Iron Lions: Project Log!

[Draakur]

Awesome. Will post details for him today, just between work right now. Back soon!

[Lemainus]

http://i1119.photobucket.com/albums/k630/kalebrisner/Mobile%20Uploads/659EF754-7733-4155-9C4D-F4DA1668D2E3_zpskh5f3apc.png

 

The back cloak on this guy.

 

 

Perfect, thanks!

[Draakur]

Right:

 

Name: Bohdan

 

Chapter: Desolators

 

Rank: Tactical marine of the 1st Voisko (company)

 

Loadout: Special weapon (melta or plasma by choice) and a small hand axe/hatchet type hand weapon

 

Disposition: In a nutshell the Chapter is almost entirely beholden to their psykers and has an odd almost "reverence" for "pure" (ie. Imperially sanctioned) psykers. They engage in ritual cannibalism (mostly unknown to Imperium at large) via strict and ancient rites that they believe enhance their spiritual and vital potency. They see the warp with less suspicion than your average Astartes. They are a Chapter of hunters, who place great value in efficient strategy and outwitting an enemy rather than outright victory via force, if this is at all an option.

 

Chapter Symbol: this isn't 100% finalised yet, but working off this currently:

http://img0085o.psstatic.com/126136637_skull-and-lightning-bolts-vinyl-decal-stickers-pirates-.jpg

 

 

I'm not at all fussed either way, but if you feel the desire to do somebody helmetless and want an aesthetic to guide you: he'd be bald on top, with a moustache and decent length beard, and facial scarring... basically a diagonal cross with the lines meeting over his nose and passing through the middle of his face, with whatever other embellishments you like. Again, not central to him though and could easily be more fuss than it's worth :)

Edited June 12, 2017 by Draakur

[Lemainus]

Devros is coming along: 

 

 

 

I tried my hand at the "make a cloak out of tissue" tutorial over in the DIY section, and I'm actually pretty chuffed with how it came out! (Link: http://www.bolterandchainsword.com/topic/286080-tutorial-capes-made-from-tissue/)

 

  I made sure to tuck the cloak into his pauldrons and set the gardbrace as requested, though I switched the side so it wouldn't interfere too much with the Deathwatch pauldron detailing. He has a lot of personality, I think - good suggestion, with the twin hammers. He just looks knightly... and pissed. I think we can all agree Devros is not to be trifled with?

 

The Killteam is shaping up nicely. I like this crew. Sword and board, claws, twinhammers... now a special weapon with Bodhan... We need someone with a bolter, or a heavy weapon, and we'll be good to go!

[Draakur]

Devros is looking badass, "knightly and pissed" is apt I would say, yes. The hands look like they're positioned perfectly for his stride, I dig the sense of motion. Any chance of a side or diagonal view??

[Custom Hero]

Devros is looking better than I saw him in my mind's eye! Love the pose and sense if motion to him.

 

Looking dead on at him like that, he has a feel as if he's staring down his next opponent while he walks up with a "you know your next" body language that just oozes malice and justice at the same time.

 

This whole team is phenomenal!

[Lemainus]

Bohdan is up. You can't see it from this initial WIP shot, but he has a few tricks up his sleeves. And by that I mean they're attached to his back.

 

 

The only head I have with a mustache and such is wearing a beret, and that doesn't really fit his character all that well. So I went with the bald, scarred, + respirator for a 'meet you in the middle with the stuff I have in the bitz box' look. Hope that jives with you. I see him as working as Pointman for the team, always mumbling about 'another way, always another way' and the squad dealing with his obsessive positioning for maximum effect, and alternate paths through problems.

 

One more model needed from the folks in the forum and we're good! Wonder what the last guy will look like?

Edited June 12, 2017 by Lemainus

[Draakur]

Dude, I really like him! It's not at all the pose I had in mind, but I actually really dig what you've chosen. The head is absolutely fine yep, long as you can see some scarring. The role description is perfect too, I can totally see him slotting in as you've described with those mildly neurotic traits. They have Slavic/Russian accents too, I feel that fits in well with that...

