Since he's in the group shot anyways, I thought I'd post my first Crimson Slaughter mini to see what everyone thinks.
Unfortunately I had a bit of a mishap coming back from a friends and lost the top half of the power sword.
A bit of bits box rummaging, soul searching and dreaming later ( and finding the Dark Apostle book in a cupboard) and I settled on this:
Hopefully it looks suitable for a force weapon? The Sorcerer is called Narkaroth, self styled Blood-Mage of the Crimson Slaughter.
The smell of old blood threatened to overwhelm him, sending the voices in his head into a maddening crescendo which threatened to rob him of consciousness, sanity and form. He felt his hand turn from mundane armour, flesh, muscle, bone and atoms into something far more mutable, malleable and metaphorical. With a savage surge of will, it retained its shape in time to plunge a wicked force blade into the snarling jaws of the daemonic flesh hound bearing down on him. Grunting as the beast caught the blade in its jaws, Narkaaroth poured his hatred into the heavy sabre to snuff out his foe. Pure warp energy ignited as it filled the ancient crystal relays and hexagramic sigils forged into the very structure of the ancient weapon. For an instant, the Blood-Mage’s will battled against the essence of the daemon before reality buckled and the blade sheared in two. The ground raced to meet him, quickly followed by snapping jaws, wreathed in his own psychic fire. All form forgotten, he lashed out with his feet, his hand and the shattered blade fending off the daemon and pummelling it even as it tore through his armour.
Hauling himself from beneath the daemons bulk, Narkaaroth rose to shaky feet in time to see a pack of hooting daemons racing towards him. In the distance he was dimly aware of Lord Kraanon fighting towards the warp breach. Blood leaked from his torn armour, drawing the warp spawn to him. In his head, the voices rose to claim him. Flesh knitted, armour distorted, the shards of his power armour becoming a fanged maw which warped reality around his twisting body with shrieks and screams of hatred and death. Too weak to overcome the forces rising to claim him Narkaaroth gave into the blackness and allowed the voices to claim their Prophet.
He awoke in the Apothicarium amongst the wounded and dying. The daemon wars would likely see them all dead but none would shirk from this crusade. His mind was oddly silent and he savoured it for a moment before rising from the steel cot. A quick assessment of his injuries revealed only remarkably minor wounds.
“We had to sedate you” said a blood stained apothecary as he harvested surprisingly pure progenoids from a deceased brother.
“What?” Narkaaroth asked his mind still clouded from the possession and whatever sedation had been administered.
“You were taken and had to be sedated.” he explained, “From your injuries the possession is the only reason you survived. Had you been anyone else, you would also likely have been implanted.”
Implanted. Even the mention of such a fate sent shivers down his spine. Without another word he left the Apothicarium and made his way to the Librarius, replaying the shattering of his force sword over and over in his mind as he walked.
After several days of fruitless research he had at last made his way to the Forge and found himself before Gorthus himself.
“The blade is beyond repair Corvus” he said shaking his head in disappointment. “How?” he asked.
“A Fleshhound bit it in two” he responded, “Then it tore through my armour as though it were cloth”
“Impossible” the Warp Smith spat with a dismissive waive of his hand, “The damage your harness received is consistent with ectoplasmic scorching perhaps, a force weapon most certainly”.
Narkaaroth’s eyes flicked to the ravaged suit of ancient mark III power armour which had served him for over one hundred and ten standard years. The right arm had been melted to the elbow, the cuirass torn and shredded, the right shoulder guard was bubbled and torn while the pseudo cermaite flesh creature the right guard was becoming hissed in pain and bled ichor from a dozen ragged wounds. That he survived was surprising enough but that he still had a left hand amazed him. In his mind’s eye he saw the fleshhounds gaping maw, ablaze with psychic fire of his own making.
“The teeth?” Narkaaroth murmured, supressing a shudder at the return of the whispering voices.
“What of them?” demanded the Warp Smith.
“The teeth” he repeated in a moment of revelation.
“I believe the teeth may be capable of conducting warp energy in much the same as a force weapon”
“An interesting theoretical” Gorthus mused, “Can you obtain some?”
Narkaaroth smiled, “I believe I can”
In the end, obtaining the teeth had been a trivial affair though the Warp Smith’s price for the commission was steep. Eight hundred and eighty eight Fleshhound teeth, the binding of seven Hellbrutes, a gift of nine warp grown flesh constructs along with the skin and blood of sixty six slaves. Much harder had been the long months of waiting for Gorthus summons. In the rare periods of mental quiet he wondered if the revelation had been his own or of the voices making. Now, again standing before the master Warp Smith, Narkaaroth’s discomfort was gone and his anticipation was palpable.
Behind Gorthus, who had lost none of his flair for the dramatic, was a large stone alter the center of which had been carved out to hide the shape of his latest creation. Ritual cruneform writhed with blue warpfire along the alter surfaces, baffling the eye and forcing bile from the stomach up the throat. Over it all was draped a cloth of red silk, the sigil of the warband artfully worked in black at the centre. Behind this stood his remade battle plate, once one of the few whole suits held by the warband, now a mishmash of armour marks and warp tainted ceramite.
“Your theoretical proved correct Corvus” Gorthus intoned.
“The weapon you are about to receive is the pinnacle of months of experimentation and craftsmanship. Your commission has been forged by my own hands, each of the teeth has been individually worked, the blade consecrated in the blood of eight hundred and eighty eight souls and a servant of the changer broken and bound into it. Hexagramic wards have been worked through the blade both in the material and immaterial planes to channel and focus your powers. The bound daemon will amplify any psychic power which enters the blade, allowing the teeth to rend reality itself.”
With a flourish Gorthus pulled back the cloth to reveal a baroque chainsword inlaid with daemonic teeth. Narkaaroth picked up the surprisingly balanced chainsword from its resting place. Despite the weapons mundane, though artfully crafted, appearance he could feel the power of it.
“I give you Fate-Killer”
Thanks for looking!