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IL VII - The Berserkers of Uran (thread 1)

Raktra

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Raktra Veteran

Raktra

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Early draft of the weak mutants.

 

The Wretched
WS:4    BS:0     S:4      T:4     W:1     I:4      A:2     LD:10     Sv:4+

 

Unit Composition
10 Wretched

​Unit Type
Beasts

Wargear

Armour remnants

Gnarled talons

 

Special rules

Undone by the Blood

Sins of the Father

Echoes of Pain

Fear

Bulky

 

Options
May add up to ten additional Wretched

 

Armour remnants: 4+ armour save

Gnarled talons: RNG: - S: User AP: 5, rending

 

Undone by the Blood: When a model with this special rule is killed in close combat, the attacking unit suffers a S:3 AP:5 hit with the rending special rule, allocated as per normal close combat attacks.

Sins of the Father: Wretched may never be a scoring or denial unit. They do not benefit from special rules granted by friendly characters, wargear, or psychic powers. They may not be joined by Independent Characters, may never embark upon a transport vehicle and do not receive nor benefit from any aspect of the Legion Astartes: Beserkers of Uran rule. The Primarch Raktra's Sire rule does not effect them.

Echoes of Pain: Ignores enemy FNP rolls in close combat.

 

 

No idea on a cost for these guys, buuut lemme know any thoughts.

bluntblade Venerable Brother

bluntblade

Posted
Posted

Today we are hauling Inwit fluff!

 

-----

 

Inwit was, without doubt, the foulest war Khârn had ever fought in. The bitter cold, honourable and formidable enemy, and the sheer lack of necessity made a vile mixture. One they had had to swallow for over ten months now, as they ground their lonely way to the heart of the little Empire. Reinforcements from the Army and Crimson Lions had briefly become involved, only to leave in disgust after a few battles.

 

Khârn fervently wished he could have joined them. He would rather fight any number of hideous xeno swarms than wade through his master's leftovers. And we thought glories awaited us, when the news came.

 

Raktra's contempt for the Shepherds had not abated, but despite attrition and the pressure to conform, most of their number still upheld the old virtues. The Dusk Blades had suffered with their fellows; Hakur had fallen to an Eldar champion two years before, and Aximand had been lost with his entire company in a disastrous boarding action against the Diasporex.

 

Raktra withheld replacement recruits from the Shepherd companies until they embraced the vicious culture of the Berserkers. As a result, the Shepherds’ number were gradually eroded, miserably fighting on the flanks as their Primarch tore into the heart of whatever stood before him.

 

-----

 

“By my deeds I honour him; the Ashen King.” Nux Jyrruk whispered the mantra as he activated his chainsword. All around him, Berserkers did the same. Then the drop pod doors blasted open and they were charging into the city of Gruhuken. Bolts and las-fire glanced off walls and the air was thick with dust. Soldiers on both sides had already fallen, gore staining the deep snow. Inwit armour was tough, but it could only withstand so much damage from Astartes weapons.

 

Nux craned his neck and howled in delight as hundreds more pods streaked towards the ground. This was their day. After months of attacking military bases and installments, they could rip the heart from an enemy settlement. And there… oh, there he was.

 

Atop the battlements the Primarch destroyed all who came before him, smiting with his great chain and Grinder. The chain dashed men and women from the wall to splatter the ground below, and the Grinder reduced them to pulped meat. He had purposefully pitted himself against the Inwit’s best troops, and they were like children fighting an Ork. Cries ramg out from the Berserkers as they screamed their master's name, spurred on to destroy the Inwit forces.

 

The Inwit troops were perhaps the most disciplined humans ever to face the Berserkers, and their excellent training and equipment exacted a respectable toll of blood from the Astartes. But they just couldn't stop the tide of murder, and eventually their morale began to erode. None fled, but their defence was deteriorating as they realised that their very best was not enough to keep these warriors back. The Berserkers only heeded their own losses to holler in approval of an especially savage death, or to jeer at a warrior who fell too easily. They were the ash-wearers, the bloody-handed, and death to them was something to do spectacularly, in a mad suicide attack.

