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Inspiration Friday 2016: Thousand Sons (until 1/13)

- - - - - Inspiration Friday Inspiration Friday 2016 fanfiction Chaos Writing

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#451
Canadian_F_H

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Damn... well so far it's more of an outline and a few ideas of actual narrative in between... but it is seamingly more about some techno monstrosities of the dark mechanicus and the abhumans beastmen the Iron warriors have pressed I to service as their legion in preparation for the invasion of the Acadian subsector...

It won't be done in time no doubt but I'll post up what I have in what will become my iron warrior background and plot thread and link it. As it is relevant but certainly not cohesive enough to be a submission...

#452
Trevak Dal

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I kind of have this idea of Slaaneshi Iron Warriors calling themselves the "Seige Dancers" led by a Gold Chain obsessed warsmith being involved with the (mis)adventures of Giselburtus and Adrastus, agents of the Nightblades.

"Our Turn" - Centurion Khârn.

 


#453
Teetengee

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Elder

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My Chaos WIP Thread (Bigger Pics and Foul Xenos offsite) Hall of Honour, My Storm Reavers (DIY SM Chapter) Story, My Chaos 7.5 Homebrew Codex Thread
In us burns a fire for vengeance that will only be quenched when we stand triumphant over the smoldering ruins of Terra. Our laughter on that day will haunt their survivors till the end of time. We will stride forth victorious through the shattered gates of their fortress, holding high aloft the defiled corpse of their rotting god as our prize.
Wulfkry, on 02 Jul 2013 - 3:38 PM, said: So an inquisitor is receiving SM implants using GK geneseed stolen off the fields of armageddon interesting..
Captain Semper, on 29 May 2015 - 4:10 AM, said: There is crazy and there is Teetengee crazy... ph34r.pngnuke.gif

Warsmith Aznable, on 30 Jan 2016 - 01:16 AM, said: 13. Teetengee wrote "Warp Born" and I won't even go into how disturbing the subject matter was.
The Psycho, on 26 Apr 2016 - 10:50 PM, said: That's either really disturbing or really cute, I haven't quite made up my mind yet.

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I'm not dead, and I like 8th better than 7th.


#454
Canadian_F_H

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Well... I'm not going to get any further with it today. So this is my notes. It is all as subject to change as the fickle winds of chaos. It's more a brainstorm than anything else. Trying to justify my plans for bringing brayherd renegade guardsmen, and iron warriors into my subsector fluff... as such there are inconsistencies and I need to do some research to make things fit into 40K lore and such better.

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Edited by Canadian_F_H, 16 December 2016 - 10:57 PM.


#455
Zhaharek

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(Not an actual entry for Iron Warriors this week, just an intro to a character I intend to focus on in my future entries. Also: I'm back again. For more than one week this time. Enjoy)



I am Izuriel Crain.
I am a master of hidden things, a vessel of secrets in midnight clad, a silhouette of ebon silks wrapped about crackling war-plate. A 100,000 stolen teeth clatter about my throat on fraying threads, a relic of my humanity (more of that will be revealed before this story ends). I got to war accompanied by with a hammer in one hand and the threads of warpfire in the other. I do not simply slog my way across the realms of this galaxy, but am carried by Vakari, a steed of iron, fury and fell mechanisms. I have been instructed, by my master Avostos Crouw, to integrate myself into the ranks of that ancient fool, Abaddon. His Black Legion collect an ever growing cabal of sorcerers, from babbling imbeciles to the terrifyingly powerful. A cabal which I am to join. An utter waste of my talents, as you shall see. So this chronicle will detail my sufferings among these god-ridden fools.
Before I begin: my gauntlets are a deep, thorough, crimson.


Now- A Conquered World
The Hound's clawed gauntlets clicked a staccato rhythm on the obsidian of his throne and his aura flickered with jagged impatience every time his roving, black eyes landed upon me. His visage was decrepit, resembling nothing more than a leather wrapped tight around an old skull. His impatience was like sour glass on the edge of my sixth sense. An irritant. Indeed, the chamber within which I knelt seemed designed to antagonize its denizens. The whole space was a tribute to defilement, an Imperial church unmade. Every skull had an 8 point star, or a stylised skull symbol, burned into its forehead, some still smoking softly, the edges of each brand glowing soft red. I can only imagine the maddened whims of a mind that would brand an image of a skull onto an actual skull. I have done bizarre and horrible things to cadavers in my unnaturally long life, (the teeth for example), but never with such dazzling idiocy. The sweeping arches were hung with burning braziers, smoke falling to the earth in thick columns. I knelt, and where I knelt, the blood that soaked the floor was staining my armour. The Hound continued his endless clattering. I did not move. I simply knelt in place. Not the kneeling of some subservient slave, although I am certain that The Hound believed otherwise. I kneeled as if were mediating, my legs beneath me, hands upon my knees.