 

+edit+

Just noticed the lightning symbols on the bottom of the axe - even better! They're Scars successors and use a lot of this :)

Edited June 12, 2017 by Draakur

[Lemainus]

I'm glad you like him! I wanted everyone to have a sense of movement. My first thought for him was crouching, looking around, like he's taken point but also functioning as recon... but everyone else in the squad is Oscar Mike, and having him crouched just didn't... fit, somehow. You know? But he's got the flashbangs and the utility belt and the fast rope+grappling hook, so I feel like his kit implies he gets things done through unconventional means and angry dynamic entry. I see Bohd being the guy that wants to split the Killteam into Red and Blue squads, with the group of three executing a normal breach through a door or wall, while he and a partner BREACH THE CEILING AND RAPPEL IN RIGHT ON TOP OF THE WITCHES BURN THEM BURN THEM ALL 

[Custom Hero]

Top knotch! I really want to see the last member and some paint on these guys. I believe the end result is going to be fantastic and gritty. After all, the squad already looks pretty brutal!

[Draakur]

But he's got the flashbangs and the utility belt and the fast rope+grappling hook, so I feel like his kit implies he gets things done through unconventional means and angry dynamic entry. I see Bohd being the guy that wants to split the Killteam into Red and Blue squads, with the group of three executing a normal breach through a door or wall, while he and a partner BREACH THE CEILING AND RAPPEL IN RIGHT ON TOP OF THE WITCHES BURN THEM BURN THEM ALL

 

All of this sounds spot on :tu:

 

Was just looking through what I wrote earlier and realised I forgot to note: the Chapter icon should theoretically be in black on a grey background, rather than the white on grey pic in the link. Hope you've not started painting and this is too late ><

Edited June 14, 2017 by Draakur

[Lemainus]

I can do that! I wanted to wait and paint them all together, as I have a surprise coming... but the mail is excruciatingly slow for some reason. So. :cuss it, I'll probably paint the assembled guys and do the fun little addition whenever it deigns to arrive at my door. Feh. Speaking of additions, I wanted a heavy-ish weapon for the squad, but all the suggestions are so mobile, elegant, fast... I didn't think the poor sod lugging around the plasma cannon would be able to keep up. So, a compromise:

 

  Meet Nakir, a heavy support specialist seconded from the Angels of Vengeance.

 

  

 

Nakir comes from a long lineage of heavy weapons specialists from the Angels of Vengeance, serving countless crusades and campaigns against the alien, the heretic. He was seconded to the Deathwatch what seems like ages ago, and in his years of service earned commendations plenty. Eventually he was gifted with a storm bolter said to have originated in his Chapter's armory during the Age of Shadow, though if this is truth or myth, who can say?

[Lemainus]

++OPEN FIRE! WE MUST LEAVE HERE!++

 

++HOLDING ACTION! RALLY AND RETREAT!++

 

>>The energies here are beyond a task force this size. Do you not feel it?<< 

 

++FRAGS OUT!++

 

++KRAKS OUT!++

 

++DEPLOYING SHIELDS!++

 

++FALL BACK, BUT DO NOT TURN AWAY FROM THE ENEMY.++

 

Bolterfire rang hollow, rendered silent within the Hush. The monstrous daemon, all eyes, waved them away with one of three chitin-armored hands. His focus lay elsewhere, yet he was powerful enough to render conventional weaponry useless with but a flick of his wrist. His seven eyes scoured The Book of the Guilty, proclamations, sermons, truths or lies or both flooding the air with glowing runes, with gaping holes in realspace the size of a man's fist. All manner of things glimmered, whispered, through the holes. Looking through them was like peering into the diary of the universe - each hole had a secret to share, a betrayal to elucidate upon. 