 

Nux saw one Astartes bathed in napalm, which would set off any explosives on him in seconds. Without hesitation the warrior leapt on top of an enemy squad, and pulled them into an embrace before the bandolier of krak grenades detonated. Charred meat rained down in lumps. The featureless masks of the Inwit troops gave nothing away, but they visibly recoiled from such fanaticism. The Astartes nearby gave gleeful screams and redoubled their attack. Several Inwit paused, horrified, and paid for the hesitation with their lives. Their more steadfast comrades survived about a minute longer.

 

Nux snarled as he parried a blow from a power axe- the Inwit’s form-fitting, leaden-hued armour, partially covered by heavy greatcoats, was starkly different to the Astartes’, but their weapons were remarkably similar. He rolled his wrist and brought his sword down on the man's shoulder, ripping open his chest cavity in a fountain of red. The white of his gauntlets was barely visible now, and he knew the rest of him would be coated as well. Another Inwit fell at his feet, legs amputated at the knee by a power blade. The disruptor field had cauterised the wounds, and he was doomed to a slow death come exposure. Instinctively, Nux knelt and performed the mercy stroke. Down-up.

 

“Soldier!” He turned to see Captain Terkut behind him. Even with his helmet on, he was plainly furious. “Don't waste time easing the enemy's pain! They're in our way, they suffer!”

 

“Yes sir!” Internally, Nux chastised himself as the squads regrouped around the officer. He felt their eyes on him. [i¡Weak, damnit. Their wounded will die anyway, I should know better than that.

 

The Captain pointed behind him, where other Astartes were moving steadily through the streets. “See that, boys? The bloody sheep are catching up on us because you wretches aren't fighting like Berserkers. Every second you spend killing a man on the ground,” he continued, striding ahead, “is time you're not killing one that's still standing up and shooting! Tell me, what are you?”

 

“Zerkers!” The Astartes followed.

 

“And what kind of zerkers did Cthonia and Uran puke up?” They broke into a run.

 

“Bloody-handed zerkers!”

 

“And whose are ya?”

 

“Raktra's ashen bloody-handed zerkers!”

 

“Then follow me and kill like zerkers!” The sergeant roared as the run became a sprint.

 

-----

 

It was easier to simply mop up after the Berserkers than to fight in the flanks. The Shepherds could administer the Emperor's Peace to the mortally wounded on either side, and any surviving enemies would not allow themselves to be taken prisoner. Khârn felt shamed by such moral cowardice, but it was preferable to the alternative. Every time his bolter barked or his axe descended, it destroyed technology that could benefit the whole of mankind and drained a bloodline which had endured the horrors of Old Night and risen from the ashes.

 

Just how many potential heroes of humanity, how many would-be Astartes, have we cut down since this war began? The Inwit were anything but decadent: their immaculate, utilitarian armour spoke of a pragmatic, honourable people, and this was echoed in the way they fought. More than ever before, it would be a sickening sight when Raktra dealt with the survivors.

 

In the first few battles after the reunion the Shepherds had continued to take prisoners whenever possible. Raktra responded by having all the prisoners hacked apart by his honour guard, and later gunned down by his Berserkers. The Shepherds offered to campaign separately. Raktra refused, out of what they could only assume was hatred of their methods and a desire to cement his control over the Legion. The Shepherds would not be permitted to wage war as they had before. A few Primarchs had protested, but to no avail. The Shepherds were locked into a slow spiral towards extinction while their erstwhile brothers trampled over their virtues.

 

The Berserkers vanished into the streets ahead of them, leaving a trail of the dead and dying. Khârn drew his combat blade, and knelt to lessen the suffering.

 

-----

 

With the Inwit defence in tatters, the Legion was moving to assert its dominance over the city. The squads moved into the residential zones they had passed by earlier, where the last few thousand enemy troops were reforming as best they could. They were tough and well-disciplined, and fought to protect their loves ones. They held out for ten minutes.

 

As the last of their opponents fell, the Berserkers penetrated the civilian shelters, splitting into squads as they went. The enemy's strength was broken, and now their spirit would go the same way. Torkut barged into the throng of weaklings and seized a young girl.