The Hound rose. One of the many, many flaws I have discovered in my Black Legion cousins is their adoration of some ludicrous tetrad of greater Warp filth. The warrior before me, it would seem, had dedicated himself to an entity I had heard of only in the whispers of The Warp. A God of Rage. A God of Blood. A diety for the brutish and simple.
The Hound reflected this in his armour. The plate was matt red, trimmed with a bronze that was either rusted, or simply so poorly applied to the armour that it was falling away. Furs were tied to his vambraces and greaves, each one black with dried blood. I recognised the animals they were ripped from. Dethragrax, T'corinth, and Lyr-Cats. Vile creatures all, bred by mortal scum for bloodsport. This warrior before me, so lacking in panache that he would choose to be announced simply as 'The Hound,' had been fighting mortal bred hunting beasts. The thought made me taste stinging vomit.

He strode towards me, shouldering through column of languid smoke. Such melodrama. In another life, The Hound would've made an excellent showman.
His voice was heavy with age as he spoke: "Why did they send you to me?"
I shrugged, servo-motors whining, "Clearly you are possessed of exceptional judgment." The Hound's power amour, like mine, could turn away a bolt shell. Unlike mine however, The Hound's amour seemed to protect him from thinly veiled insults so utterly that they simply sailed far above his head. I continued, "Why else would Magister Kophit'ran give you the honour of assigning me my duties?"
He snorted, his toothed vox grille translating it to static, "A Nostroman speaking of honour, how rare,"
He wasn't wrong, I'd never shown an ounce of honour in my life.
The Hound stepped passed me, blood splashing about his ankles, "In war, you will join Bal Herek. Go. Train with them now. You will lend them your sorceries."

I looked up at him. I wondered, for an instant, if this great leader had any more to add. Anything less... Mono-syllabic. I nodded, the slender, mega-corvid skull I wear over my helm bobbing. Best not to give such a creature a clear insight into my being. I did not need my powers to take the measure of The Hound. His nature radiated from him in each step or almost violent gesture. He was a brute. A cunning one, but a brute nonetheless. I could see it in his inattention. To him, another Astartes (yours truly for example) fell into two categories. Brothers or enemies. Brothers were mistrusted. Enemies destroyed. I could also tell that if he were to decide that I were the latter, I would not win. I am not arrogant. I have no claim to be a master warrior or exalted sorcerer. The Hound, however, moved with the massive weight and improbable grace of an ocean leviathan. Like the long dead Killer Orca of Terra. He reminded me of an old, old friend: Mugil.

Nostromo- 10,000 Years Previous
Rain on our backs and blades in our slack hands. Slack hands, no fists, no fists, not yet no. I stand tall. I'm not the leader, but I am strong. My power makes me strong. Let's me push our victims to sleep. I smile at the rest of them. They have their own strengths. Burgahn with his size, his lumpy fists and monolithic muscles, grown to keep Daddy away from Mummy. Little Grecka with her knives, tied to bony thighs, still red from our last adventure. Mugil, with his ugly face and beautiful sword, pried from our last adventure's cold fingers. He IS the leader. Suva, with her lovely curves, already a hot one, as young as we are. She can put to sleep nearly as well as I can. She just does it with matter rather than mind though. Then there's me, Eezy to my friends, The Tooth Fairy to everyone else. You'll see why. Mugil stands, dwarfing me. He speaks, and the glass beneath us quivers: "This is work. Eezy got us the chance, got us the in. Now. No messing, no jokes: we do this right." He tenses, and draws his sword.
I smile, and throw my pliers from my left hand to my right. I nod at Mugil, but before my head even bobs, he jumps, holds his sword in stabby-stabbing direction, and smashes the skylight. Grecka shrieks with glee, daggers ready. Burgahn roars as we fall. Suva shrills like a gyr-falcon as she draws her razor. Mugil lands first, planting his blade deep into......

Now: A Conquered World
The Hound did not acknowledge my nod of agreement, as I expected. He simply stared at me through deep-set lenses until I rose and left. If he was expecting a bow, he was disappointed. I held out my hand and my hammer flew across the room and slapped into my palm. It's name was Shudnii. I had once caught it out of the air as it fell from the hand of a Chogorian fool, some three thousand years previous. It's killing head was stylised eagles visage, the twin spike upon the other side designed after the birds elegant plumage. It's haft was a length of black wire wrap and its previous owners teeth were clustered near at the base of the handle. I returned it to my belt as I stomped out of the defiled church and into the writhing metropolis of Disparchia, latest conquest The Black Legion.

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#456
Kierdale

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I thank you for your many entries in Inspirational Friday: Iron Warriors over the last two weeks.
We haven’t had seven entries in a topic for quite some time! I should have known I could trust in iron. msn-wink.gif
I’ll take a slice of the festive season to catch up on this and other recent entries as free time as been short of late. It may take some time for our judge, Warsmith Aznable to get through them all too. But who could be a more fitting judge than IF’s resident warsmith?

Rather than shutting down Inspirational Friday over the festive season as we have in previous years, I’m setting a topic and giving you a good few weeks to work on it between family-gatherings, engorging oneself on fine viands and making/painting what plastic crack Santa brings you.

