up with his good arm and pulled the blade free in a crunching rasp. The pain flared again, not entirely washed away by the balms in the spinal injectors of his warplate. Aldranath preempted any questions or threats.

 

" My applause on killing a less than perfect fool. To die to the likes of you shows just how worthless he was to my lord and master. I shall even bestow upon you the undeserved honour of praise to the Phoenican when I relate the death of the Khaladar the Unlamented." Then his expression turned cold, drawing his features into an ugly mask of malice and greed. "However I must also bear back Arianyr as proof of the deed. Give me the blade."

 

Barbastellan eyed the peacock. Glancing at his retinal display, he counted twenty three dead amongst his company. For no reason other than greed. Blood of the father couldn't an Astartes kill another for something other than greed? It was becoming all too familiar to him. Thinking of how the III Legion had demanded twenty five of his men added fuel to the fire of his anger. They had gotten their wish in the end, or as good as. The bodies around them bearing purple were not enough in recompense. Never nearly enough. His anger spiking more every second, he decided to twist the knife in the flesh of the fops left standing. Hefting Arianyr in his good hand, he performed some of the twirls and flourishes that Khaladar had mere moments before dying. Even without thinking of his it had almost killed him, he could tell that this was a weapon of supreme worth. That is was old was obvious, from the name in a dialect spoken in Albion in millennia past. And it's craftsmanship was beyond anything he ever seen.

 

Pouring mockery into his words, he said, "I think I shall keep such a pretty toy. You have shown me the worth of toys today. I thank you for that. Now take these little pups with you back to your diseased Legion before we make trophies of you as well as your brothers"

 

Aldranath's facade cracked, revealing it's ugly core. Even as he jumped forward Ca'varth and Almanos dragged him away, screaming oaths of murder and blood, to the laughter of the Forsaken.

 

"You worthless baseless whoreson VIII Legion pig! We are the perfection of the Emperor distilled in flesh! You do not take from us that which we have not given freely!" The laughter rose in volume, even against the backdrop of the battle round them. Seeing his rivals and inferiors dead mattered nothing to him. Ah but the shame of a Legion relic being taken by another? Oh how sweet was that venom in his veins.

 

Thus we came to know them, those foul three who fled from us bathed in shame and broken pride, the Pauper Lords. They returned weaponless and in disgrace to their Legion. It was something of a surprise that in the centuries to come each would rule their own warbands, forever turned rancid with bitterness of their humiliation at the hands of the VIII Legion. If I had known then the form their vengeance was to take, along with it's implications, I may have stayed my hand in mockery. The price of my humbling of them would be steep indeed. However it also graced me with a fleshsmith of superlative skill and allies across three Legions

[Chandrian]

 

Aldranath's facade cracked, revealing it's ugly core. Even as he jumped forward Ca'varth and Almanos dragged him away, screaming oaths of murder and blood, to the laughter of the Forsaken.

 

"You worthless baseless whoreson VIII Legion pig! We are the perfection of the Emperor distilled in flesh! You do not take from us that which we have not given freely!" The laughter rose in volume, even against the backdrop of the battle round them. Seeing his rivals and inferiors dead mattered nothing to him. Ah but the shame of a Legion relic being taken by another? Oh how sweet was that venom in his veins.

 

 

 

This was my favorite part!   i could picture this so clearly :P.  well done!

[Flint13]

Saved, kindled and re-read twice already. Great job Balth!

[Slips]

....Sigh *chalks up Night Lords as a Future Legion to bring into being*

 

That was Superb Baltamal! Might need a book of their adventures...and I would gladly pay if this is any proof of your writing ability.

[Alpha One]

Very well written Balth, though I noticed some extra words here and there that were unecessary, but I didn't allow it to detract from the fanntastic story you wrote.

[incinerator950]

:cussing :cussting :cusss with my :cussing plasma ahnialator and volcano :cussing cannons.

[Kol Saresk]

Am I the only one who did not completely understand that?

[Balthamal]

Saved, kindled and re-read twice already. Great job Balth!

