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[BC]: Megellan's Devils (Character/Dataslate Thread)

Black Crusade Rogues Gallery Heretics RPG FFG PBP

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Mazer Rackham

Mazer Rackham


  • 4,088 posts




Black Crusade Campaign:






+ Character Holofiles and Intel Dataslates +



"Better it is, that a man not know the horrors lurking beyond the boundaries of the skies above him, better he not delve in the dark places, where the rocks warn of trapped souls in whisper, and better yet should he not know of the devils pulled from nightmare.  Aye, the traitor, mutant and heretic.  Better is he that takes to faith in ignorance, for when the devils fall upon him, his suffering will be all the shorter and his soul rush to the Emperor's bosom."

- Cardinal Kyril Harmoni, Sanctum of St Katherine the Avenger, Magellan.




This thread will hold the details for all Characters in the Black Crusade game.


+ Heretic Astartes +

  • Steel Company
  • Trokair
  • Necronaut
  • Ancient Sobek

+ Mortal Heretics +

  • Petragor



  • TechCaptain likes this

He may say that what he wants is to win the war...

...But what he really wants, is for the enemy to die.


My new non-40K book about railguns and powered armour is available now: The Ares Gambit.

My grimdark non-40k book about maniacs with jetpacks and assault rifles is also still around: Children of The Glyph.




  • 912 posts
  • Location:Eastern Fringe
  • Faction: Imperials


Former Adept Scairp Bróicéir

A manipulative information broker and Heretek from Mjorn. A former member of the Divisio Juris, he specialized in assassination and interrogation for Mjorn but his real talent was in crafting fine armors and weapons. Though a natural craftsman, he learned the needed skills of lying and soon grew to speak in various tongues of those he interrogated. He broke from the Mechanicus while assigned to Explorator fleet for the crimes of innovation in front of those Puritian fools of Mars or so he has said. Scairp also once said that he was a Genator that experimented on the Felinids of Duzimid until one of his fellows grew jealous and destroyed his research forcing him into exile. Another story of his past is that he was accused of using Durkari drugs on some of his fellows.

A member of the Unchained Confederation. A chaos warband that was created from the thirst for innovation, power and knowledge. They are a grouping of warbands that no longer believe in the Sanctity or righteousness of the Emperor. They feel that the Emperor's rules and visions bog them down from acquiring the power and knowledge that could make them a Power House in the Universe. Although they do not share knowledge and information between the many parts of the warband, they are quite effective considering their erratic and adaptable fighting style. Not knowing exactly who their leader is, puts them at an advantage for their leader cannot be found and killed to terminate the warband activity and if, by happenstance, she was to be killed, any other member can keep the warband together because only a select few know who the leader is. This warband is very adverse to being bogged down by rules and are quite successful in their mission for knowledge and innovation.

Outwardly, Scairp is gregarious and polite, traits that he uses to obscure people's knowledge, or suspicion, of his actually vicious and sadistic nature. Despite his image of an optimistic and well-mannered being, he is known to be deceitful, among those whom he considers to be "friends". Scairp is secretive, often creating elaborate stories about himself to avoid scrutiny about his exile. One of Scairp's basic philosophies is "Never tell the truth when a lie will do."

Scairp Bróicéir is a short man with oddly silted eyes and feline mannerisms. He appears to be a friendly man and is popular with the Astartes as he is always eager to help and answer any technical questions they may have. Being significantly shorter and scrawny, they view him as a knowledgeable man and they tend to listen to his advice, which he uses to his advantage, strategically and slow incorporating either misinformation or suggestions in order to open the mind of those that listen to him, to the possibility of chaos. No one doubts his intention because when he first meets someone, all his answers are in sync with the Imperial creed. He also sports Mechanicus given retractable claws and is swift like a cat when using them, it is usually the last thing enemies see of this treacherous man. His Las Mechadendrite is attached to his lower spine acting as a balancing tail that he could easily hid in his toxic dark green green and sinister dark purple robes that are edged with Xenos Markings that look like a combination of the Dark Eldar dialect of the Eldar Language and Necron symbolism. It could be roughly Translated into saying Knowledge is the poison in which life must be lived otherwise only death awaits.