Here begins our thirty-fifth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:
Thousand Sons
Blessed with a plethora of gorgeous models in the recent release, not least of all their own primarch, the legion and warbands of the Thousand Sons represent one of the greatest tales of hubris in the 40k universe. From their Tzaangor thralls to the tragic rubric marines, husks of once-fine warriors, the might of the Scarab Occult to the proud exalted sorcerers, to the prodigal son Ahriman and his father the Crimson King, the forces of the Thousand Sons are varied and powerful.
Tell us, as the 35th and final challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016, tell us tales of these warriors, the fallen XV legion astartes.

To those who do not model Thousand Sons, let the dusty automatons and their conceited wizard masters be your antagonists and give us a story of your renegades’ clashes with the remnants of the fifteenth legion.

Inspirational Friday: Thousand Sons runs until the 13th of January.

Let us be inspired. Scientia est potentia.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Warsmith Aznable.
To the chosen victor: step forward and claim the Iron Amulet:
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And let it be known that the winner of the thirty-fifth challenge of IF2016 shall not be awarded the Octed Amulet. It is only fitting that the champion of the fifteenth be granted a token at least equal to that gifted to the best of the 4th legion.
Behold!
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#457
Kierdale

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Counts-as is of course also welcome. :)

#458
WarriorFish

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I'm in on this one! Just... let me start on the actual background for my Thousand Sons first and I'll get back to you :lol:


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Painting Oaths Completed:
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In the grim predictability of online 40k, there can be only Sun Tzu quotes

SM Ironclad | IG Stormies | =][= Stormies | AM Armigers

CSM Terminators | TSons Rubrics | Daemons Daemonettes

DE Warriors | Tyranids Genestealers


#459
Dolchiate Remembrancer

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Count me in!


Segmentum Ultima::Dolchiate Sector ++Tales of Warfare in a Sector of the 41st Millennium++
IA: Crimson Sons of Vengeance(BA Successor) ++ IT: Thrallband Tusmah(TS Thrallband)

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#460
Warsmith Aznable

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I apologise for taking so long to make my judgment on the Iron Warriors challenge. There were many entries, and I enjoyed every single one of them. I am proud for my Legion that so many chose to participate in writing about them. I am also pleased with the high quality of the entries. That all of them pleased me also makes the judging so difficult, however.

 

I want, more than I ever have, to give multiple awards.

 

But we are Lords of Chaos, Veterans of the Long War, and nobody knows more than we that only the strongest triumph.

 

With that thought in mind, I choose "Crack" by our honoured challenge-brother Carrack.
 

What stuck out in my mind the most was the final, spiteful shot of the autocannon. I could feel the callous spite of the Iron Warrior who did it, even though nothing else had been said of him. It was also a perfect moment that broke through the illusions of the protagonists honour. And that is what Iron Warriors do, they break down walls.

 

This story captured the IVth Legion, the Black Legion, life in the Eye of Terror, and the Long War all in one short story. And it did all that even while narrowing the focus down to one character's remembrance of a pivotal moment in his life.

 

Well done and a huge thank you to everyone who submitted stories for this iteration.


The Iron Hounds (CSM) project log here & IA here. | Our Martyred Lady (SoB) project log here  | Lamenters (BA) WIP thread here.

Index of Inspiration Friday entries here.

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"Three times faster than the usual Warsmith."


#461
Carrack

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If this challenge's stories weren't so good, I'd be gloating a little, but as it stands, I'm honored to be named winner. There were lots of good stories.

I'm glad the cheap shot from the nameless Iron Warrior came across as intended. I thought about explaining how the Black Legion couldn't retaliate without risking their annihilation, and how the Iron Warrior was more heated over the damage to his helmet than the wound, and wanted a little payback, but I thought that detracted from the cheapness of the "after the whistle" attack.

#462
Rune Priest Ridcully

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The two titanic figures stood across from each other on the mosaicked floor, one in emerald robes, the other storm grey ones.

Each held a staff taller than them, cast of bronze, etched in runes of a fallen world.

The figures leapt each other, chanting, causing the air around them to simmer with the power from beyond the veil they were summoning. Their staffs clashed, each spinning and lashing out to attempt to bypass the other’s.

The figure in grey robes then barked a harsh end to his chant, and was consumed in white hot flames that seemed to come within him. The flames expands outwards in a wave towards his emerald clad opposite, who was pushed back to the black marble wall of the chamber, a sparkling green aura around him protecting him roaring flames.

“A pretty catrip as usual, though will it protect you from anything more focussed?” In a voice that sounded more kindly then one wreathed in flames had any right to be, the grey clad Sorcerer asked his Emerald clad fellow as they circled.

In a soft voice the emerald sorcerer responded as he spun his staff around him in patterns which blurred the air around him, humming both a low and high pitched note which would cause mortal ears pain.
“It won’t need to brother dearest”. The emerald sorcerer brought his staff down onto the floor,  creating a flash of emerald light and a whipcrack that sounded in both the material and psychic planes, momentarily stunning his storm clad fellow.

The Grey Sorcerer turned, his staff blocking a two handed swipe from his emerald fellow, before blocking a strike from a clone, where once sorcerer in emerald stood now three were attacking him, two hand to hand whilst the other chanted in the rough tongue of ancient  Gyptea, energies spinning around him in a fell wind.