 

“Now, Jurryk, you'll prove to me that you're a true Zerker” he snarled, hauling her in front of Nux, who hefted his chainsword, readying himself to cross the threshold and become a true son of Raktra. Then, trembling, she raised her eyes to his and he froze.

 

Memories from before ascension flooded his mind. The attack on their home… the terror on his sister’s face as she was dragged out from under a table… and the cleavers. He reeled. It was as if a great weight rested on his chest. His head swam. He tried to regain control, but the echo of his sister's fear cut through all the indoctrination and hypno-conditioning.

 

Sound penetrated his consciousness, as if from a great distance. The sergeant was bawling at him, his face contorted with rage. Nux turned towards him, and saw something his comrades had missed.

 

No time to shout a warning. A bolt wrecked his power pack and more struck his legs and torso as the fibre bundles spasmed, dropping him to the floor in a pool of his own blood. The Inwit had one last show of defiance left in them; soldiers appeared on both sides as the civilians scrambled for cover. The Berserkers reacted quickly, but not fast enough, and the enemy no longer cared for self-preservation. Bolts found the weak points between armour plates, and grenades exploded between the Astartes, ripping limbs away. The stony mask of the Inwit cracked, and what lay beneath was molten fury. Fighting the dead weight of his armour, Nux raised his head in time to see Torkut brought down by three headshots even as he tore men limb from limb. Then his helm clanged against the floor and darkness swallowed him.

bluntblade Venerable Brother

bluntblade

Posted
Posted

Thinking about our man in the muzzle, he could be the lead Destroyer captain. Perhaps a Cthonian and one-time Shepherd who fell under Raktra's influence and went "feral".

 

And here's the great falling out.

 

+++++

 

Nux woke up groggy, gingerly moving fingers and toes to check they were still there. Finding that everything was present, he lifted his eyes to the figure sat opposite.

 

The first thing he noticed was a Shepherd's warplate, which raised plenty of questions in its own. Then his vision snapped into focus, and he could make out the man's face. Equine, and deeply tanned, with a strangely appraising expression. This could only be…

 

“Khârn? I mean, Captain Khârn?” The ward was busy, so this risible show of respect for one of the hated Shepherds went unnoticed.

 

“Aye,” came the reply. “If you want to know why my squad rescued you, I’ve put it down to force of habit.”

 

“My squad didn't bring me back?”

 

A mix of emotions crossed the Shepherd’s face. “Your squad were wiped out completely, save for you. The Inwit were unforgiving warriors. We went in, cut the rest down and found you still breathing.” Khârn frowned, and continued. “How did they manage ambush you so completely?”

 

“We were distracted… by my failure.” Nux sagged, the shame flooding back with even more force.

 

“Failure?"

 

“They put a girl in front of me, I-”

 

“You ‘failed’ to kill a civilian?”

 

“It was a test of resolve… I don't know what you make of any of this.” Khârn leaned forward, forefinger tapping at his chin but didn't speak. Nux carried on. “We're meant to be capable of anything, and I… I saw things from Uran, and I couldn't do it. I’ve-”

 

Massive footfalls echoed from the corridor. Khârn turned, scowling. Nux stopped speaking. He felt like there was a vice around his chest. Was this fear? Another failure they hadn't wrung out of him? Then the doors opened and the Ashen King stepped in, clad in surgical robes with a rubberised apron, clad in surgical robes with a rubberised apron. His pitiless eyes scanned the room, alighting onna few Astartes. Then he advanced towards Nux.

 

No one outside the Berserkers’ ranks knew of this, and it was never directly spoken of within the Legion. But the whispered implications were clear. Every Berserker owed his Primarch a debt for his geneseed. This was to be paid as a lifetime of service. Those who failed, however, could not pay him back. And so the White Devil would come to collect in a different way. This, he realised, wasn't a ward for those meant to heal and go back to war. This was where the gene seed of the weak was kept fresh until it could be harvested.