Mjornian Sicarians hunting him devour each source of information looking for the traitor that took so much Xenarite knowledge with him. Having hid out with the Drukhari in Commorragh supposedly had turned against a Haemonculus who he was understudying with, he now wors for hire with Kabals and other less savory groups on a whim, or at least as another story goes.

For GMs eyes only below


Edited by TechCaptain, 18 May 2021 - 04:36 AM.

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Bloodmoon Hunters Armorial mini
With iron and fire the beast shall be lain low at the hands of the Hunters whose home is under the Bloodmoon. Bloodmoon Hunters on 40k Homebrew Wiki and 40k Theories Youtube Channel. “Here’s to you, Nicola and Bart, Rest forever here in our hearts, The last and final moment is yours,That agony is your triumph.” MGSV

Steel Company

Steel Company


  • 3,125 posts
  • Location:Victoria BC Canada

The Escape


The bells rang out, just as the last of his ammunition stores started to run dry and he cursed out, “Damn you Huron, damn you to the warp.”


His time was growing short, a hulking brute of an Astartes in bronze plate charging down on him, a power sword held back, ready to chop down into him. Swinging his might and trustworthy M34 Autocannon onto the brute, Sevaris the Hound emptied what was left of his ammunition into him, the HEAP rounds biting deep into the warplate and detonating inside the body. The brute stumbled under the impacts before falling dead at his feet.


The clicking of the feed mechanism told him he was now dry in time with the counter showing the rune for empty, with a grunt, Sevaris stored his cannon against the side of the pack, taking his bolt pistol off of his hip and turning to look towards the space port, he saw it, a lone Thunderhawk rising high into the sky. He didn’t need to see the manifest, he already knew who was on it, and again he cursed out, “Damn you Huron.”


With a blowing out air through his nose in a snort, Sevaris turned and headed for the space port, perhaps he could find something to get him to space and away from this doomed battle.




As he approached the gate, he saw them, masses of humans, pushing and shoving, trying to reach a boarding point, he ignored them as best as he could, but a scream rang out, a scream from a voice he knew. Turning his attention towards it he saw a woman with red hair, a woman he knew and often used as bait. She was surrounded by thugs, grabbing at her clothes, holding her down, her blue eyes looked at him, pleading with him to save her.


Taking his bolt pistol out, four quick shots dispatched the thugs, with the bodies hitting the ground, she held her clothes together as she hurried over to him, speaking, “Thank you M’Lord, please take me with you away from this place!”


+Why?+ snapped Savaris.


She blinked a few times before saying, “M’Lord, I know you to be honorable, you have always looked out for me in our dealings! I can offer you my talents; I can help you in seeking anything you need!”


Sevaris sighed inwardly, she had always been useful, and perhaps she could help in dealing with mortals while he hunted Huron in the dark. With a nod he said to her while turning to find a craft to escape with, +You better not slow me down.+


With a quick turn to grab a lasgun off of one of the fallen guardsmen she said, “I won’t M’Lord.”



Edited by Steel Company, 12 May 2021 - 05:13 PM.

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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.

The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...





  • 683 posts
  • Location:Houston, TX
  • Faction: Adeptus Mechanicus
Vargr, the last of the Iron Wolves

The wasteland beckoned; the wasteland always beckoned. An open horizon and unfamiliar territory lay before him, much as it had times before beyond counting. The only difference was the color of the sky under which he roamed, as it ever was. But not this time, this sky was familiar, but it had been decades since he had last walked on this accursed world. He stood atop a tall plateau, its rocky faces scoured bare by the howling wind. Before him were six cairns, each too large for a mortal man, each marked with a small flag made from crudely torn red cloth flapping madly in the wind. He said aloud the names, "Dagon, Marek, Chogu, Haphet, Telash, Devak," and poured out a measure of the spirit from his flask over the piled stones in front of him.