Ducking and rolling, the Grey sorcerer change his angle at the last minute, bringing his staff up into the back of one of the Emerald clad sorcerer’s thighs, a blast of white fire vaporising the limb and sending the sorcerer into the air, shattering into shards of green glass which melted into air moments after hitting the ground.

The destruction of the clone did not deter either of the other Emerald sorcerers, one seeming lost in his chants, the other launching a furious two handed assault with his staff, not allowing the Grey to rise above his knees.

“Aegnor Ancar!” With a dry bark and blast which dried the air, the Grey sorcerer rose back up, a serpent of sapphire emerged from each end of his staff, leaping towards the Emerald clad figure who had steadied himself, wrapping themselves around his limbs, binding him upwards as his flesh and robes started to burn before he two, turned to crystal and shattered.

As this happened the emerald sorcerer who had been chanting ceased as emerald lighting covered him like his opposite’s flames, and charged at the Grey clad Sorcerer. Before the lighting emerald clad sorcerer could reach his Grey brother, he was struck by a whip of fire, casting him back, breaking into emerald shards as he landed.

The look of surprise on the Grey Sorcerer’s face was only matched with the speed he spun and held his staff in both hands, catching a bolt of dark green lightning which drove him back, his feet skidding as he quickly started chanting in dead tongues to pour energy from the great ocean into his staff, a disk of sun orange flames shimmering from it, halting the movement caused by the lightning.

For an eternity, the flames and lightning clashed. For but mere seconds the Sorcerers were focussed on each other.

Suddenly, the lightning and flames spluttered and died, the power snatched away by another who had just stepped in, resplendent in sapphire lacquered armour, an ancient mkIv helm with a horned Solar disc cresting it covering his face as his deep voice echoed into the chamber even as the two previously fighting figures turned and bowed before him.
“We have arrived above Portha Chova III, prepare yourselves, for tonight the Mausoleum of Raphealon shall render to us that which it’s guardians have long forgotton.”


I'm not entirely happy with it, especially the ending and have a few more ideas for different scenes I may work on instead.


Need Snot green paint, will trade bits/pay for it.

QUOTE (Kol_Saresk @ Oct 22 2012, 06:49 AM) <{POST_SNAPBACK}>
I love how GW creates the Warp Talon to be some sort of super-powered Raptor, and instead it's become the king-of-all-kitbashes.

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#463
WarriorFish

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There isn't a word count is there? You can always edit it to expand msn-wink.gif I've been far too busy to have any hope of attaching a model to this, but that would have just been a bonus. I'm still digging into Sons lore so it is couched somewhat by my CSM to compensate, but as they'll be closely linked in their background it is a fitting start smile.png Hopefully I can get Akhenaten painted up sooner rather than later biggrin.png
 

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The Musings of Akhenaten

Akhenaten supposed it was inevitable his mind would be cast back to those times, so very long ago. That was the thing with these recent renegades, they still had so much of a chapter within them. Admittedly the Swords, or Sunder as they called themselves now (Akhenaten cared little for why), were unusual in how strong these bonds still remained but this was a particular quirk of theirs due to the intense cult of personality their leaders had. It was impressive and amplified their formidable combat prowess, for that they made most useful allies.
Move
It seemed silly to find it so remarkable that they would help one another in battle, even if it was as much to demonstrate their superiority over their peers as anything. Odd, given they clearly all aimed for their own glory. No doubt they recognised there was no point in rising to the top of a depleted force, a king of ruins is no king at all. A lesson many would do well to learn. Perhaps there was a little more Tzeentch in them then they'd like to admit?
Move
Ah, but wasn't that true of everyone? Some more than others; Akhenaten could think of more than a few names, the thought giving him the faintest of wry smiles. How strange that he found himself missing the brotherhood of old. To have peers to work with - and surpass. The Sunder made for good allies, so much so even they acknowledged the benefit they gained in return. Reliable so long as you knew how to handle them, which of course Akhenaten did. This was just the latest in many collaborations to mutual gain, and he knew that there would be many more too. His coven was a small one, allies he could rely on were a necessity for survival as he worked towards his grander plans.
Attack
Truthfully, he had reservations about the Rubric. At first he regretted it, but over time came to like the control. You can't find servants this reliable anywhere else after all. Could the Rubric even be undone anyway? Akhenaten doubted it, though he could never be sure if this was more because he didn't want to it undone. It was of no current concern; he would decide on that particular path when, or if, it presented itself.
Hold
Akhenaten sighed as the last Aspect Warrior fell dead at his feet. He could afford a minute reminiscing on the past, true, but it always did feel a waste of time that could be spent better - much like battle itself. A small gesture pulled the soul stones of the slain warriors to him, and they circled pleasantly - a small gift to Yjun for he knew how much they enjoyed Eldar prey, as all those in service to Slaanesh did. What the xenos were protecting however... that was his alone.