 

++MAINTAIN PRESSURE ON THE RANK AND FILE.++

 

++RELOADING.++

 

The text seemed so disconnected from the fray, appearing across their HUDs in the silence of the Hush. Violence erupted around them, as the summoned heretics gained their composure, their sense of surroundings - as bolterfire poured onto them. Their armor hissed, shifted, breaking and fusing together in the same instant, refusing to be destroyed. They marched forward in terrible, inexorable silence, enduring the firestorm that pounded them with a grim sort of aloof determination that rankled their quarry. 

 

  The conjured holes grew.

 

  A trillion screaming faces consumed by endless war. Blood and entrails enough to bridge the gap between planets. Star system upon star system boiling over with carnage. The Emperor Protects.

 

 A trillion annihilated xenos and daemon, butchered witches and heretics. Slain in the name of Order, of Good, in the name of the Emperor - adding to the pile of skulls at Khorne's feet.

 

  ++RELOADING!++

 

  ++WE SHALL COVER YOU, BROTHER.++

 

  ++IRON LIONS NEVER DIE!++

 

  ++IRON LIONS NEVER DIE!!!++

  ++IRON LIONS NEVER DIE!!!++

  ++IRON LIONS NEVER DIE!!!++

  ++IRON LIONS NEVER DIE!!!++

  ++IRON LIONS NEVER DIE!!!++

 

  The heretic with the gigantic maul stepped forward, accompanied by his rifleman companion. Varian and the Man in Red were both directed into the inner sanctum of the chapel by the many eyed Daemon; they obeyed without hesitation. 

 

  >>They mean to start another ritual? Has this not done enough, the population of an entire planet killing one another?<<

 

 The holes in the world grew bigger still; the Eye Daemon seemed to stare at all of the Iron Lions at once, each individual eye focused on a different marine, still wordlessly caressing the pages of his Book. Bullets were repelled, just as the psychic warnings had proclaimed. The chitinous armor gleamed green and purple and blue all at once; it shimmered, like a beetle. Like an oil slick on calm water. Like filth. 

 

  A long dead Archon searching for pleasure in a webway defined by suffering. An intimate night between lovers in a dug-out trench surrounded by ghosts of fallen comrades. Somehow, all who saw them knew they would die the next day. 

 

  Forced decay giving way to new growth - moss in a reeking, tepid pool. Diseased, fleeting. Life finds a way.

 

 A firebrand that never changes charging into a palace that is forever changing.

 

 The spiral arms of a galaxy on fire.

 

  Useless. Stubborn. Broken. Sleeping. Your swords, they shatter. Your bullets are repelled. Your will shall break. Your worlds will fall. 

 

  The Lord that was summoned by the Eye Daemon finally stirred; he had stood rapt, twitching, since his sudden arrival. The embossed greatcloak affixed to his shoulders fluttered with a benign heft that betrayed its weight; it was not fabric, but some form of hide, dyed red.

 

  Beyond the spiral arms - a caged thing. A mind. A feeling. Unbridled hate. Hate for the clashes. Hate for the discord. Hate for the noise. A god. A God.

 

 ++Raime?!++

 

 You remember me. I remember you also, Ashavan.

 

  Raime's voice was not heard aloud; it just manifested within the heads of all present. Whatever patron deity had stolen him from the Emperor had given him some measure of psychic fortitude. He hefted his axe, also empowered by the God he had found in the ruined temple years ago. It glowed red - but not the blazing red of Khorne. No. It was... deeper. Slick. Wet. Like the blades were wells of blood whence no drop could escape once they spattered upon its surface. It was alive.

 

  Present a champion.

 

The world shook under the pressure of the rituals still happening within the chapel, but Raime seemed not to feel the tremors. He stood in the shattered gold and marble embellishment of the church and hefted his monstrous axe in one hand like it weighed nothing, releasing a bronze and ash graven plasma rifle from its maglock on his back. It crackled wildly, twitching erratically as it powered up, overcharged, driven to magnitudes of power nowhere close to safe. 

 

  Present. A. Champion.

 

  The challenge was offered again, this time with less apathy, more irritation. Rephiel stepped forward, a veteran sergeant of the Fourth Company. He'd earned his white helmet long ago, and the ritual cheque embellishments for valor and courage smattered the surface of his armor. 