"Drink deeply, brothers, for this may be the last time I return to this boneyard. The Blood Reaver has called his angels to war once again, along with any other blackguards who would take up his cause. Naturally..."

He didn't finish his sentence, instead lifting his helm enough to allow for a brief swig from the flask.

"I salute you, my brothers. I, Vargr, last of our brotherhood, renew my oaths of loyalty. The legacy of the Iron Wolves lives on so long as I draw breath and there is blood to be spilled. The legacy of our brotherhood shall live on forever once I am dead and have joined you in the cold earth!"


He scanned the horizon through his magnoculars, squinting to make out the lights of civilization in the distance, and patted the flank - no fuel tank - of Geist. The war-bike seemed to growl contentedly in response. The time he had spent on the worlds trapped in the warp-tide had imprinted upon the ancient machine: it no longer required promethium, instead seeming to run quite happily on fresh blood, his when it was otherwise unavailable, and its machine spirit, by all indications, was something approaching animal intelligence. The war-bike's engine gurgled again with what he thought was a note of impatience, and he nodded, snapping the magnoculars shut.

"I hear you, you old beast. Your thirst shall be slaked soon enough."



Vargr, the last Iron Wolf


Vargr is a hard-bitten survivor of countless battlefields, first as an honorable battle-brother, then as a renegade, and now as a lone wolf mercenary. He is the last of the Iron Wolves, a once-loyal chapter of Astartes who under increasingly dire circumstances turned renegade to continue to prosecute their endless war against the xenos and Chaotic threats emerging from the expanse of nominally-Imperial space they patrolled. At first it was plundering the Imperial shipping lanes, but eventually turned to raiding Imperial worlds for new recruits and materiel, eventually drawing the ire of the inquisition and their cousins. The Iron Wolves were shattered in a decisive battle that saw them decimated and broken into smaller warbands, each of which were ruthlessly hunted into extinction. Being a consummate biker marine, Vargr values freedom and an open horizon, taking pride in his preternatural reflexes afforded by his genetic lineage. He is a ruthless veteran and callous survivor of innumerable attempts on his life, and a deep-seated anger at the universe has taken root in his heart; he now seeks to put to ruin all that he once treasured and protected with his life. As the last of his now-extinct brotherhood, Vargr is consumed with writing his and his brothers' legacy upon the stars in the blood of his enemies. Though he has traveled alone for many decades, he does still yearn for the commeraderie of fellows he can call brothers-in-arms once again, and seeks a warband worthy of his skills and resourcefulness.


As one who was roamed worlds trapped in the tide of warp storms, Vargr's scarred and brutalized countenance has taken on an ancient, yet ageless quality that fellow travelers of such places would immediately recognize. He is clad in a battered, iron-grey suit of Mark V power armor, with the emblem of his dead chapter still displayed prominently on his left pauldron, a snarling, fork-tongued wolf's head. He is the bearer of a bronze-cladded plasma pistol named "Hellcaller," which is the epitome of Mechanicus artistry, and which is a near-constant source of annoyance as other traitor Astartes would gladly wrest it from his grasp. He rides a thoroughly corrupted, vampiric assault-bike into battle which he somewhat-affectionately refers to as "Geist." The assault-bike has in recent years started to develop a proto-intelligence, and it will gladly feast upon his blood or the blood of his victims to power itself, as it no longer requires promethium to function.


Edited by Necronaut, 29 April 2021 - 02:08 AM.

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  • 586 posts
  • Faction: Adeptus Mechanicus

War-Heretek Ollkyrax the Battlesmith

"Forging tools of war is a great honor, second only to using them."

A former Skitarii Alpha promoted to Tech-Priest, this warrior detested the Mechanicus' impersonal ranged tactics, and never lost the taste for close quarters battle. Eventually, during a deployment against chaos forces, he gave in to whispers of great power and forbidden innovation, betraying his fellows in favour of the Unchained Confederation they were fighting against. Sabotaging critical wargear and creating a gap in the perimeter, the battle was over before it began. Upon officially joining the Confederation, he gave himself the seemingly random name Ollkyrax, which is in fact based on his old Skitariius designation "011-Killer-Ypsilon/Radex".