 

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"Did you find what you seek, Sorcerer?" Yjun's unmistakable voice purred, appearing silently as he always did.
Akhenaten turned to greet the Chaos Lord as he weaved his way through the motionless Rubric Marines, his bright pink, white and gold armour serving to stand out ever more against them. Something Yjun no doubt enjoyed.
"As I see did you," Akhenaten nodded to Yjun's collection of stones as he used his telekinetic powers to add his own to the tally, darting off one by one from their floating circle.
Yjun merely tilted his head, as the closest such an ego could give in thanks, and turned to leave.
"Until next time, Akhenaten. Use your new trinket well," his words always like silk, but this time like honey too perhaps?
"Of course, Praefactor; that is without question," came the matter of fact response.
Another contract complete. Another treasure his own. Another step closer.
Follow


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Painting Oaths Completed:
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In the grim predictability of online 40k, there can be only Sun Tzu quotes

SM Ironclad | IG Stormies | =][= Stormies | AM Armigers

CSM Terminators | TSons Rubrics | Daemons Daemonettes

DE Warriors | Tyranids Genestealers


#464
Warsmith Aznable

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Yours to Command

 

Hidden Content

 

I hope you like it.


The Iron Hounds (CSM) project log here & IA here. | Our Martyred Lady (SoB) project log here  | Lamenters (BA) WIP thread here.

Index of Inspiration Friday entries here.

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"Three times faster than the usual Warsmith."


#465
Carrack

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Remembering Prospero
Spoiler


#466
Scourged

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Hey all... 

 

So, glad to see you've all been up to the same fantastic storytelling I came to enjoy. Kudos to you all. Things for me have... changed. Appropriate, right? Who better to appreciate change than the disciples of Tzeentch, yeah? Heh... Change is never good, nor bad - it just is.

 

Anyway, I haven't had the means to add much to our inspirational proceedings for... a while. Though, I do check in on the B&C forums... mostly lately for the end of the Call of Chaos and my own meager dabblings on my workbench. Maybe you've noticed, maybe you haven't. No worries. But I miss writing. I miss the freedom. I miss the creativity. And I miss the escapism, above all else. And, though it may be corny, I kinda miss a bit of the Brotherhood that this particular thread provided.

 

While I don't have the time I once did to weave my elaborate tapestries on the life and times of the Scourged and Changemongers, the itch has never subsided. I've been cooking up something in the little bit of time I have nowadays. Nothing great, nothing as wondrous as what you all provide, but it's a little something. The aim to inspire us all has never faded, after all. Can't fight you're own nature, yeah? Besides... this place has always been a wonderful outlet for the Aspiring Champion within me. 

 

So, here's what bring me here tonight: I have noticed a small trend lately, or I think I have noticed one at least: the topics for the weeks have been adhering to the various Legions. I'm sure that's in no small part due to Traitor Legions, glory that it may be. So I pose my question to our glorious leader, Kierdale: have I successfully identified the trend, and if so will it continue? If so, I'll hold of on posting what I'm working on until the XXth Legion gets its due. The many Heads of the Hydra is what brought me into this hobby long ago. I heard the stories of the infiltrators and the cultists in the 3.5 days, but I never did get to experience them. Still, the flavor lingered on my tongue, even after I was Gifted by Tzeentch to hear the lies of all men. So it's no surprise that in the wake of the supplement I've worked my brain to reconcile the two. 

 

Anyway... enough of my prattling. Just wanted to pose my question, and check in after months of no submissions. If the Winds of Fate change, perhaps I'll be contributing more in the coming weeks. If not, well... We shall see, Brothers. 

 

Hope for the Hope God,

Scourged

 

P.S.: Have you seen that new Lord of Change?! Holy Hell... gorgeous!


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#467
Kierdale

Kierdale

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You presume correctly! :)
Each traitor legion will in turn have an IF topic, though we won't only be doing Legion-topics (at the end of this week we'll be starting a non-legion one), and I have not yet set which order to do them in. That's one vote for the Alpha Legion to be done soon though ;)

Likely once all four big new Greatwr Daemon models are out, we'll have a 'Greater Daemons' IF too.

Recently I've been too busy too. I'm catching up on everyone's entries slowly.

#468
Zhaharek

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(My entry for Thousand Sons. Whoo, my favourite Legion. Hope you like it all.)

The Dreams of Warriors

+Recovered from the journal of Inquisitor Muldrekh Nichan.
Nichan used his journal to detail a number of dream-visions he experience after exposure to [CLASSIFIED]
Subject Status: EXCOMMUNICATUS
Journal Entry Designation: 0003
Pertinence to [CLASSIFIED]: High, Exercise Extreme Caution+


Entry beings:
Can you hear me? Whoever you are, listen to me. Listen to the word of the one known as The Sandman. Listen to a Son of Magnus. Listen to the Dreams of Warriors.
This galaxy is bloodied. Tainted. The music of the spheres is distorted by the cold light of the False Emperor's blasted gaze and the empty space between doomed stars screams with the almighty power of the Empyrean, an eternal duality that bleeds the galaxy dry. This is the realm of myself, Nesuru Mel Kadith. It is the realm of my brothers.

I sit in my chambers, an old, scratchy vox playing in the corner. An ancient Terran tune that shares my nick-name. I cannot hear it. Not a note. After my brothers and I fled to the Eye of Terror, I learned an arcane tongue that blasted my tongue and teeth from my mouth and burst my eardrums like overfilled boils. A price worth paying. Can you hear the music, listener?