 

Raktra’s face contorted behind the mask as he surveyed Nux. “Your weakness cost me a squad, wretch. You are manifestly incapable of making good your debt.” He took a scalpel from an attendant, stepping forward. “I've never seen a warrior of Uran afflicted with such feebleness. So here I am, to cut your sickness out of my Legion.”

 

“No.” Khârn stood, blocking his Primarch’s path.

 

“Get out of my way, sheep,” spat Raktra. “Do not presume to meddle with the true warriors of the VII.”

 

“True warriors?” The words came out quietly, but in the silence Khârn might as well have shouted. “I've brought down xenos monsters and human warriors alike. I served this Legion for decades before we found you, and I'll not be dismissed so easily. I will not see this man and his fellows butchered for their gene seed.”

 

What could be seen on the white face was a sneer. “So what will you do?”

 

“Leave, and take them with me. Ten years has been long enough. I won't serve under you any longer.”

 

“And whose coattails will you ride then? Daer'dd’s? The meekling, Alexandros?”

 

Khârn was silent for a moment. “I don't care who. I may just follow Sejanus. He's more worthy of my loyalty than you ever were.”

 

The ward echoed to the rasp of Raktra’s anger. “Say that again.”

 

Khârn stood his ground and raised his voice. “I will bow to any Primarch or Astartes before I bend my knee to you!”

 

With a roar, the White Devil barrelled forward, twisting to bring a huge fist down as Khârn rolled out of the way. Tiles broke under his assault.

 

“Take that back and bow to your master!”

 

“Never!” Khârn ducked out the way of another fist, but even a veteran could only outrun a Primarch for so long. Raktra’s boot slammed into his back. Khârn’s impact left a dent in the wall, but he was quick enough to dive away from a fresh attack.

 

“Take. It. Back.”

 

“No.”

 

Then Raktra was on him properly, battering away with fists and feet. After half a minute he stepped back, glaring down at the battered figure on the floor.

 

"You can break every bone," the Terrain captain spat, a stray tooth rattling on the floor. "and you can strip the skin from my back, but you won't hear me surrender. I will not set aside my honour- not even for you."

 

Raktra's face contorted behind the mask. “You really are the worst of your kind, Terran. Honour is weakness made pretty.” He retrieved his scalpel from the floor and advanced. “I'm going to enjoy this.”

 

And then the sounded or more booted feet sounded, and a group of Shepherds burst in, Hastur Sejanus at their head. Without even a word, every man among them drew his bolter. None went so far as to aim a weapon at the Primarch yet, but the intention was clear and Raktra had come without any retinue save a couple of apothecaries.

 

“You will let him go.” Sejanus growled, and for the first time Nux understood how such a man could hail from Cthonia. Cold fury emanated from him, even as he faced down his gene-father. “We will keep to the terms Captain Khârn proposed, and we will depart immediately. The Shepherds will campaign alongside the Berserkers no longer.”

 

“You treasonous bastard, Sejanus,” hissed Raktra, but he saw no lack of resolve in the Chapter Master's face. “Do you really think I won't butcher you all?”

 

“You could, but the death of an entire Chapter’s command echelon will turn heads. Even you couldn't shrug that off.”

 

Raktra seethed. “Fine! Take these weaklings and go. But know this, I will see to it that you never claim another recruit. Your weakling Chapters will be ground down eventually, and I will be there to see the last of you die with your pathetic virtue.” With that, he stormed from the ward.

 

“Brother, I don't know whether to thank you or curse you,” Sejanus said, helping Khârn to his feet. “All this for a Berserker?”

 

Khârn gestured towards Nux. “He's no Berserker. Can you walk, lad?”

 

After all Nux had seen, it was an effort to speak, but he managed “With crutches, sir, yes.”

 

“Right,” Sejanus turned to his Captains. “Do the same for every man who can walk. The rest we wheel out.”

 

“Where will we go?” said a pale captain- Svarrensson, Nux guessed.

 

“We will set out for Delos, but I want you and Nero to link up with the Iron Bears’ fleet. We’re exiles now, brothers,mand we need all the support we can get."