 

  Say it.

 

  The request was mocking, full of bemusement and venom. A joke.

 

  Say it.

 

  ++IRON LIONS NEVER DIE!++ no sound was heard, but the words flashed across their vision all the same. Rephiel charged, power sword blazing, his battle cry such a roar that the speech-to-text algorithm knew not what to translate it as, bringing up references entries within codices to wild beasts on deathworlds unexplored and unconquered. 

 

  Themselves. In this moment. Right now. They saw through the holes torn in the fabric of space and time and saw themselves from a different vantage - each marine knew it was himself, specifically, that he himself gazed upon. Though, instead of pride, they felt emptiness. As though seeing themselves from whence this new creature sat on his throne made them worthless. None could say why. The spiral arms ran lazily on their arc, in flames.

 

  The axe crashed through the sword, sundering it and Rephiel in but a stroke, a perfect cut that would split the chest progenoid in twain. Raime swung the axe downward in a tight swirling arc, embedding it in his fallen opponent's chest cavity - and the marble edifice below - with a ferocious vibration and, without the Hush, what would have been a colossal crash. Reaching down, it was obvious that his right hand had mutated into a terrifically vicious armored claw. Rending the flexible plate that guarded Rephiel's neck, Raime tore the neck progenoid free, and unceremoniously crushed it. The axe drank deep of the blood of their fallen brother, his gene seed annihilated, never to be reborn. 

 

  The axe. The holes crackled, shifted, again - revealing the axe Raime held being brandished by another man, in another place, another time. Another reality altogether. Before now? After? It was held aloft by a man in black and white armor, riding a horse. The blade bit deep into the flesh of dozens of opponents, torrents of blood drawn into the bottomless blade.  "

 

"DREADAXE THIRSTS FOR YOU!"

 

  'Iron Lions Never Die.' Raime ripped Dreadaxe from the ground, and Rephiel's corpse twisted, dry, crumbling in his armor. Yes they do.

 

 Just like everything else.

 

  A powerful focus manifested within his brass crest; a black orb so dense, so bright, so dark, it could not be described. The force behind all of this was felt, more strongly than ever. It weighed down upon all present like an infinite judgement. And then it opened, a snapping vicious moment seared into the eyes of every marine there. The manifestation of an eye. Its eye. The eye of an angry God. It... blinked. Considering them. 

 

  An ocean of twilight. Stillness. Silence. In the ocean, at peace, on the very floor of the endless violet depths, lay Rephiel. Lay... countless others. A skull taken, but not given to Khorne. 

 

  

^[++(((GUILTY.*}]=\

 

 

 

No more lies. No more false gods. 

 

 

 Not yours. Not theirs.

 

  

Only Blessed Silence.

[Vairocanum]

Whoa Raime looks cool, also that eye looks stellar! Nice read too, looking forward to seeing more!

[Pearson73]

Indeed, the eye looks fantastic.

[Lemainus]

Thanks! I saw them in the hobby store and I was like "One day I will have a use for those" and here I am like a year later. FINALLY USED 'EM.

[Lemainus]

All paths diverge when journey begins,

 

 

 

though all paths lead to the Mountain.

 

 

The Mountain leads to god.

 

God has read the Book.

 

And the Book leads to Me.

 

The voice rattled the planet itself, booming out from the ruination of the cathedral, channeled through it's minion daemon and the Speaker in Red. Whether it was a physical presence, none could say. Though the Hush silenced everything it touched, these words deafened all present, cracking auspex, shattering eye plates, sending spiderweb fractures through plasteel and glass. The psychic reverb, the hum of a vindictive edge on each syllable, was palpable. The Iron Lions knew that this was poison, that just hearing it speak would burn away at their faculties. A grindstone on their stalwart sanity. An invitation dripping in blood.

