++ Excessive Perfection - An Emperor's Children Community ++

[Forté]

And another two join the throng.

Welcome daemonclaw Welcome Strazhakov

[Flint13]

 

 

@Dammeron. Welcome, details added and a banner will soon be yours.

@Flint13. Rememberancer. You seem to have me mistaken for some mortal with a data slate. That may have been how things were done in the 30th millennia but things have progressed since then. Currently records are being recorded by my flesh crafters, in the flesh of slaves from Imperial worlds. If you listen carefully you may even hear their screams. Luckily the Dark Prince sees that they do not miss out on the new experiences they are currently partaking in. If you wish for your extra, meaningless, probably self bestowed titles to be recorded then you will have to supply more mortals.

I do hope that answers any questions so others may now speak.

(This is otherwise known as, I'm doing this on my mobile )

Watch your tongue, mortal fleshmelder, lest my most culminating Master lower himself to rip it from your undeserving face. His most vaunted titles are self bestowed by necessity, as he would never sully his most apexial of sobriquets by the inclusion of the base words of any less than paragonal mortal.

This is indeed how things were done in the glorious zenith of an age that was the Thirtieth millennium. An age, must I remind you, that my most Honored and Celebrated Lord gazed upon the angelic face of our Father, the Phoenician, unhallowed be his many names.

As for extra mortals for your flesh smiths, this newly pledged "Bathalmal" and his pauper lord Ca'vath seem like acceptably easy targets I'm sure even your "legionaries" could overcome.

 

You dare besmirch my Lord's glorious name with your whore-tongue? Maybe if His most gracious Lordship finds it within his acceptable plans he shall end you and your fawning weasels himself but if not I'm sure the rats and fleas that crawl at his feet would be all too pleased to do the deed in his stead.

 

Wow I've really got problems....

I'll besmirch your noble Ca'vaths face with the boot of my polished legion plate.

 

This whore's tongue speaks nothing but the silver honeyed truths of his most glorious Lord Aldanth's right, nay his genetic obligation, to rise above the petty maggotry of your soon to be corpse lord and his great and vast empire of swill and effluvium.

 

The ire of of your petty legion "commander" troubles the true Children of the 22nd no more than the irate remonstrations of the mortal worlds we conquer almost without thought.

[GhostMalone]

I am Jaspcat and I am the puppeteer of the LIXth company of the emperors children, commanded by orcherastral champion Leonius Eversong.

 

"The cacophony of life and slaughter is ours alone"

[Forté]

Welcome Jaspcat. Your company has been added. Banner will follow.

 

(Just a not but I'll be away from home till the 11th so will not be able to create banners till then. Thank you for your patience)

[Chaeron]

He has been thusly named: "Captain Abatis Raroson". I like it.

[Disciple of Fulgrim]

Greetings fellow devotees of Slaanesh, I am a Disciple of Fulgrim, the spiritual force behind the warband which now styles itself as The Disciples of Fulgrim. (Truth be told, this warband has been known by many names over the years, and first called itself The Children of Fulgrim, aka Fulgrim's Children, during the Age of the Rogue Traders.) On the field of battle I am represented by Lord Commander Fulgentius, who was once known as Brother Captain Domitius of the Black Consuls Chapter. The tale of Fulgentius' enlightenment during the Siege of Goddeth Hive is a sordid one, turning as much upon the incompetence of the Administratum and the uncompromising nature of the Black Consuls as it does upon Domitius' character, and has fueled his never-ending quest for excessive perfection with boundless bitterness and hate. I look forward to joining your august company, and together promoting the perfection of our patron deity and the Primarch of the III Legion!

 

(OOC: Great idea for a topic! I'm beginning to miss our old sub-forum, even if it wasn't always super active - the CSM forum is beginning to seem a bit homogeneous to me, and I'm wondering if the consolidation was really such a good idea after all.)

[incinerator950]

I guess I can't join the fun being a Violator.

[oreaper84]

Let me regail you with the stroy of lord Severus Hellscream....You know not this tale? fool.... if your ears can withstand the sounds of his glory then pay heed.

 

The legion recounts patience and stealth to be invaluable in the subterfuge of infiltration tactics. In this regard   Severus was a complete failure and thought a lost cause to the legion. Extreme measures were need to cull this brash legionnaire. Hidden in a far corner of the galaxy there is a solitary moon orbiting a wasted planet. This is solitaris. The moon is named because it is almost completely devoid of life and light. Vast caverns bore their way through the moon  rarely breaching the surface; it was here where Severus was abandoned.