 

-----

 

Petitioning the Emperor in this way was without doubt Alexandros’ most controversial act before his elevation to Warmaster. However, Pionus Santor, Hectarion Mycenor and Daer’dd Nikaana stood behind him, and few of their brothers were willing to plead for Raktra. Surprisingly Yucahu also supported the motion, as it offered an easy way to get rid of the Terran elements of his Legion.

 

The old Chapters took up the official name of the Shepherds of Eden once more, and along with the Morning Stars were designated Legion Auxiliary. With this, they were granted recruitment rights to Terran regions that several Legions had discarded.

 

With Hastur Sejanus at the helm, the Shepherds regained their strength over the next couple of decades. In this time they served under several Primarchs, most notably participating in the Koloss Syntheticide alongside the Wardens of Light.

 

At the time it appeared that they had resumed their glorious course after a temporary period of turmoil. But none could have known the depths of the hatred they inspired in their Primarch, both for his estranged sons and the ones who had set them free to roam the Galaxy once more.

-Quintillian Macro, The Orphaned Astartes

Sigismund229 Veteran

Sigismund229

Posted
Posted

The Climb
The snow. It was always the snow. In all the time that he had been on this accursed world, Castalle had yet to find a more annoying or deadly aspect of the world's climate. It seemed that whenever he was assaulting one of the mountain jails on this world a snow storm would whip up and then whether you would survive was anyone's guess. You could be knocked from your foothold or a narrow mountain trail by an avalanche or the snow would freeze to the rocks, creating a slippery ice surface on which it was difficult to find purchase with power armoured fingers and feet, like Castalle was struggling to do now. For the moment he had purchase on the ice but he could feel his left foot slipping. Pre empting it, he moved his foothold and hauled himself further up the sheer vertical cliff in front of him as the wind howled and tore at his armour, trying to haul him off of the rock wall and throw him to his death. His armour told him that he was 7,900 metres above the ground. Not even an astartes would survive a fall like that. Growling, Castalle dragged himself up yet again, finding another foot and handhold. This time, his right hand slipped off his first intended hand hold meaning he had to bear his bodies entire weight upon his left arm and leg as he fumbled around trying to find a hand hold for his right hand. Castalle grinned triumphantly. He could see the top of the mountain and the fortress jail of the convicts. The most difficult part of the assault was almost over and although he'd lost three brothers, Ludwin, Zeremas and Coine, all of whom had fallen to their deaths after losing their grip, he was strong and he'd made it. He didn't grieve the brothers he'd lost. The manor of their deaths showed their weakness and weaklings were fit for nothing but death, just as those weakling Shepherds had been fit only for death, although for reasons Castalle had never understood the primarch let them live provided they left the legion. 

As he came within 50 metres of the fortress, the vertical cliff face began to even out, so that as the inmates opened fire with autoguns on Castalle he could afford to removed his left hand from its hold and use it to draw his bolter and start to pick off inmates who were firing upon him with their pathetic little autoguns. Every shot he fired was a kill shot, every one ended another pathetic weakling's life. Castalle took pride in that, just as he'd taken pride in the class room of children he'd butchered on Carnix IV, passing the Ashen King's test with flying colours. He still wore their skulls on chains around his belt. So Castalle shot and shot and shot, laughing with each enemy life he ended and shouting "First Blood!" over the vox. Then it happened. Just as his bolter clicked empty and he mag locked it to his breastplate so that he could reload with one hand, the avalanche hit him. He tried desperately to hold on, his fingers clawing inefectually at the ice, but he couldn't do it. As tonnes upon tonnes of snow hammered into him, he lost his grip and fell, his body landing with a sickly crunch on the stone 4000 metres down. 

As Castalle was glorying in the bloody toll he was reaping on the defenders, Sergeant Gasg's gaze was fixed up. Climb, reach the enemy fortress, get inside, slaughter them, don't fall. That was all that mattered, not idiot things like first blood. So it was that Gasg's gaze was fixed up and so he saw what Castalle didn't. He saw the snow begin to tumble down the mountain in an avalanche and, before it him him, he dug his fingers deep into the rock, using his enhanced strength to firm his grip, and then he waited. Sure enough, mere moments later the snow came hurtling down into him, slamming into him with the force of a sicaran battle tank. However, where Castalle was weak and lost his grip, Gasg stayed strong and kept his position, weathering the storm and letting it roll over him. However, as he stood, immobile, he saw the life signs of nine more brother flicker and fade as they fell. Of his squad, only he and Sar were still alive. 