 

The holes torn open by the Eyes widened; The Voice speaking aloud seemed to empower the creature, or perhaps it had forced them wider itself. The realms through each were thick with fog, cloaked in twilight - and the white and black Fallen stepped through with no hesitation, as though returning home. All the work - the slaughter of this planet's population, the ritual sacrifice of billions on billions - had been to force these ethereal portals open. That was all. So much blood - so much magic - and all for but a handful of holes that seemingly any sorcerer could conjure with but a thought and a quiet endorsement of the Warp. Flickering beyond the fog in these portals, the glittering eyes of madmen. They looked like the white-hot purple sparks within the blood of the ritual sacrifice. They burned through the intangible gates to nowhere, waiting, silent, never shifting. The Iron Lions stared - the eyes stared back. 

 

 Raime hefted Dreadaxe over his shoulder with the lazy ease of motion that becomes normal when one is an expert, snarling at the corpse he claimed for the Silent Sea. Khorne was denied this skull, unworthy though it was. He turned on a heel, imperious, dangerous, daring anyone to try and stab him in the back. Stepping through one of the portals, his dripping axe and swaying greatcloak melded into the fog. The assault force stared into the breach of space and time; the glowing eyes stared back.

 

 Kill them.

 

 They flooded out of the portals, pouring through the fog. The creatures seen in visions and encoded pictcaptures - the enemy that had been mocking them all this time. White and Black armor pitted, cracked, held together by nothing but hate. Ash-burnt bronze and gold masks gleamed fierce, crackling with the arcane energies that held them together. Claws. Pikes. Axe and blade. Their silent warcry, the unheard shout, permeated the air itself. A heat - a buzz - a knifepoint on the temples.  They crashed into the Iron Lions with a reckless abandon, heedless of bullet or broadsword. Striking their armor shifted the cracks, moved the abyssal plates, but nothing seemed to break through. Every blow realigned the ruined metals, as though it was reforged and rebroken every time a bolter or blade struck true. Oppressive, hateful silence. They marched in silence, suffered in silence, slaughtered in silence - pushed the Iron Lions down the promenade in silence. 

 

 ++SHIELDWALL, HOLD!++

 

 ++TWO DEEP, OFFSET THE PHALANX! FRONT LINE, KNEEL, BACK LINE, LEAN!++

 

 ++THOSE BEHIND, BRACE YOUR BROTHERS!++

 

 ++IRON LIONS NEVER DIE!++

 

 ++GUNLINE! MAKE READY!!!++

 

++READY!++

++READY!++

++READY!++

Ready.

++READY!++

++READY!++

++READY!++

++READY!++

 

 ++ALL SQUADS! PUSH!++

 

  Your shields are strong, though I fear their daemon gifted weapons will be stronger should this become protracted more than it already is.

 

++PUSH GOD DAMN YOU!++

 

  The entirety of the assault force rallied into a modified shield wall. The men in the front of the phalanx knelt, bracing themselves against the onslaught of the enemy. Those behind braced as well, covering the intervals the front row could not, but leaning forward, instead of kneeling. The height difference provided a dip from whence the rear gunlines could pour bullets, and commanders could survey the maelstrom of battle. The men in the middle aided by shoving forward as best they could, forcing the shieldwall ever forward. When the push succeeded in breaking the stalemate at the front, all shields returned to original positions, as the rear gunline dumped bullets into the ranks of off-balance attackers. As the bullets struck home, the shield wall steps forward and thrusts, pikes and spears and swords running through enemies wounded by their battle brothers. The gutshot and stabbed that did not succumb to their wounds in a timely fashion were trampled by the invariable forward march.

 

++PUSH!++

 

  Finally, the shove gave way to progress - the force of all the lines contributing to forward motion forced their opponents a step back, and in that off kilter moment, the rear guard sprung up from safety, pouring blessed bolterfire into their ranks. From behind their shields, usually, it was the sound of impact, the bloody pops and thuds of shells killing enemies, that gave the front line the queue to proceed with controlled melee with the debilitated creatures they held against, but in the Hush, it was not so. The street cracked under the strain of their force, the grunts and moans of their targets carried not a whisper on the wind. No sound came whence a bolter shell crashed into the chest cavity of these heretics. So it was left to instinct, communication, and the countless hundreds of hours logged fighting as a unit.