 

Weeks went by as he sat in silence. Every shift of dirt, every drip of water became a cacophony of noise in these echoing halls of rock. His own shallow breaths became the grating of grinding metal. The legionnaires’ sanity was fading.  For years he wandered to caves of the moon in an eerie silence as only the hardiest of insects survived on this hostile world, thou even these were difficult to catch. Small beetles moved silently in the dark, and these emitted a high pitched chirp when approached. With the echoing nature of the caverns and Severus’s heightened senses, this became a deafening lance of sound that would send him reeling. Severus began mimicking the sounds the insects would make, and with his astartes composition the sounds he made became a violent hurricane of obsinity. This allowed him to kill and eat the deziens of this moon. It was this he practiced, this he perfected. When a mining company came some years later to harvest the rare metals the moon had within, Severus assaulted with all the fury that only years of isolation could produce.

 

It is the knowledge gained during his isolation that Severus uses to this day, though not for the legion, but for his own ends. He shares power only as one of the eight in the cabal of the severed heads. In battle he and his screamers of sorrow tear through the enemy on bikes as loud as they are lethal. Severus own personal bike, the screaming death, is outfitted with a custom amplifier that projects the pitch of Severus’s mighty roar dismembering the foe with a violent crescendo.

[Forté]

I guess I can't join the fun being a Violator.

Violators are a Slaanesh worshipping army so yes, you can come and play too.

 

New posters please be patient with me as I'll not be home till Monday 11th and my current data speed makes dial up look fast. A full update on the lists and banners will happen as soon as I am able.

 

Until then, please feel free to enjoy your surroundings, any breakages will need to be replaced. Slaves don't grow on trees after all ;)

[Grimm.]

“Slyvain slowly turned, surveying the scene. He wanted to drink it all in, revel in the sights and sounds,

take his time to relish the abasement of flesh his brothers were rejoicing in. The offerings this day were

sufficient to satiate the demands of Slaanesh, momentarily. Though, these days the momentum of war

had built up a pace that threatened to consume them all.

Powerful combat stimulants coursing through their veins pushed the brotherhood of the Aggressive Perfectors

to ever greater levels of excess. No longer was it enough to kill, the kill had to be executed with the graceful

precision of a dancer. The art of execution, the pinnacle of achievement with the blade was what every brother

aspired to.

Slyvain had worked tirelessly to hone his precision and all the while bring the kiss of Slaanesh to the unbelievers

at the edge of his blade. This craft, his masterpiece was still a work in progress; it had taken more than what

most mortals would consider a lifetime. Though, to Slyvain it was almost a blink of an eye, fuelled as it was by

centuries of debauchery, drugs, excess. A never ending party of Hell flayed abomination. This was a party that

had been going on since before the siege on Terra.

Ah the siege, glorious times, bringing the fury of rejected sons home to roost. He would well remember the battle,

the torments visited upon Terra. As a member of Fulgrim’s host he too had taken part in the beat of Terra when

the siege upon the Emperor’s palace had become nothing more than a boring task to be accomplished. Fulgrim’s

decision to lead his children on an orgiastic rampage across Terra had not been something that pleased Horus,

focused as he was on the palace. That mattered not for the children had grown bored.

Boredom, what a disease that was; no sensation ever seemed enough anymore, except when embroiled in the

midst of killing or otherwise taking foes apart. Slyvain needed more, his brothers needed more, just more.

Enough was never enough. The highest and lowest notes the most extreme pain and pleasure. This Symphony

was but a note away from perfection and it would always be so.”

May I introduce Slyvain the Perfect, The Skin Flenser, Prince of Debasement, Ravager of the Eastern Fringe.

Slyvain was once an Apothecary in the service of the III legion. He watched Fabius carefully and knew he could do better.

He just knew it. After the legion embraced Slaanesh this once ignored apothecary decided to carve a name for himself in

the flesh of the Imperium.

As his campaign of ravishment built to its crescendo his latent psychic ability began to make itself apparent. As if each

perfect kill he made tuned him closer in to the warp energy of Slaanesh. As if every ship and world that felt the kiss of

She Who Thirsts added its dying aura to the power of the psyker he was becoming.

Slyvain, as a psyker and in conjunction with his skills honed in the apothecarion, has begun to gather a force around him.

And when his followers have been; let us say, less than willing, he has “worked” on them.

Slyvain and his Nameless abominations; counts as Mutilators:

Slyvain's Flesh crafting rendered in Brutal clarity:

Slyvain's lieutenant; Ar'vax the Vain:

With this post I brazenly claim the right of heir to the glory of III legion with the warband of The Aggressive Perfectors.