When the avalanche passed, he loosened his fingers from where he had dug them into the rock and continued climbing up the mountain like a spider. Gasg had been surprise to discover that climbing up Kulaggo's mountains wasn't too different to being a tunnel rat on Uran, a task he'd become expert at in his time in the prison, with his think, lanky body being perfectly suited to crawling up the gutters and drainage pipes of the mass prison blocks of Uran. If anything, being tunnel rat was more difficult. 

He scaled the mountain quickly and efficiently, rarely losing his footing. Behind him, his fellow former tunnel rat, Sar, wasn't too far behind, moving only a bit more slowly. The autogun fire the convicts were pouring down on them was little more than a nuissance, an irritant. Little else. When he reached the small walls of the fortress-prison, Gasg leapt over the them, punching his fist straight through the face of the first convict he encountered, a boy who couldn't have been more than fourteen. Then Gasg lashed out with one of the chains on his armour, tearing a bloody gash in the body of anyone it touched. Only after his helm's kill counter told him he'd killed fifteen foes did he draw his bolt pistol and start blasting away with it as well as smashing its handle into the faces of any who came close enough. Each bolt shell he fired tore through one opponent and then went straight into another, often going through four men before detonating. Thirty two kills. He had been on the wall less than a minute. 

By then, other Berserkers were joining him. First Sar, hacking away with his chain axe, then other Berserkers from other squads began pouring over the walls. The climb had taken a heavy toll on every squad but Gasg knew that was no bad thing. It helped distinguish the weak from the strong. The weak perished. The strong endured and assaulted the enemy fortress as Gasg and Sar had done and when they reached the walls, the battle was over very quickly. The fighting on the walls was over within half an hour. The massacre that followed took three days and by the time it was over, there were hundreds of bodies hanging from the walls by chains to remind the survivors who they owed their allegiance to.

  • 2 weeks later...
bluntblade Venerable Brother

bluntblade

Posted
Posted

So it occurred to me that I've done relatively little fluff for the actual Berserkers, and that got me thinking. Specifically, thinking about the Legion's hierarchy and their use of Destroyers. Now, before I stick this in stories, does "Imperator" work as a rank in this universe? If not, can anyone suggest a substitute? I just feel that Lord Commander or Chapter Master isn't rough enough.

 

On the Destroyer note, given the Legion's culture of going further than anyone else and active cruelty, Raktra and I reckoned they'd be treated very differently to their counterparts. They'd actually be an elite of sorts, with their overal leader having the status of a Lord Commander within the Legion (along with other specialist commanders, perhaps). Although they might not function as Destroyers that often, they're present in most battles.

 

And finally, they don't wash their gear after engagements like the rest of the Legion, as long as it doesn't interfere with functionality. They're marked by blood as much as they are by the awful weapons they use.

 

And fluff:

Corpses littered the ground beneath Slynnat’s feet as he picked his way over to the rallying point. He didn't know how many they had killed today, but they must have numbered in the tens of thousands. It had been a chaotic battle; in an effort to thuow the defenders off balance they had landed on top of the city, but the enemy were well-armed and fought with remarkable fervour. Harder than any human force they had seen, save for the Inwit.

 

Thinking about that word brought back the memory of Nux. Filth. His old friend had failed and proven a weakling coward. That would've been bad enough, but now he was out there somewhere, one of the Sheep. Slynnat took it as a lesson to never let up, to always go further and become the killing machine his Primarch demanded. Ultimately, a Berserker lived or died alone.

 

Truly alone now; his squad had been enveloped by a huge enemy force and killed to a man, except for Slynnat. He had fought his way into the tightest streets and plunged into the mass of enemies, too close up for them to risk shooting. Exhausting his bolter, he had ripped limbs off, crushed skulls with his hands and ground men underfoot. He had even killed with his teeth and dashed them against the walls with his sheer bulk.

