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Legion Smack Talk Thread


Fire Golem

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With a speed that shouldn't be possible with his bulk, the ebon terminator bolted forward. He slammed into his outcast brother, sending him sailing into the wall. The terminator was swiftly upon him, pinning him against the wall. The deep pits of his sockets bore into his brother, dripping with contempt and chastisement.

 

"This is not the time nor the place." Hissed the terminator. "I know a few of clan Moraguul, including their leader are of questionable geneseed descent, but you need to at least ACT like a son of Ferrus. These mongrels are not worth our action."

 

The talons that gripped the breacher marine curled tighter. "You will not make another act of violence or I will put you down myself. Will you comply?"

 

(As fun as this is, we really shouldn't have this degenerate into a brawl. This is the legion smack talk thread, not smack down :p)

 

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The son of Fulgrim turned on the newest one to speak.

 

"Then so be it! Better to be a slave to the Dark Gods then a slave to the Imperium, better every world be turned to ash then toil under the Emperor! Better to be tortured, better to die, then to never glimpse the glory of Chaos! For to never see Chaos is to never live for either yourself or those around you, if turning traitor means damnation then so be it and i'll enjoy taking as many of your kind down with me as I can."

 

"You have missed the whole point off being an Astartes in your doomed quest for perfection. To be Astartes means to sacrifice living for yourself in service to the greater good of humanity. To become the weapon humanity needed to claim the stars and make them safe for humanity dwell in. The only thing you and your Legion have sacrificed is your sanity."

(as if that wasn't the purpose of the thread already xD Good to know that you're truly an EC at heart haha)

 

cruentifer gauntlets information By retartacus d5lm00f

 

The Templar swiftly traverses the distance between himself at the table and the two Iron Hands against the wall, placing on hand on the hilt of his still-sheathed Black Sword and placing the other upon the Power Talon of the Terminator.

 

"Enough, Cousin." He says sternly. "We have enough inter-Astartes killing as is. We need not add to the body count, much less one committed by Inter-Legion Fratricide where all are loyal."

 

"So long as we are here, we will discourse peacefully." He says loudly enough for all those assembled to hear. "The time will come where we are again staring down each others weapons of choice; but today is not that day. Do I make myself clear." He states, looking back at the Grey-Clad Imperial Herald.

Without removing his gaze from the breacher, he spoke to the Templar. "The punishment for crimes against the legion are a necessary act, Templar. Had other legions were more strict about such policies, perhaps this heresy would have been snuffed out quickly."

 

He turned to lock his gaze with the Templar's lenses while cyber familiars slid his helmet back into place. "Now, remove your hand son of Dorn".

 

The intensity in the room slackened as everyone released their grips on their weapons and resumed their positions.

"So be it, cousin." Said the Templar, removing his hand. "Just remember where you are. While I would love nothing more than to see our enemies burn here, to lose a greater number in loyalists is not something I am willing to permit."

 

Finally letting go of his Power Sword, the Templar gave a final nod to the Gorgon's duo before turning around and heading back to the table, resuming his position.

*soft grunting emanating from the Breacher's throat...*

 

"Brother I understand our principles within the Legion, I do not regret my transgression this day, however I shall stay my hand... If I meet this whore-son of Fulgrim again it shall be at the point of my blade and choking shall be the least of his worries..."

 

*turning to the Imperial Fist...*

 

"I assure you son of Dorn we of the Iron Hands can solve our own problems, and we do NOT turn to fratricide! We are neither children of the red sands or hab-detritus from Nostramo, every death we have fulfills an oath we made at our inception, to protect, live for and die for, the ongoing dominance and sustenance of HIS Imperium!."

 

(sorry folks didn't intend on making it seem like a brawl - just running with the character)

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Loesh snorted.

 

"Whore-son of Fulgrim, at least my mother mated with men rather then baneblades. But I suppose at a certain point you're ugly enough to take anything and have to start finding creative uses for the exhaust pipes."