 

Glad you like it. Hope you found the actions of your Pauper Lord Aldranath to be in keeping with his character ;)

 

 

....Sigh *chalks up Night Lords as a Future Legion to bring into being*

 

That was Superb Baltamal! Might need a book of their adventures...and I would gladly pay if this is any proof of your writing ability.

 

Cheers mate. Ah to get paid for doing stuff like this? Maybe I'm in the wrong career haha. There is indeed more to come regarding the Forsaken, just have to try and impose some order on the bits and pieces that I've got written already. This started off about a third of it's finished length, it just exploded as I went back and changed stuff so shall see if that happens with the rest of it

 

 

Very well written Balth, though I noticed some extra words here and there that were unecessary, but I didn't allow it to detract from the fanntastic story you wrote.

 

Thanks brother. I'm the first to admit my proof reading needs some work. Think the biggest problem I have is that I can make the mental leap from seeing what's written in front of me and how it should sound in my head. That and the fact I spent 3 hours building on my original scribbles and just wanted the thing on the board.Not a good combo.

 

 

Am I the only one who did not completely understand that?

 

Nope my mind is empty as well so not just you lol. I hope this blurb was enough to ease your fluff crack cravings. For a week or so at least

[incinerator950]

I'm on the verge of detonating after not sleeping for three days. That was just a lunch break vent.

[Kol Saresk]

@Balthamal: The hunger was sated, but the beast no longer dreams in Ry'leh.

[incinerator950]

Dead gods still dream.

[Soldier of Dorn]

Okay, best get my two cents in...

I am YFNPsycho, and through my pawn, Valaghurst Nyxanos, King Over Terrors, Nostraman Born,  I shall desecrate the holy places of the Corpse-Emperor's worshippers.

The 52nd company of our great Legion, the Terrorborn, follows me to war. For we are the damned, nearly all of us red-handed for our failure at Malakal, and we cannot be redeemed.

Truely, we are Night Lords, we stand in midnight clad, and we shall bring the night.

 

+++Nyxanos, my son. I shall make you like unto a King. Nay, you shall be a King amongst Astartes, and your subjects shall be Terrors. The greatest Terrors of this corrupt Legion.

Sinners all, but brothers in damnation. Murderers, rapists, and psychopaths. And you shall lead them to War.+++

The Primarch Night Haunter to Commander Valaghurst Nyxanos of the Night Lords 52nd Company

[MrBear]

Welcome YFNPsycho, there is always room for more brothers of the VIIIth. We are never too crowded, all the knives carried around here kind of takes care of that bit 

[Flint13]

Welcome brother! 

 

The Terrorborn stand wrought in red alongside their midnight clad kin.

[Tenebor]

+++ Legion / XLIV Company / Battle Barge Funebris identified. +++

+++ Incoming vox transmission... +++

Greetings, brothers (and sisters).

The 44th is ready to take the Legion's wrath across the stars. Two hundred stand in midnight clad. We are commanded by Captain Kysrae Othrii, a hill tribe Nostraman. We have returned from our offensive within the Ultima Segmentum and travels within the Warp. The conclusion of the Long War awaits us all and we shall charge back to the orbs of Sol to steal the Imperium of its final hopes.

Death to the False Emperor. Ave Dominus Nox.

+++ Vox transmission ended. +++

 

With the fluff introduction out of the way, I do have a physical army. Right now it's around 70 Astartes. I'd like to build it, paint it, and play it, (eventually) but I'm far more interested in the fluff than anything related to the actual game. In short, the 44th is my latest go at a Night Lords company with documentation of their squads, members, casualties, battles, culture, and other bits of information from the Unification Wars to the 13th Black Crusade. Yes, I'm taking this far too seriously.

 

Anyway, I hope to be a somewhat active member of our (murderous) Legion's community in the near future.

Edited September 10, 2014 by Tenebor

[Flint13]

That's awesome! Up until now I think I've been the only one to include Nostramans from the hill dwellers in my legion.

 

Welcome Tenebor! The 44th stands in midnight clad alongside their kin.