My chambers are a small space, with a floor of spiralling beads and a low vaulted ceiling. A desk sits in the corner, a scroll drying upon it. Beyond my subtle space is the madness of my Silver Tower. It is a place of noise and chaos. Externally a geometrically nonsensical spire: a battle-barge sized helix flickering with emerald light that drifts through the void spitting yellow lightning. Bizarre apertures split and seal, split and seal, again again and again, all across its surface. Another craft hangs in space, a few hours journey away, leaking into the blackness of space. Things crawl across its surface. Soon I will be within boarding distance. Till then listener, let us continue,
To step within my tower is to feel my power. I have never seen the value of humility. I've spent centuries mastering sorcerous power. I am essentially a demigod. To some, I AM a demigod. My home, my Silver Tower, reflects this. My brother Rasanadan has mastered the art of transcending simple physical space, but I am no stranger to it. A sigil marked skull sit in the third drawer of my desk, like a memento mori. It's black sigils taught me of The 45th Fractal of The Norn Gate. With that knowledge, I rendered my Silver Tower into a dimensionally transcendental space. Once one crosses one of its shifting thresholds, they find themselves upon a landscape of desert, dotted with crystals that tower higher than the astronomical rift between Sol and Terra, monoliths disappearing beyond mortal sight. When my choler rises, as does the sand, in a great storm, a great storm that polishes the crystals to a glimmering finish. One of two reasons my brothers elected to call me Sandman. My mortal servants think the crystals reflect the truth behind reality. Laughable, isn't it, listener?
As I sit in my chambers, I focus my power. Some render their will in force or fire. I need no such channel. My willpower is like another limb. My thoughts as under my command as my twitching muscles. I can command the suicide of Tyranid bioforms. I can drive the pilots of great war-machines insane with a flick of my wrist. I can infiltrate a fortress, striding past sentinels and warriors undetected, as I command their minds to ignore the 8 foot armoured sorcerer before them, and their weak minds obey. But in this moment, I have no desire for violence. No, in this moment I just wish to hear the dreams of my brothers. Wherever they may be.

I rise, but my body does not.

In the realm of thought, in the warp, in the astral plane, I am neither deaf nor mute. I am more alive than you, or any you meet, will ever be, listener. I am empowered. I am power. So as I step into that realm, a tide of experience strikes me. I lean against the tide, my thought form, a rune filled silhouette, flickers and shifts in the onslaught. The errant thoughts of mortals. They are all sound and fury, signifying nothing. A billion tales told by a trillion idiots. The thoughts of my brothers are islands in the storm. Their dreams call me. They call me as threads of metaphor and light that shift and whip through the noise.
My thought form obeys few rules of moment, so I leave my tower with a gesture. I drift through the void, following a thread that sprouts jagged tendrils where the gaze of my thoughts touches it. The threads of my closest brothers are not far from me, but I have travelled their paths and seen their dreams often enough. I ignore Baal Sin's bone crafted chain of a thread, and sweep past Rasanadan's esoteric lure, in favour of this newer thread.

It leads me to a ship. An abominable wedge marked with a visored skull. My thought form ghosts past the jutting prow, a vast spine reminiscent of the thrust jaw of a braggart. I sink through a forest of spines and antenna, then hurtle through bulkheads and level after level of ship, following the thread.
I slow, finding myself within an iron cavern. My brother is surrounded by Rubricae. Silent. Ever-watchful. Ever a reminder of our failures as a Legion. As a brotherhood, as warriors and philosophers. I once knew the names of each of the fifteen warriors in the room. Now, their names are all that is left of them, and after ten thousand years, I can barely remember one.
The sole living being in the room is unarmored. The thread disappears into his aura. I have no trouble remembering his name. He is Kharamesec. His other names forgone over the millenia, his enemies know him as The Thief of Night, and the Dragon of The Third Gate. He lies upon a thin sheet of silk. It is not for comfort. Before he wakes, it shall crumble to dust, and he shall daub sigils of that dust upon his forearms. An old custom of his, and his alone. I would have scoffed at its superstitious edge, if not for it's effectiveness. Like me, he is a clear son of Prospero. Dusky skinned, and marked with a grey runes, scars and burst veins that all knotted their way around the ports of his carapace. I am fortunate to have maintained an eerie semblance of youth, in part due to my implants, and in part due to a fusion of great power, and great vanity. The only mark of war upon me is the star shaped scar that dominates my mouth and jaw. The price I paid for speaking words that were never meant to be spoken. Kharamesec wears his millenia with pride. A great beard of silver falls to the centre of his chest, and his eyes are marred by the same scar, a horizontal slash, a brutal blindfold. Both eyes are elegant cybernetics, their nature hidden by their craftsmanship.
A hand falls from chest, where they were crossed like an ancient king in repose, and rests upon the iron beside his silk. The metal shivers. The metal buckles, forms a mouth that retches and recoils from my brothers touch.
I step forward, and place a hand against Kharamesec's brow. I see his dreams. Listen.