(While I enjoyed the quip, lets try to be come constructive in our...debate. Rather than resort to in-character petty remarks. Or at least, stray away from more personalized insults :P That way we 100% avoid phosphex bombardment. Thanks BTW, I now have the mental image of a Medusan trying to do it with a Baneblade...)

 

The Templar looks dismissively at the Purple-and-Gold clad 'Astartes' :

 

"Stay you tongue, Son of the Phoenician. We have greater concerns that personal quips and insults have no justification being introduced into this Forum. Lest we finally come to blows or be incinerated by Phosphex."

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The door opened once more, allowing inside yet another warrior, this one clad in burnt Cataphract plate harbouring symbols of hazard and imminent death. He disregarded the immediate threat of phosphex and took place at the table of the council of spite, probably the only place untouched by the Great War. 

 

Thanks to my servitor-automata, which you may have already noticed, I know what has been said here since approximately 582 seconds, and hence I shall disregard these inoptimal customs that are "tact" or "politeness" and head straight to the point. Sons of the Gorgon, with all due respect for your kind, I have to announce you that you are wrong. I will not go as far as the monster that once called itself a "Child of the Emperor", and deny our purpose. Of course we are weapons; our very lives have been spared only for the purpose of waging war. But there is more to this. Δωδεκαθεον. The Brethren of Stone. This name might sound familiar to some, especially in the X and the XVIII. Before certain.... strategic advantages within our gene-seed reduced it to a hive of political corruption and fear of execution, the Dodekatheon was a proof that Astartes could be more than just weapons. We still have imagination, we can still create greatness. The Salamanders remember this fact, and forge their wargear by themselves, to remember that they are more than just biological Thallaxi. The scions of Maccrage, while given much more laurels than they truly deserve, learn the strategies of their fallen enemies so that they may adapt it in their conquest. War is inefficient if it is fought always with the same tactics and the same weapons. Are you not the ones to talk about constantly improving? To enhance our ability to wage war, we must take a wider vision of it.

The black-clad Cataphractii-plated Terminator stared at his dingy-metallic-hued cousin across the table in silence for a moment; the massive, clawed fingers of his dual power fists closed around the edge of the table, effortless digging gouges into the surface as he sought to control his humors.

 

"We are not creators.  We are destroyers.  Look at that which makes us more than men!  Improved eye-sight; not so we can pick out the slightest imperfection in art, but to increase battlefield accuracy.    Improved sensitivity to taste and the ability to discern contents, nutritional value, and identify toxins; these skills weren't given to us to make us better cooks, but to make us bloodhounds and gives us an enhanced capacity for wilderness survival.  Everything we are, everything we were given upon our individual ascensions, has a single purpose: to improve our abilities to take lives while denying that ability to any enemy.

 

"Anything that makes us better killers is worthy of pursuit.  That is a logical statement that I cannot refute; I may take no interest in Lord Guilliman and his brood's incessant braying on 'proper' methods and overvaluing of logistics, but their success in battle is likewise irrefutable, thus I take no offense at it.  But art?  Poetry?  Architecture?  None of this deepens our understanding of war, or improves our combat efficiency.  What purpose then do they serve for us?"

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With a grind of stone on stone, a hidden wall suddenly pulled away, a wash of dust and loose cobwebs blowing into the marble-lined hall. Slowly, and with hammering footfalls that shook even the Astartes in their ceramite, a massive shape pulled through the haze. Nearing a head and a half taller than even the Cataphractii armoured Iron Hand, or even the swollen and monstrous Word Bearer, broad across a chest built like the prow of a dozer blade, the gigantic warrior strode into the room, gasps of surprise and backwards steps greeting his arrival. He was clad in archaic, half-powered warplate, adamantium chain and cracked leather protecting the joints and weak points of a gargantuan frame. Across the flat surfaces of his brazen armour were well worn images of eagles and lightning bolts, the symbols rubbed away like the face of an old coin. His face was one of weathered age, vicious knots of ancient scars, and barely suppressed insanity, a cancerous smell upon his breath. Steel ingots that had replaced his long lost teeth could be seen between the strings of saliva, as his lips peeled back into a grin that looked as mad as the sick light in his one good eye. His inhumanly massive, brass encased chainsword, marked like his warplate and set with four rows off teeth that were as long as his fingers, sat casually upon his shoulder, his finger tapping away at it's leather wrapped grip like a nervous tic. He spoke with a voice like a striking artillery shell, the bass rumble causing every transhuman's chest to vibrate.