 

  Arash and Turien spent little time together, in general, Arash being an assault marine and Turien being in a tactical squad. That did not change that, in this formation, Turien had been several rows of soldiers behind Arash hundreds of times - had run this drill with him, hundreds of times, had timed his shots with rabid precision and effectiveness hundreds of times. There needed to be no sound for Arash to know that Turien's shots had rung true; Arash had decades of experience working with his brother. A connection with his brother. Faith. Precious Faith - in his brother. And their bond was not unique. Every man in the front felt this of the man behind him; the unit moved as one, performed as one, trusted itself as one. Arash and Turien were not individuals, when they fought. No. They were cells in the makeup of a single organism. The ashes of the dead marked their armored gauntles, the lost heroes of the chapter guided their hands. Singular action was their doctrine. Faith in their brothers was their religion. The spears struck home to devastating effect, crashing into the cracked plate armor with a vigor given form by a blind purity of belief that was forged in the fire of war.

 

  ++SILENCE MEANS NOTHING. KILL THE ALIEN. BURN THE HERETIC!++

 

  ++WE ARE ASHA'VAN, BROTHERS!++

 

  ++ANCESTORS GUIDE! EMPEROR PROTECTS!++

 

  ++AGAIN!++

 

  As the fighting raged on, the wheat separated itself from the chaff. Marasprand and the Gilded watched from the fallen cathedral, along with the other Doomed Ones. They had all arrived, summoned by the Eyes. The Host of Malice had opened the way for their god to touch the galaxy for the first time in many cycles.

 

 

 

Lord Malal.

 

 

 

Rh'Chulyeh.

 

Set them on the paths, yes. Yes. Show them the way. Show them the truth.

 

Rh'Chulyeh, ghatl Gauh yazad.

 

 

They will see the Killed City. Your Angels will take them.

 

 

 Rashim and Vau readied their weapons, hulking hammer and sword, crackling with black lightning and skittering runes. Spreading their warpfire wings, they roared into the air with a savage energy, the shockwave crushing an impression into the marble beneath their feet as they lifted off. The Doomed Ones, Malal Yazad, walked down the steps and settled near the portals, waiting. The phalanx had pressed forward, knocking the forces of Malice back, shooting them, stabbing them, but the unified offensive had yet to inflict a true casualty. Within the Hush, the white and black armor was empowered, sucking in the will of the God Apart, cracking, reborn, and breaking again at the constant onslaught. They were stymied, but they did not die. Would not die.

 

  Furious, Vjka hurled a bolt of psychic energy through the crowd - not in the general mass of undying enemies, but specifically to one, hitting him in those crackling, twitching, always shifting and reforged plate guarding his chest. Vjka's connection to his Killteam as their Primaris psycher - the fact that they were a hivemind operating as a unit - let the special weapons operators to fire on the exact same spot. Rage coursed through the psychic bolt, and it hit home simultaneously with two scorching balls of plasma.  The perfectly timed strike smashed through the unnerving protection of the gorget, blowing open a sizable chunk of the ensorceled armor. Beneath was a man so overflowing with arcane energy it was hard to distinguish that there was a body at all, through the raging currents that enveloped him. Seizing the opportunity, additional firepower was brought to bear, pouring into the exposed cultist. In a flash, he was destroyed, the light snapping through his lenses in a ravenous crackle before the entirety of him broke into pieces, armor crumbling to bits and floating into the breeze. What remained was desiccated, ashen, nearly ethereal. 

 

  The oppressively slow advance continued, now with the gunline pounding a singular target with everything they had at each push, and the front lines doing their best to strike at the exposed bodies whence it was opportune. This was a battle that could be won. It was a battle that was being won. But nothing good ever lasts. Rashim and Vau crashed into the phalanx like spears thrown from the pinnacle of Heaven itself, the force of their landing not unlike the colossal impact of a drop pod making planetfall. Their wings of malignant fire torched all they touched, their weapons shrieked black lightning. The phalanx was a ruin on either flank. Rashim, the Wings of Judgement. Vau, the Wings of Change. On the heels of their chaotic assault, the other Yazad marched forward in silence. 