Ollkyrax has since participated in many frontline battles with the Unchained Confederation, and forged them many tools of war, the most infamous of which being the agressive Strife-Pattern War Servitor. The Heretek himself is agressive in the extreme, and rather charismatic when it comes to advocating for a violent solution to any given problem. As it is with many followers of chaos, war is not a means to an end for him, but an end in itself.

Physically, Ollkyrax is lean and strong for his size, often charging into melee with his swift bionic legs and desecrated Omnissian axe, cut in half and parted with it's holy tools in favour of a more specialized Heretek toolkit. His face is the only part visible under his armor and tattered mechanicus robes, and even that is covered in protective layers of metal to ensure any charge into glorius combat is successful.

For GM:


Edited by Petragor, 14 May 2021 - 08:50 AM.

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  • 164 posts
  • Location:Somewhere in the Middle
  • Faction: Salamanders, 5th co.

Haasek Kul

Pack leader of the Crimson Hounds


The smell wrapped around him like a veil. Burning flesh, an actinic twang of power, the coppery taste of blood. The preysight of his helm pierced the choking fog of smoke and ash as his pack made their way through the burning ship. They butchered their way through the craven wretches that manned this damned vessel. They had been given a prize to collect and they would not fail in their task.


The boarding torpedo had breached the ship near the central spine. The melta-cannons burrowing deep into the flesh of the leviathan. As they burst forth into the vessel they had found themselves in a gunnery deck. They waded into the callow slaves that manned the anti-ship guns, hacking and slashing their way forward. The slaves continued their work as the murderous foe cut their way through their ranks. 

The fear of their dark masters more powerful than the fear for their own miserable lives.


For what seemed like hours the renegades fought their way through the heart of the cavernous ship. Some might have felt slighted by their mission. They were not allowed the glory of fighting their way to the bridge alongside their dread champion. Not for them the feeling of triumph as they claimed another vessel for their growing fleet. No, they had been given a more important task. This ship carried a priceless treasure deep in its bowels. They would secure it at all costs from the masters of this vessel. They would succeed or they would die. 


As they approached the large blast doors Haasek knew they had reached their destination. Three stories high and painted with warnings and fell markings. An otherworldly chill emanated from the barrier, clouds of vapor hanging in the space before them. He could feel the thrumming of the machines that powered this placed. The pulsing vibrations made his teeth itch as the dull rhythmic pounding assaulted his body and mind.


The resistance here was heavier than any they had met so far on this mission. Servitor driven cannons ignited the space driving the renegades into cover as doors opened and unleashed a new and deadly foe. No weakling mortals this time, but fellow astartes equal in might and viciousness. Haasek caught a glimpse of the heretics as he glanced from behind the crates his squad was using for cover. He counted thirty of them of them to his nine. Their reddish purple armor proclaiming their allegiance to the Invocators.


Haasek turned to his brothers and motioned his will with quick efficient gestures. The battle cant quickly indicating the number and placement of their foe. As his brothers pulled the krak grenades free from their webbing he glanced around the container again, spinning the twin chainaxes in his grip to loosen his wrists. Bolter shells ricocheted off his makeshift cover and he grinned inwardly at the thought of the coming violence.


He heard the grenades prime and launch into the air. As they arced toward their foe he broke from cover and charged. Shoulder down he barged forward, feeling the impact of shells upon his pauldrons. The grenades landed and unleashed a cacophony of sound and shrapnel amongst the defenders. The sound and fury dealing and disorienting them for the crucial moments needed for the renegades to close with their prey.


He leapt into the fray. His axes buzzing their war song as they hacked to and fro. He was no mindless bezerker as many who walked the path of skulls. No, he relished his skill at arms, besting his foes with vicious precision and ruthless determination. He ducked and weaved through the orgy of death. His axes parrying and rending in a beautiful ballet of destruction. 