 

The fact that the Thunder Warrior did not feel a need to place his weapon upon the table as he spoke was proof of his position.

 

"No, son. My kind were destroyers. A fact that I would love nothing more to prove to you children, given the chance. Please, oh please, give me an excuse to kill something."

 

An unhealthy chuckle rattled chests, and the wracking coughs that followed, causing blood to run from the ancient's ear.

 

"Lucky you, my orders are not to break things. Yet. Your purpose here is to argue amongst each other, about anything you damn well please, until your throats are raw. You can even slap each other about, if you like, as long as it doesn't go far. But the next time one of you raises a weapon to another in this room, physical or otherwise, and my buddies and I get a chance to find out how survivable your fragile, tiny frames are. You've been warned. Lucky, lucky, lucky you."

 

With that, the Thunder Warrior turned back towards the hidden door, and left the room, humming a Unification march through the tumours in his neck and throat. 

 

As the door ground back in place, one last thing could be heard.

 

"Damned kids..."

(Aww, here I thought you were going to join us Heathens. Would have loved to cross figurative blades vs a Thunder warrior ;) )

 

The tartoros clad terminator approached the newcomer from the 4th. He stopped a distance that seemed to suggest grudging respect. The two soldiers stood before each other, sizing each other up. Both so alike yet so different. Both were of intractable spirits, their wills stronger than the bodies they inhabit. The son of the Gorgon shone like volcanic glass, while the son of the Breaker was covered in ash. The Iron Hand finally spoke.

 

"You of all legionaires, say we must be creators? You, whose legion is renown for its siege craft and its abilities to break the wills of its enemies as well as their fortresses? You, who turned the verdant agri world of Tallarn into a desert wasteland? You are correct that the ability to create is necessary for war. However, that creativity is only meant to increase destruction exponentially."

 

It was odd, the Tenth legionaire was not addressing the Iron Warrior with the same contempt or disgust he showed to his other cousins, traitor or not. Instead he seemed to have a hint of chastisement in his tone as if he were addressing his own brothers. Perhaps he saw a kindred, if twisted spirit in the IV legionaire.

 

"I have no personal quarrel with you, siege master. I only wish your father had understood and accepted his purpose, just as my father did. A shame really. While I will show no remorse to you the day I meet you on the field of battle, know that I will give you a clean death."

 

Just then, a hidden door opened. Without any commands the tenth legionaire's cyber familiars flew into formation and activated a hard light shield to protect their master. The obsidian giant made no move, however. He was to busy scanning the organic brute that shambled into the room.

 

A Thunder Warrior? Were they not extinct? And yet this troglodyte of the past stands before him. It was readily apparent why the Emperor did away with these "prototypes". Their biological functions were incredibly unstable. Despite all this, intuition told the terminator that this creature is still dangerous. The contradiction of sickliness and strength only furthered the Iron Hand's disgust towards it.

 

After giving out booming boasts and sly warnings, the creature stumbled back into his cave. As the Thunder Warrior's form began to disappear in the darkness, one voice broke the stunned silence.

 

"The flesh is weak."

http://imageshack.com/a/img674/9709/VYmg3J.jpg

 

 

"The flesh is weak."