 

They bombard me with their names. Vjka sent the thought to everyone still alive, unsure of why it was important. They force it upon me. We will not be slaughtered by strangers.

 

 ++THEIR RANK AND FILE CAN DIE, THEY CAN DIE.++

 

 ++MAKE READY!++

 

  Atar, Presiding Fire.

 

 Dahmafrin, Blessed Benediction.

 

 Damoish, Ancient Anathema.

 

Sroasha, the Hearkener.

 

 Uzdarmah, the Rock.

 

Mahraspand, Keeper of the Word.

 

Raime, the Dreadaxe.

 

Aztaj, the Gilded.

 

 Mahraspand flew forward, brandishing his spear. The other Yazad behind him filtered through the opened portals, a pair going through each. The Keeper of the Word moved like a demon, an otherworldly speed a fury carrying him through the fray. He left ruined bodies behind him, and the energies of the warp crackled under his feet - each kill he claimed denied skulls for the skull throne, denied the plans made for their souls, silenced their secret cravings. Each corpse he stepped over fashioned itself a likeness at the bottom of the sea of twilight. The visions of these claimed souls not going whence the Warp desired flashed through the minds of the survivors, though they knew not what it could mean.

 

  Mahraspand flickered, a movement so quick it would take an auspex to track properly. He had traversed the open hole along with his Yazad ilk; the Angels of the Renegade God had made their presence known, and were now making to leave. Mahraspand whipped his spear around, ripping the blade through the marble like it was nothing. The line clearly marked where real space ended and the portal began - it was a threat - an invitation - a challenge. Anyone who survived the battle here at the chapel would be welcome to follow. That was made very clear... a literal line drawn in the sand. Inconceivably, imperceptibly, the mark echoed in front of the other portals as well, a mirror image of the one actually physically struck. 

 

  The surviving heretics had remade their lines during the fuss, and made ready for another assault. The eye daemon emerged from the church, the Man in Red in tow.

 

  Now the fight would begin in earnest.

Edited June 19, 2017 by Lemainus

[Lemainus]

Killteam is color blocked, awaiting detailing and washing / glazing to polish them up and get 'em all finished. I had fun with making the characters you guys came up with, thanks for the added challenge and excitement! Good change of pace. :D

 

I apologize in advance for my freehand shoulder pads. I never should have attempted. 

 

[Lemainus]

Killteam Complete!

 

[Draakur]

Cracking stuff! :) you did well. They actually look better as a group too, I think. You've managed to get the poses all working well together.

 

So you know, I'm about to order a stack of parts and bitz and start doing some modelling on a little warband idea I've had floating around for awhile. I'm no modeller and haven't touched that side of the hobby for over 10'years now, but I really want to have a crack at bringing these guys to life, and your project and the Doomed Ones is one of the influences that has lead me here - so cheers for that and keep it up! :)

[Custom Hero]

That is a mighty fine and brutal squad sir. Mighty.

[Lemainus]

Thanks guys! :D

 

I'm happy to hear that I inspired some work, too! You'll have to let me know when you start a thread so I can check out what you're working on!

[Lemainus]

  Ahvi waits. His Old Broken King waits.

 

 Time is endless, spiraling, within the Twilight Sea. To wait? It is easy. To strike down the interlopers? It is easy.

 

 Finding a soul worth taking, even though his vigil is eternal? That is not easy.

 

 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 And the vengeful flocks will assemble, and give chase to Yazad. Over the threshold of their senses will they step, amassing their armies to march into Twilight. And lo, the Yazad will visit them with death on the path to Rh'Chulyeh, The Killed City - Where no fire burns but the fire of Malice, all light extinguished save those powered by betrayal and murder. They will be made to see. - Book of the Guilty, Chapter 31, Verse 11

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 +Victory! The last of the traitors fall to ruin.+

 

  A hard fought victory, though. They took as many as they lost. These are no normal foes, no Chaos-worshipping rabble come to murder at random and collect skulls.