PoS

[Fortis]

Salutations all!

 

 

I herald the arrival of Grand Magus Eleutherios: Adoneus of the Thiasus, Rex Summus Sanctissimus of the Bacchic and Dionysian Mysteries, the Great Penetrator, Dionysus Recidivus, and many other designations besides.

 

Eleutherios is the sovereign leader elect of the Thiasus: formerly of the Emperor’s Children legion, the Thiasus are a war cult and fervent devotees of the Prince of Excess. Yet despite their descent into the welcoming bosom of the dark powers, they are still faithful to the original tenets and principles of martial perfection instilled upon their legion by the Primarch Fulgrim before the Heresy. They still go to war in the same colours and heraldry they wore ten thousand years earlier, and have shunned the riotous and garish imagery of their former legion brethren.

 

While worshippers of Slaanesh, the cult see the ancient Terran deity of Dionysus/Bacchus as its anthropomorphic form (a figure of devotion since man’s earliest days), and thus venerate and idolize him as their god incarnate, as well as adopting the orgiastic rituals associated with him as the basis for their own “ceremonies” and “observances”: The Mysteries.

 

These Mysteries are riotous, orgiastic festivals of music, dance, carnal indulgence (the Thiasus having hired their former apothecary Fabius Bile to carry out the necessary “alterations” and “enhancements”), violence, torture and immolation, consumption of myriad cocktails of exotic stimulants, psychotropics and steroids, blood, flesh and offal (Astartes, human, animal and xeno – they do not discriminate), and any other sacrament or act of degeneracy which will serve as a means to reach and heighten their zealous states of ecstasy.

 

Known to go on for days, weeks, months and even years, the Mysteries are used by the Thiasus as mental and spiritual preparation for war, wherein those who partake are possessed and empowered by the god him/her/itself. As the time for battle draws closer, the pace and intensity of the orgy (conducted with pious solemnity by Eleutherios himself) crescendos to often-fatal levels, with many of the less experience neophytes succumbing to their fervour for carnage and turning upon each other (or indeed themselves) with gun, sword, bare hands or teeth.

 

The climax of the ceremony occurs the moment the Thiasus explode into battle. It is their release, their final euphoria, a state of unimaginable, devotional bliss, the blood they spill symbolising their seminal offering to She Who Thirsts.

[Forté]

Loving the post people. Very interestingly thought out and a testament to the sheer scope that is Slaanesh.

 

@plague. Been a fan of your models since I first saw you post them.

[Grimm.]

Loving the post people. Very interestingly thought out and a testament to the sheer scope that is Slaanesh.

 

@plague. Been a fan of your models since I first saw you post them.

 

 

Forte, man, your creations have been an inspiration. I thank you for blazing the trail.

[Forté]

 

 

Loving the post people. Very interestingly thought out and a testament to the sheer scope that is Slaanesh.

 

@plague. Been a fan of your models since I first saw you post them.

 

Forte, man, your creations have been an inspiration. I thank you for blazing the trail.

I take no credit for that. Have to thank Semper for the last Call of Chaos for drawing me back, SlaveToDarkness for having a twisted mind, and the B&C community for encouraging me both through comments and their own posts.

 

First post is updated by the way ;)

[incinerator950]

I Andurial Volsilaagh(incinerator950), gather with the raving psychotics of the Emperor's Children and fellow Slaaneshi worshippers and Cultists at this muster.

 

I lead a devout sect of Violators, and while the setbacks at Torvindus and St whatsitwhoseit prison set us back, I can assure you we are more then ready to fight alongside you. Or away from you, atop you, and slightly to the left.

 

I'll see about getting some possessed and my Lord ready. I've decided to just stick to my prophet lord on a steed plan.

[Flint13]

                The shimmer steel blade hummed through the air with dizzying speed. Its razored edge slipped through the air with a singing hum. Aldanath’s bare hands worked the blade faster and faster through the intricate arcing spirals of the Kaden Skara technique, whipping the Kanna saber around himself in dozens of overarching defensive layers. Sweat sheened his dark skin

as he pulled the saber through the motions of the Flashing Blade, and the snarl dragging at his lips deepened.

 

“Now!”

 

The report of a legion issue bolt pistol roared like a mad dog in the close confines of the training barracks. Almost instantaneously, the Kanna saber’s powerfield flickered to life with a hiss of ionizing air and the stench of scorched metal. Aldanath screamed, high and loud as the bolt pistol shell deflected from the blade of the power sword and punched through his left shoulder. It left a clean, round hole, mirrored exactly on the rear of his deltoid by the exit wound.