He felt a bolt round pierce his side as he cleaved a marine from collarbone to sternum. Luckily the round had made a clean exit before it could detonate. He felt the stimms in his armor kick in as his physiology began to knit the wound close. He growled his displeasure at the inconvenience as he waded deeper into the throng. Now it was personal.


As quickly as it had begun it was over. Haasek stood amid the corpse strewn deck as his squad mates pinged their location and readiness. They had lost four to the defenders. He scowled behind his helm. His squad would feel the loss of arms, but they had obviously been weak and unworthy to have been felled by such chattel.


Haasek looked down at the weapons in his grip and saw the blood that coated his armor like fresh paint. He felt the twinge behind his eye as the call echoed beneath his thoughts. Breath ragged, he felt the muscles of his arm twitch ever so slightly. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced his thought back into the steel cage of his mind. He would not give in, he was no mindless beast. He was his own master he shouted deep in his soul as he forced his will upon his body. Slowly the pounding in his breast subsided and his muscles relaxed their eagerness. He blink-clicked a channel to Jathor directing him and Usus to use their melta bombs to crack open the vault.


They mag-locked their weapons to their their belts as they unlimbered the charges and affixed them to the doors. The squad took shelter as the charges detonated. The shockwave rocked them as the space filled with dust and debris. Burning metal spall pinged off their armor as the sound echoed thunderously through the chamber.


As the dust settled they broke from cover and made for the dark gaping hole in the bulkhead before them. Acrid smoke pored from the rent metal as they advanced. Haasek heard a faint sound over the crunching of their boots through the wreckage they had created. It was a small sound, a mere click, barely there. But he knew that sound and the doom it foretold. He threw himself bodily asides as autocannon rounds chugged unmercifully from the black pit before them.


He pulled himself behind cover as the shells ripped through his squad mates. Beric was the first to fall, the shells tearing his gut to ribbons and bisecting his crumbling form. Usus was decapitated and Verok had his legs ripped from his body as he ran screaming his hatred and fury, desperately trying to close with his enemy. Jathor, being a bit luckier than his brothers was able to scramble behind a makeshift barricade. Jathor tore the ruined helm from his head and wiped the blood from his eyes. A glancing hit had carved a ragged furrow in his brow.


Haasek’s attention was drawn back to the smoking hole in the wall as he heard ominous clanking footfalls coming from the dark void. A large metal beast emerged from the gloom. The helm of the hulking terminator swiveled side to side searching for more prey. It was an brutal thing, covered in spikes and adorned with wicked jutting tusks. This was no common soldier, this was a revered champion of the enemy warband. He smiled inwardly, finally, a worthy foe.


As the terminator trudged forward he could hear a strange snuffling sound as if it was trying to find them by scent. The beast stalked the area as Haasek tried to figure out how to fell such a foe. Suddenly the giant stopped, whipping its head toward Jathor’s hiding spot. An animalistic grunt of satisfaction emanated from its form as the tell-tale click of the reaper autocannon readying gave way to the thunderous roar of destruction. To Jathor’s credit he did not go willing to the butcher’s block. Frag and krak grenades hurled over the top of the barricade detonated agains the hulking brute knocking his aim off true. However his valiant attempt was of no avail. The shells from the cannon finally ripped through the meager cover shredding Jathor’s ruined frame.


As he watched his brother make his final stand against the terminator’s unrelenting assault he finally heard the sound he was waiting for, the ka-chunk of an empty chamber trying to fire. He burst from his cover and barged toward his foe, his twin axes roaring their bloodlust. As he closed he swung his chainaxe down upon the autocannon’s barrel. The blow tore a ragged hole in the weapon rendering it unable to fire. The terminator roared in anger swinging its ruined gun around knocking him back. He rolled as he landed and came up on his feet charging into the fray once more. He swung again and again, his lethal axes rending gashes into the brutal armor. His unrelenting assault drove the beast onto its back foot. With a wicked grin Haasek swung his left axe down in a killing stroke.