 

 +The Inquisitor speaks correctly.+ Apothecary Derand busied himself, harvesting the gene-seed of his fallen brothers. So many lost to so few attackers, before they retreated through those ever-widening portals. Funeral rites would be held back on the battle barge. For now, in the sea of blood and bombshell-wracked dirt and ash, the task at hand was more simple: save what could be saved, hold the line.

 

  Vjka is fine, Apothecary Derand.

 

 +As you wish. Vjka.+

 

  +Incoming drop pod!+

 

  +Ours?+

 

  +No.+

 

  Partially yours. I sense family and anger. Upset.

 

 The pod exploded into the earth, landing tremors shaking the ground beneath their boots. The hiss, the whir of cogitators and pistons. The Inquisition's I marked the drop pod on all sides - a proclamation. Partially mine, as well, it would seem. Vjka quipped. It would appear the Murder is not the only Killteam assigned to this task force. The doors fell open, and a five man team poured out, restless, weapons at ready. A familiar captain led them. Homaaz, seconded to the Deathwatch nearly eight years ago, his embossed heraldric pauldron had been chequed, and skulls added. He had served well, it seemed. The ceremonial angelic wing grafted to his armor had been painted green - an homage to his Chapter. With him, were what seemed to be a very melee-centric squadron, a mutant among them. +One of ours. A Blood Angel successor, perhaps. An Iron Knight, judging by the pauldron cross. I know not the other, though the mutant is clearly a Black Dragon.+

 

+A mutant.+

+Unclean.+

+Though he stands with Homaaz.+

+Disgusting.+

 

  They gesticulated, clearly trying to speak, but not knowing about the Hush. One member, bald, scarred horribly, furrowed his brow before trying sign language as soon as he realized that none could hear his commander speak. Easy, friend. I am Vjka. I will relay your message while a Technopriest outfits your squad with the equipment necessary to communicate. These heretics have a strange power over sound. Where they go, silence follows. We call it the Hush. Fervent mumbling that could not be registered followed, the Killteam exchanging glances. Show me what you wish to say.

 

  Images. Flight paths. Reassignments. Arguments. An internal power struggle that had nearly come to blows. But Homaaz had gotten his way - gotten his reassignment - to help his Chapter in its time of need. He had bargained hard - perhaps having to surrender his captaincy upon his return. Muted embarrassment - shame. They had not gotten here in time to participate in the battle. Worry not. This is far from over.

 

 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

  Ahvi tilted his head, feeling a fluctuation in the strength of those that were lost. On his mountain of corpses, a crag jutting out from the Twilight Sea built of bodies and bone, he waited. The Old King waited. 

 

 

  **+| Kill everyone. |+**

 

 

[Lemainus]

I had quite a productive crafting afternoon, and, (suprising myself) I finished Ahvi!

 

:D

 

 

Ahvi waits on the path leading to the Old King. All roads in the Twilight Sea lead to the City - the City is ruled by the King - and Ahvi judges who be worthy to hear the King speak.

The path is long and convoluted. Ahvi waits. On a mound of corpses, slain and floating in the realm of Malal - souls empowering the God Apart, denying the Pantheon of Chaos their succor in gloomy stillness. None have been worthy in millennia, though many have tried.

 

 

Ahvi is ancient, given life eternal by Malal. So long as the God Apart twists in the darkness, Ahvi lives on. His once gleaming armor blooded, dented, broken and worn. The leather of his pouches and belt fade, worn by time into nothingness. His flesh withers, but does not rot. He is free from Nurgle - but not entirely free from time itself.

 

 

The blood of those on the Path to the Killed City cover every inch of the mound that is his home.

 

 

Ahvi waits.

[Lemainus]

This is a little out of the blue, but does anyone happen to know if a Morghast Harbinger would fit onto the Magewrath throne? I'm trying to decide what, precisely, should finish this diorama, but I've never purchased a Morghast before and have no frame of reference for their size.