 

The purple armored Astartes standing across the training floor holstered the smoking pistol.

 

“Good thing we switched to the Kraken rounds, my lord. They leave much less of a mess.”

 

Aldanath’s scream slowed to a halt and he leveled the blade at his legion champion, “Do you mock me, San’adren? I can open your armor throat to groin before you draw your sidearm, even from here.”

 

The white plume of the champion’s helm shifted as he cocked his head slightly to one side, “of course not, my lord. Merely stating an observation.”

 

“Again,” was the company commander’s only reply as he paced back to the center of the training floor, and resumed the blade work once more. The Kanna saber resumed its intoxicating pirouette of flashing ripostes and defensive arcs of blue tinted steel, this time accompanied by the occasional splatter of rich Astartes vitae flying from the fingertips of its wielder.

 

“NOW!”

 

This time, the bolt pistol’s roar and the snap of the ice blue powerfield was met with a cracking whine. San’adren grunted and took half a step backwards as the bolt shell spanked off of his pauldron and buried itself harmlessly in the ceiling of the training room.

 

“There, you see? It can be done.” Aldanath’s rictus smile split his face slowly, his words punctuated by his ragged breathing and the intermittent drip of blood falling to the floor. He rolled his head to both sides, working the tension and stress from his shoulders as he paced in a short circle about the center of the training space. He whirled, and brought the sabre back to the ready position.

 

“Again. I want to see if I can put it through your left eye lens this time.”

 

http://imagizer.imageshack.us/v2/800x600q90/901/DFpExj.jpg

[Grimm.]

Flint, that Aldanath fella sounds like he'd fit in a grim dark jackass sequel. ..

 

Edit: Flint those guys look the business.

[Forté]

*forte sat upon his chair made of stretched flesh and living bodies that could only be described as once being humanoid. Though something had fused bone, muscle, and sinue to create something both hideous and beautiful at the same time. Tilting his head caused the wires to tear the flesh on his head away from the skull underneath. Causing a small drop of blood to run down his face to be met by an overly prehensile forked tongue protruding from a slightly smiling mouth.

 

While his armour was both ornately crafted and in places organic, it was the shifting colours and contorting images which seemed to play around its surface which would catch the eye of onlooker's who would find themselves transfixed. The smell didn't help either. Enticing and repulsive. Sweet and sickly. One moment a memory of the smell of the first sweetheart, only to be replaced with the offal scent of a slaughterhouse.*

 

"It's indeed a treat to see you practice and hone your blade skills Aldanath. Though if you really want to enjoy it you need to improve on your accuracy. Aim for areas that cause the most pain but don't inhibit your opposition or you'll just make it too easy for yourself and boredom will take you. Never take the eyes. Let them look upon your work and witness their gradual defeat as you gracefully dissect them while they still draw breath"

 

"But please, continue. It does bring back such long past memories."

[incinerator950]

*Andurial had finally finished making his way to the hall to see Aldanath's ecstasy in combat, with forte overlooking from his throne. His tone of boredom had grown when he dismounted from his Seeker, to that of forcing himself to not falling asleep. He had already grown resistant to the pain stims from his flight from Torvindus, and the Demon within him had finally gone dormant. If the Talons on his back weren't any indication of mutation or Possession, the burning blade where his arm had been was cold. He wore simple blue armor trimmed in Silver, with a Corvus Pattern helmet setting him apart from older and more intricate power armored guests. Like all Violators, he chose not to remove his armor save what the Demon twisted. Nor did he remove his helmet upon entering the meeting place.*

 

"I assume you are the Flayer Lord, forte? I appreciate the offer to entreat with fellow brothers and sisters of our Thirsting Father."

[Flint13]

Ha'dreel Aldanath's breath left his lungs in one long hiss of derision. 

 

"Tell me, paincraven," he snarled as the Kanna sabre began the slow ascent into the whirling steel dervish that was was the Kaden Skara. Aldanath's champion had replaced the bolt pistol into its holster and had returned to stand at the periphery of the training floor alongside the other three lifeguard.

 

"What would you know of blade work? At least, any blade longer than one of your fleshsmiths' scalpels."

 

With a deft twist of his body, Aldanath began the footwork to move into the Gaha Skara, the Reaping Blade, as he moved along the hall's padded flooring. Activated by his proximity, several training servitors rose into wakefulness and began to charge up shock mauls and power goads. They were horrible things, extra appendages dangling mindlessly, various mutations writhing across their machine flesh.

 

"Tell me, 'brother,' what do any of your degenerates even remember about the ways of battle?"