It took him a second to register the pain, his mind taking a moment to understand what had happened. The blow had been aimed true, but this was a veteran warrior he faced. He stumbled backward and fell staring in confusion at something gripped in the power fist of the brute before him. It was his left arm.


As the stimms kicked in and the shock wore off he could feel the agonizing pain from the ragged stump where his arm had been attached a moment before. The terminator chuckled evilly as it looked at the bloody appendage in its grip before tossing it casually over its shoulder. It started walking toward him, a god of death coming for its due sacrifice.


He scrabbled backwards as the hulking beast stalked ever closer, savoring the coming carnage. As he pulled himself backwards his hand landed upon the grip of chainaxe that he had dropped. The dark shape loomed over him raising the clawed fist high above its head. Electric discharge wreathed the wicked claw as it descended toward him.


With a roar of defiance he swung the snarling axe upward into his would-be executioner. The grinding teeth bit deep into the soft joint of the beast’s groin, ripping and tearing its way deeper into the foe. The terminator roared in pain and outrage as the chainaxe chewed through its hip, ripping its right leg from its socket and hungrily tore deeper into the viscera of the dying giant. The beast toppled backwards, ripping the axe from his hand as it collapsed into a pool of its own gore.


He collapsed as well. His breath heaving in his chest as the adrenaline left him shaken and drained. He looked over at his own severed stump to assess the damage. It was bad, real bad, but the power field of the fist had cauterized the wound so at least he wouldn’t bleed out. He staggered to his feet and slowly approached the dying beast before him. His boots sloshed through the spreading pool of blood and gore as he walked around to the head of the prone figure. Haasek wrenched the helm from the massive shoulders to look upon the face of his dying foe. The cragged features of the veteran glared back in helpless defiance. A worthy foe indeed he thought as he pulled the wicked blade from his belt and began sawing through the tendons of the man’s neck. A tribute was due.


His gruesome task done, Haasek turned and marched through the breach they had made. He found a chamber cramped with machinery and esoteric wards. His eyes lit upon the treasure he had sought. It was suspended in a stasis field in the center of the room. It was a small pulsing orb the size of a human heart. Made of some strange crystalline material Its surface was etched in cramped alien runes he did not recognize. The writing made his eyes itch when he looked upon it and he felt blood start to trickle from his nose. He slid the axe into the loop on his belt and reached for the object. He closed his eyes to avoid the pressure he felt when he regarded the blasphemous thing. He gripped the artifact with his one good hand and quickly shoved it into the pouch at his waist. It was hard to imagine that something so vile and deadly could look so small and fragile.


 Haasek turned and exited the chamber through the ragged hole they had made. As he stepped out into the wreckage of the battle he regarded the ruined and mangled remains of his arm lying on the floor. It wasn’t even worth salvaging his other chainaxe. It’s grip had been crushed beyond repair and the teeth wrecked from chewing into the auto cannon. This was a setback for sure. He was confident he could fight on with only one arm, but the others in his warband would see him as weakened and he would have to spend the days ahead fending off challengers for his position. As he pondered what could be done his eyes landed upon the bloody corpse of the terminator and a wicked chuckle rose from deep within.




The space was dark and cramped. The smell of soot, ash, grease, and flame mingled with the pulsing noise of power hammers, machine lathes, and the screams of unwilling volunteers. He regarded the thing before him. He didn’t feel right calling it a man, though at some point in the distant past it must have been. The long sinuous body brought to mind images of something metallic and unnervingly insectile or possibly reptilian. The form was draped in dirty black robes, the edges trimmed in a sinister cog motif.


+Do you have it?+ a voice buzzed from several small box speakers hidden among the robes. The voice of each mechanical voice slightly out of sync with the others.


“I do” he replied with a smirk


+Hand it to me!+ it commanded. A spidery mechanical hand extending eagerly toward him.