 

Eventually the last soldier had fallen, and now the Berserkers regrouped, with the hardest hit squads gathering below the south wall. Swiftly and tersely, they were sorted into new formations under the eyes of the captains. Questions were shouted about the fate of a critically injured captain. The response came- the Primarch judged Captain Moorek worthy and he would be interred in a dreadnought, so that he might continue to pay his debt and spill blood. An appreciative roar sounded from the ranks, warriors bowing their heads and making the sign of reverence.

 

The reformed squads began to disperse, leaving Slynnat alone. He started to wonder why he was sidelined like this, but then he heard a booming voice call his name. He turned and froze, seeing the figure- enormous even by Terminator standards- the collosal chainfist, the black paint around the upper face and the chains across the chest plate. An Imperator.

 

Quite apart from his size, Riktus Innorvak was unmistakable by his warplate. Berserkers usually cleaned their armour between engagements, the better to show fresh blood during battle. The exception was the Legion's Destroyers, who in stark contrast to their counterparts, were highly respected within their Legion. These were the Astartes who went further than all others, and their armour carried not just the gore of their every battle, but also the marks of their terrible weapons.

 

As did their flesh. Innorvak twisted off his helmet, revealing a face that was all scar tissue and augmentics. Innorvak had lost the lower portion of his face to a greenskin, back when he was still a Shepherd of Eden. A choleric son of Cthonia, he had struggled to fit in and resented walking in the shadow of men such as Hastur Sejanus and Scipio Licinius. Then the reunion had come, and he threw himself into the bloodthirsty culture of the true VIIth Legion, quickly ascending up the ranks.

 

Since giving himself over to the Berserkers’ ways, his artificial jaws had been worked into a bestial grimace of adamantium fangs. His remaining skin was mute testament to the awful potency of the Destroyer’s arsenal. His remaining eye regarded Slynnat with about as much warmth as the glowing red iris that occupied the other socket.

 

“Slynnat,” he rumbled, bending down to gaze into the young warrior's eyes. “Now, what to do with you?”

 

Slynnat willed himself to respond. He couldn't be thought unworthy, surely. “I can serve in another squad, sir. I can still fight.”

 

A grating chuckle came from somewhere behind the metal teeth. “I'm aware. We intercepted enemy transmissions after your squad were killed. They were panicking because of this feral beast that kept killing them. Pulling them apart, tearing their throats out.” It took Slynnat a moment to realise that the corroded features were trying to form themselves into a smile. “Feral. I'm not wasting that on a regular squad.”

 

Slynnat’s hearts raced. “What would you have me do?”

 

“Well to start with, don't wash the blood off. Report to my division tomorrow morning, and we'll begin making a Destroyer out of you.”

Nomus Sardauk Venerable Brother

Nomus Sardauk

Posted
Posted

Usually I'd be all for the Mad Max references but given that the title of Imperator is used to refer to the Emperor almost constantly and Raktra pretty much despises Ol'Poppa E I don't think his favoured sons would take a title that instantly reminds him of the man he hates more than any other.

 

Perhaps a more suitable title would be something that exemplifies their status as the most murderous, psychotic, bloodthirsty scum to disembowel their way to the top of the corpse-pile, here's a few suggestions I have:

 

Dominators

Brutalisers

Eradicators

Decimators

Dictators

Exsanguinators (gotta love the irony of a BA successor name here, maybe they get the name for their reputation of bleeding the enemy dry)

Grinders (named for Raktra's favourite beatin'stick perhaps? It could show how they're his preferred weapons of slaughter)

Terrorisers

Raktra Veteran

Raktra

Posted
  • Author
Posted

Hadn't realise what a lunatic Kehl is before. Is there a model for him, Raktra? Also if Slynnat gets a model (he'll get a "you traitored him!" moment with Nux eventually) I'm leaning towards him having a power fist or claw.

I'm slowly making one, I'm really bad at greenstuff is the issue. But he's gonna happen.

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