 

The momentum of the saber never faltered as it lanced and weaved among the servitors, seeming to barely caress the vitals of each machine creature. Throats, eyes, and temples gouted with sludgy, tar-like blood. The reek of burning oil vitae scorched the air.

 

Aldanath pinned the last servitor to the mat by driving his Kanna saber through it's spine, almost to the hilt. Sweat ran down his dark, mahogany skin as his electric blue gaze lifted to Forte on the fleshwork throne.

 

To his left, a single twisted Astartes in silver trimmed azure warplate came into the hall. Aldanath's gaze never flickered from Forte's as the new comer entered.

 

Gesturing sideways with a flick of his head to indicate the Violator, the legionnaire spit out his next words in a venomous hiss, 

 

"You've been hiding in among these disgusting offcasts for far too long. Do you even remember what war truly is?"

 

A long, wordless gulf stretched wide, the only sounds were the hum of active Astartes warplate, and the incessant moaning of the once-things that made up the throne...

[Balthamal]

The sick and twistedness of this thread is amazing and it's just 2 pages long

[Forté]

"You will find my memory of war as you speak of to be a far more detailed account than you could ever hope to comprehend. It amuses me that sword play still makes you break a sweat. You'll find that the more you feel and perceive, the less you have to exert and the better you can place your blows. Let me demonstrate."

 

*As forte stood from his throne, which moved away to become part of the nearby wall, he rose to his full height. Easily nearing the size of a Primarch. Another Flayer presenting an ornate and elegant sword for his taking. Stepping into the training area as if taking a stroll.

 

Three heavily modified training servitors activated at once. All seemingly set to the highest leathality settings possible. Yet forte barely seemed to acknowledge any threat, appearing to be seconds ahead. Every attack turned away with delicate strokes from sword and hand. Precice reposts slicing at vital tendons or just disfigurement.

 

Within a few minutes forte, appearing to be growing bored fighting servitors, effortlessly dispatched all three in lightning quick succession.

 

Returning to where his throne now moved into position again and taking his place once more. Not a single sign of any physical activity showing.*

 

"You see."

[incinerator950]

*Andurial had nodded off, his joints locked in to support standing upright asleep. It took the span minutes for the dreams to set in. The lake of boiling Blood, an army of Slaanesh sundered, and a narrow escape aboard a Thunderhawk as one of the few to make it off world. The pain set in, a constant reminder of the boiling red lake. Andurial let loose a howl of fury. His left arm ignited into flames and his pose snapped back upright. His anger a mere waking yawn of Volsilaagh's shadow appearing, his distant memory of maroon hues fighting alongside shimering gold locked to Iron Coal and metal hands had roused their symbiosis back to consciousness.*

[Flint13]

 

 

Aldanath bit back a caustic reply. The patchwork bastard was fast, there was no doubt. As Forte reclined in the fleshwork throne once more, Aldanath sketched a deep, sarcastic bow, low enough that his braided white topknot brushed the bloodied training floor. 

 

"All hail your mighty mongrel technique, Lord of the Fleshgrubbers," the Child Captain expounded as he rose, "Why, I think there might have been an entire dozen bastardized fighting styles included. Remnants of Furyian Kali, there was a twist or two of Gola sickle-craft, I believe there might have even been a few strokes of Aquian void-kata."

 

The saber returned to a high guard position.

 

"My form is flawless. There is exertion there as anything less is less than perfect. If there is no sweat and blood, there is still room left for improvement... and I have no room for improvement in bladecraft."

 

Aldanath turned to the unresponsive cobalt armored "Astartes" at the edge of the training floor and gestured to him with the inactive Kanna saber.

 

"Take this fool for instance. They don't even wear the colors of the true Children. They are some thin blood successor to gods know which of the lesser legions." A flick of the saber dismissed the Violater from Aldanath's attention as he rounded on Forte, "Mongrels banding with mongrels pretending at lineage and station. Make no mistake, fleshcarver, there is no perfection here..."

 

Aldanath turned slowly, his back towards Forte as the Emperor's Child returned to his lifeguard at the periphery of the training floor. His saber trailed a lazy path along behind him, tracing crazed patterns through the splattered machine blood slashed across the room.

 

"Of course, there is no real challenge in the posturing of slaughtering mindless servitors..."

 

**EDIT: Slaaneshi mood music**

[Kol Saresk]

I think I need to read the rest of this thread after reading Flint's post. But the mind of Forte scares me.

 

http://media.giphy.com/media/2GpXvsgCYorT2/giphy.gif

 

EDIT: Wasn't a bad decision. Not a bad one at all.