“This came at great cost to me and my lord. I demand recompense” he replied. “How much is the artifact worth to you?”


The figure withdrew its grasping hand and regarded him balefully. +Oaths of service and weaponry have already been agreed upon with you lord. You dare ask for new terms?+ it growled.


“The offers you have made to our warband are generous indeed and we are grateful for them. However I was thinking of something a bit more personal. Consider it a finder’s fee” he offered.


+What token of generosity do you have in mind?+ it asked as its myriad eyes regarded him warily.


He swung the large canvas sack he had slung over his his shoulder onto the floor in front of him. Tossing the fabric aside to reveal a severed limb ending in a wicked power fist. He looked at the figure and motioned to the severed stump of his left arm.


He smiled casually as he said “I could use a hand”




As his shuttle ferried him skyward to his waiting ship he regarded the Heretek’s handiwork. The stump of his left arm had been grafted with a mechanical replacement. The dark metal was both graceful and rugged in turn. As his gaze traveled down his arm he admired the craftsmanship and artifice of the repurposed power fist that replaced his missing hand. It’s claw-like fingers were sharp and cruel. Upon the back of the arm was a new mechanism. His bolt pistol had been incorporated into the claw giving him some small amount of firepower as he closed with his foes.


The grin that warped his scarred and rugged visage was a chilling sight as he thought about his future within the warband. Who knew how high he could rise with such tools at his disposal. As he imagined the carnage and victories to come he began to laugh. The cruel menacing sound unnerving the slaves piloting the ship into orbit...




Lean and muscular like some predatory animal, Haasek walks in a way that promises a violent end to any that get in his way. His face might have been handsome once but is now crisscrossed with the telltale scars of countless battles. Dark lank hair hangs from his head, sometimes bound in a leather thong at the back of his scalp.


The armor he wears is the black and bronze of his cadre its surface adorned in places with brutal spiked studs. A collection of skulls hangs from his belt along with symbols of his Khornate faith. Upon his back rests a twin engined jump pack of ancient design. His most distinguishing feature however is the mechanical arm that hangs from his left side.

The dark metal is intricate and brutal in turn. His lower arm is constructed from a repurposed power fist. Its cruel fingers tipped in wicked claws. Upon the back of the device a bolt pistol has been incorporated, leaving his hands free for brawling.


Paired with this marvel of Heretekal artiface is a brutal chainaxe that he has named “Gnasher”. Its rows of razor-sharp teeth kept honed to deadly precision.

Edited by Ancient_Sobek, 31 March 2021 - 12:10 PM.

  • Mazer Rackham, Xin Ceithan, TechCaptain and 1 other like this




  • 2,085 posts

Culus 73
Description in progress
Culus 73, self named after awaking, based on partial memory fragment of full designation Homunculus experiment series 7 subject 3. No memory of former name or other identifier.
Culus 73 has decades of combat experience to draw on, with a variety of weapons and many different theaters of War. Aside from these however much of his memory is missing, and he is struggling to recover his identity without showing any signs of this weakness. As such he has adopted a silent demeanor, only communicating when required for combat.
Stats, Equipment, Traits&Talents, Armour and Skills:


Edited by Trokair, 14 May 2021 - 08:13 PM.

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My Assorted Projects
Facing the Unknown , Facing the Unknown II

Archeotech – Treasure Hunt, a Play by Post narrative adventure: Story, Setting and Characters, OOC Thread


Mazer Rackham

Mazer Rackham


  • 4,088 posts







Iconoclast Destroyer: The Chains of Judgement, Last Known Refit 377.M40.



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He may say that what he wants is to win the war...

...But what he really wants, is for the enemy to die.


My new non-40K book about railguns and powered armour is available now: The Ares Gambit.

My grimdark non-40k book about maniacs with jetpacks and assault rifles is also still around: Children of The Glyph.

Also tagged with one or more of these keywords: Black Crusade, Rogues Gallery, Heretics, RPG, FFG, PBP

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