 

*It was not the quote itself that made the Alpha Legionary chuckle, for the quote was quite common, and in some ways true. There was a reason they all wore armour, and that the armour was made of inorganic materials. No, the chuckle originated from the fact that the X legionary had waited until the Thunder Warrior had left for his comment.*

 

- Like a scolded kid disagreeing with his elders, haughty enough to reply, but still scared enough to wait until it was out of hearing range. It shows that you have plenty of "flesh" left, Medusan.

 

- A pity though, I was hoping to see a Thunder Warrior of old in combat yet again.

http://imageshack.com/a/img674/9709/VYmg3J.jpg

 

 

"What is so amusing, viper?" Emerald eyes locked with the Alpha Legionnaire's eyes.

 

*Icy blue eyes met the Terminator's gaze, undaunted and unwavering. Still sporting an amused smile, the Alpha Legionary points at the door the Thunder Warrior just left through.*

 

- "The flesh is weak"? I dare you to say that to it's face, half-robot. He'd knock you uncouncious faster than your precious bionics would be able to compensate for the damage. You might not remember, but when the Thunder Warriors were put down, there were piles of astartes bodies around each and every dead Thunder Warrior. You might also have forgotten, they were also beings created by The Emperor.

 

- You call me a viper, and it's true. We of the XXth legion find merit in secrecy and covert operations, which requires us to be able to "bend" the truth. But you, you are not a viper. You feel the urge to taunt The Emperor's early creation behind it's back? Have the courage to do it to it's face instead, coward.

 

*Safe in the knowledge that there would be intervention if there was to be combat in the chamber, the Alpha legionary was mingling amongst the loyalists instead of Horus nine legions.*

"You'd be a fool, if you assumed that my comment was not heard. You of all people should know we are being watched. I have fought Ork Nobs larger than him. If he became agressive, he'll become just another corpse I have stepped over. The direction that creature's face was pointing does not matter. He heard me, even through his tumor filled ears.  He either thinks too highly of himself to come back and defend his honor, or it is he that is the coward."

 

"Emperor's creation? Pah." He waved a dismissive claw. "You say that as if that were something to be held in high regard. He is my lord, but I will not lie. The Emperor is not the perfect craftsman. The Thunder Warriors rot away as they live. Out of 20 Legions, 2 astartes legions along with their primarchs have been erased, and half of the remaining legions decided to strike back against him. Meanwhile  1 of the remaining loyalist legions is suffering from geneseed degeneration."

"You'd be a fool, if you assumed that my comment was not heard. You of all people should know we are being watched. I have fought Ork Nobs larger than him. If he became agressive, he'll become just another corpse I have stepped over. The direction that creature's face was pointing does not matter. He heard me, even through his tumor filled ears.  He either thinks too highly of himself to come back and defend his honor, or it is he that is the coward."

 

"Emperor's creation? Pah." He waved a dismissive claw. "You say that as if that were something to be held in high regard. He is my lord, but I will not lie. The Emperor is not the perfect craftsman. The Thunder Warriors rot away as they live. Out of 20 Legions, 2 astartes legions along with their primarchs have been erased, and half of the remaining legions decided to strike back against him. Meanwhile  1 of the remaining loyalist legions is suffering from geneseed degeneration."

"Hold your tongue, brother, lest you become no better than the traitors you fight. You may have suffered a great loss, and for this once and once only I will let those comments pass, but do not allow your bitterness and hate to twist you too greatly. The Thunder Warrior would end you before you even knew the fight was begun. He chooses to ignore your comment and rightly so, for it was childish and petty. Do not disgrace the memory of your Lord with such foolishness." the Salamander growled.

"I always knew the Salamaders were slow in reflexes, but it seems they are slow in mind as well. I am not challenging the Thunder Warrior to fight. i'm challenging him to stand here to be judged with the rest of the Emperor's creations. This has nothing to do with the loss of my Father. The next time you refer to him in such a manner, you will risk joining him, dim witted one."

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