"Blood bounces on snow. Red turned to black in the the harsh light. Bouncing across the pure white. Everything is moving so slowly as I watch the droplets bounce, then pool. My blood. My blood on the snow.
Wet strings of red swing between his fist and my lips as he pulls back for another punch.
Time returns.
My forearm crunches against his, the impact shattering the frost on both our vambraces. His strike stops an inch short from my jaw. I follow through, my free right fist hurtling towards his gut. Caught, an iron grip around my wrist. The fight enters a tense, blood pounding stasis as neither of us can find an opening. He pulls on the rim of my pauldron, so I drop my weight, foiling his grapple. Between us, fully armoured, we weigh at least half a ton. Our scuffle scatters handspan chips of ice. I try to lock his arm. He backpedals, almost knocking me off my feet. We stand there, locked in a strained grapple.
"Look into my eyes, Night Thief." His voice is a slur of heavy Fenrisian consonants, guttural through his vox-grille, inlaid as it is is with lupine teeth.
"I will pluck them from your barbarous skull, dog!" I coalesce my will and-"




He dreams of fighting Wolves. A noble pursuit of the mind, don't you think, listener? I leave Kharamesec to his dreams of war, and journey out once more into the void.

I follow another thread, or rather a thread that is an absence. It is a tendril of draining, a strand of blacker than black inward momentum. Silhouetted against the white fire of a lonely star, the not-thread whips and curls as I circle it. It is a thousand light years long, yet has no length at all, so in a moment, I am at its source. It leads me to another, another of my lost brothers.

The world is empty save for him, and I know in a moment that this is his doing. My thought form, with my name flickering in yellow across its surface, pierces the atmosphere and coasts over a thousand miles of frozen sea. Then over golden sand turned to dirty silver. The sounds and cacophony of the material rarely pierce into the astral, though this makes little difference to me. It is peaceful, not that I would know. But while sound does not violate the space between realms, silence does, and the stillness of this world's air turns the peace of the thought realm to an audial oppression. As I dart through the icicle hung arches of a dead city, I am a deaf man disturbed by silence.

Imperial edifice gives way to structures born of the true earth, and I fly over the green fields of an agri-world. Green no longer. A swell of dreaming touches my thought-senses, and I know at I am near my brother. I slow, the speed of thought becoming what one might call a walking pace. The fields stop, and a forest rises before me. Ice rules here. The coniferous trees are like ghostly replicas of a circulatory system, age old black trucks surrounded by veils of frosted branches. I pass the threshold, touching down upon the stiff undergrowth, hesitating before contact like a sin-fearing Angel of old earth. My thought form is little more than an unquiet spirit, so not a crystal of snow is shed from the white branches I brush past. The snow-shrouded forest is vast, and the sheer scope of its frigid nature draws countless parallels in my mind. The silvered hair of an elder. Fine Prosperan marble, matte from a distance but sparkling like diamond when close to the eye. The maiden-robes of Ancient Terra. Bone.

All is ghostly branches as far as the eye can see. Beyond that are cities turned to sub-zero crystal, glass shattered by the radical temperature shift. Sentinel towers among the fields disappear into low clouds, the lights at their tops shining through the cumulus like winking stars. The seas are black, churning slowly with glaciers and the preserved corpses of great leviathans.
This world has died a wintry death. Why? Good question listener.
One of my brothers is breathing in.

He kneels in a clearing. His inhalation would be deafening to one so enabled, or to a weaker thought form. I am neither. The cold here, at the epicentre, is so complete that it has transcended mundane temperature. Rock and pine hang in the glittering air, all still, but with the fragile impression that they could be moved by a infant's breath. An insect, it's wings turned to crystal mid-beat, directly at the height of my false eyes. It is utterly still. In this place, time and momentum are as obedient to the whims of my brother as his bolter or blade, freezing in place as if they were little more than water vapour.

His armour, like mine, was once red and gold. Where I replaced gold with a greasy bone trim, his plate now bears the purple and gold of the Sectai Prosperine. His helm is the Jackal of the Tizcan Catacombs, it's eyes the emerald lenses through which he saw the glalaxy, it's stylised snarling grin the vox grille that threw his intonations across the battlefield, it's ears flowing into his Khletaran crest. His vambraces and his greaves are chipped gold, swaddled in writhing, flaming cobras of bronze, their presence denoting his cult. Pyrae. The vents of his backpack are hung with the Bones of The Rharhaash Conclave, each one a ring of gilded scrimshaw. A concentric pattern of runes dominate his breastplate, surrounding a woman's deathmask. The mantle that holds the mask is a silver imitation of a twisting fire.
He is not free of the damage he inflicted on his surroundings. The vibrant colours of his armour were dusted the winter colours he had brought upon the rest of this world.
His name is Ozahr Khrosis, and he is ascending. Many would call what he is on the cusp of becoming godhood. Other would call it an eternal torment. What do you think listener?

I step closer to him, and as I do I realise that the vortex of his breath is reaching its apex. Darkness spreads in the air, jagged ink in water. The light is freezing. Shadow envelops my thought form. In this state, I do not need eyes to see. I reach out to Ozahr, and I touch his mind. I hear, not with my long useless ears, but with my mind.

Laughter. Clawing hands, rippling pink flesh, gnashing teeth. My brother is not dreaming. His mind is open to something awful. I pull away, but as I do I feel something.... break... within his mind.

He exhales.

The light of the eruption blasts the forest to ash. Snow is steam in a less than a second, wood exploding into a fine ash in its wake. I throw both my hands forth, a multiplanar kineshield forming instantly. The force of the blast smashes a shower of formulae from my conjuration, runes and sigils vaporised along with the stone beneath the forest. The explosion of my brother's exhalation transcends the walls of reality, and I am forced to one knee behind my shield. I hear screaming, and I realise that it is me. I am burning, my thought form is burning, my soul is starting to char. I strengthen the shield, and a million lightyears away blood leaks from my nose. The warpfire splits. A small patch of earth beneath my feet survives the onslaught. The annihilation punches past the forest and lifts melting rock in a wave that turns the agri-fields to infernal smog. The adamantium sentinel towers explode into jet black smog and molten slag, swept along in the deluge. The oceans do not have time to scream as they boil, turned steam heralding the wave of magma. Destruction. A sonic boom hits as a thousand mile migh wall of burning matter breaks the sound barrier. The cities quake and shiver as it nears. The first towers slam into the next, the force hitting them before the heat. The whole megatropolis become a single mass, that disappears like a drowning man in the cataclysmic wave.

The world burns.

My brother is standing, as my thought form staggers. Even with the sight of the soul, the warpborn senses of my thought form, the burning world is obscured by the shimmer of heat. I see only Ozahr's silhouette. I stand a few feet behind him. He is awake now. I know not how long his metamorphosis will take. He tilts his head. He cannot see me, he lacks this power, even now, there is no way he can see me.
He turns and looks right at me. "Kadith?"
I am gone before the last unheard syllable leaves his lips.


A moment later, and wth a telepathic sigh, I settle back into my corporeal form. Little time has passed since I went journeying, but much has changed. Alarms flare with cerulean light, and although I cannot wolves howling in my corporeal form, I do not need ears to sense my enemy. I stand, and with a gesture, my armour orbits me as if I were a sun and my plate a solar system. First my greaves lock in place. Vambraces, chest plate, pauldron and my serpent wreathed backpack follow. The Nine Serpents of Semihaza adorn my armour and staff, and their brass carved beaks let out an impossible hiss as they are reunited with me. My helmet closes over my head, data and targeting sigils dominating my sight.
Clad in crimson and bone, I descend to the sands of my tower. A rift is burning its way through the transcendent reality of my demesne, it's other side within the bowells of the besieged enemy ship. As the rift opens wider and wider, I call my dead brothers to me, and they obey my call, rising from their catacombs in the sand.
I cannot hear the wolves howling listener, but you can. You have been most receptive. Perhaps I shall visit you again. Know that I do this, know that I go into bloody battle armed with staff and sorcery not for cruelty or vengeance. I do this so that my brothers can dream once more of the future, rather than the past, rather than The Laughter of Thirsting Gods.

As I step through the rift and into war, I intend to make dreams come true.
Sleep well, listener.

Entry end

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#469
Kierdale

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And a 5th entry! Excellent!
Will there be any more before I close the topic (around this time tomorrow)?

Please note that I have started the IF2017 thread HERE but ask that no one post entries in there yet. I'll make a post to close the current topic here, and will post the first topic of 2017 in the new thread (the title's already in there if you look msn-wink.gif ) tomorrow.
After that, if Carrack posts his judgement here that will be a good end to the 2016 thread and I'll ask a mod to close the thread.

#470
Kierdale

Kierdale

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I hereby call an end to Inspirational Friday: Legion – Thousand Sons and indeed Inspirational Friday 2016!
I thank you all for your entries over the 35 topics we covered, and all that’s left is for Carrack to announce the winner.

I’ll see you all over in the 2017 thread where you will hear a Call To Arms...

#471
Carrack

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First off, thanks Kierdale for running IF for another year. It has been a pleasure to read, write, and even occasionally judge these contests, and I owe that to you. Each topic has been, well, inspiring, some just to read and write, but some even to model and paint the characters you have set us to create. I'm even thinking about stealing a few characters created by other frater, and with brushes and green stuff, get them ready to wage war on my kitchen table alongside the Black Maw Warband of the Black Legion.

Secondly, Scourged, you are missed. Get writing! There are lies being told in the Domains of Man that must be silenced, or heard by all. Your long stories are great, but I bet you could maintain your quality with a short tale too, and that might fit your busy schedule better. In any event, please start writing again.

Thirdly, the winner for the final contest of 2016 is Zhaharek. This week had good stories, but he was head and tentacle above

Fourthly, I'm taking my family on a Black Crusade in the Caribbean, and / or vacationing on a cruise ship ;) this coming week, and won't be able to offer feedback. Sorry. If you would like me to, pm me and I will when we get back home in a week.

Thanks again Kierdale.

Edited by Carrack, 14 January 2017 - 05:00 PM.