#warhammer 40k
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Romani Curze AU Started bouncing this idea back and forth with my enabler friend where Curze gets taken in by a traveling Romani family early on instead of growing up feral. Drawing upon experiences with my own family- and only made them travelers for the sake of plot. He’s mostly left in the care of Baba Raskovnik, your standard issue feisty old lady and a blank to boot! It takes a while for little baby Night Haunter to get comfortable with his new family, but he does get very attached to them. It helps that babushka can block his visions. But because this is the grim dark future, things still gotta go wrong for our boy. He is plagued by visions of his family’s violent demise, and as he grows closer to them he is determined to thwart it. Wherever they set up, he slips out at night to hunt down the potential threats to his family. Eventually this leads to the gangs becoming aware of him and the caravan and under a temporary truce several of them band together to strike at their shared problem. When he slips out for his usual hunt one night, they attack. His older sister has just enough time to throw some blankets and pillows over their grandmother before she is struck down and subjected to gruesome violence. Curze returns to the bloodbath, finding only his grandmother and a scant few other badly wounded survivors. And thus we get back on track to his murderhobo era. When Emps comes to collect him, he is met with a tiny, fearless old woman ready to fight him for daring to think he could take her only grandson away from her! This also opens up the option for amusing thoughts of tiny little old woman bossing around a bunch of Night Lords because Death refuses to take her.
I feel if Project Hail Mary and Warhammer were in the same universe, the Eridians are probably an ally race of the Imperium Of Man. Rocky and Ryland Grace’s achievement is probably a tale that is told through generations. Space Marines and Sisters Of Battle probably would call them brothers and sisters too.
well Forrix’s being The Hunter again and… I love this sort of characterization for him. It kinda fits well with him - he’s finally found something worth pursuing, like a hunter in the woods who finally found a strong, meaty deer after seeing none but ducks, squirrels and songbirds. Grenades burst harmlessly around the Terminators as one man dived aside and swung a heavy rifle with a ribbed barrel towards Forrix. A white-hot beam of plasma energy slammed into his chest, instantly obliterating the blasted iconography there and searing through layers of ceramite armour. Forrix felt the heat of the plasma scorch his skin and he staggered under the force of the impact. Forrix got hurt in Terminator by a mere mortal :0. I think I like this book more than I already do cause yes yes ram that rod into this bad boy and blast him with your white hot load- uuuuuuh… I… I only noticed now that I could made a sexual innuendo out of it. But anyway yeeeessssss I want more named Terminators to get blasted with plasma rifles or similar. Tbh I’d find it funny if Hawke would just murder Forrix in the end with something heavier than a plasma rifle *just* before he got to meet the Warhound. I love you but also die in bitterness depressed loser His Terminator armour had been forged on the Anvil of Holades on Olympia itself and its ancient spirit was as corrupt as he, and not yet willing to fall. Anvil of Holades… taking notes… man that’s before space marine armor was canonized to be from the Mechanicum. Uuuuhhhh idk if the Caraphractii was forged directly and exclusively on Mars but ooooh I love the variety of old lore yes yes Forrix recovered his balance and punched his power fist through the plasma gunner’s chest in a shower of bone splinters, lifting the impaled body from the ground and hurling it through the air in a bloody arc. Ooooh old man’s being brutal~ Bursts of bolter fire and disembowelling sweeps of lightning claws silenced the resistance. Forrix strode to the access door controls on the far wall and wrenched the release lever into the ‘open’ position. The doors screeched, the mechanisms protesting as their motors suddenly reversed and began to rumble open again. Forrix backed away and put three bolts through the control mechanism. Storm of Iron is an average 2000s 3d platform game level actually. With even more blood and violence :D Satisfied the gun bay doors would not be closing any time soon, Forrix rounded the blood-splattered bulldozer, watching as his warriors with reaper cannons began slaughtering the remaining defenders of the cavern in controlled bursts of gunfire. As the slaughter continued, the Guardsmen broke and ran for the steps. Those not quick enough to reach the cover of the stairs were shredded by the Iron Warriors’ firepower, their screams drowned in the deafening roar of the cannons. Any not killed in the initial bursts were soon torn apart as the shells destroyed their barricade in an instant. Within seconds the entire defence was gone, only chewed up crates and mangled corpses remaining. Damn A single, terrified soldier suddenly broke from cover, sprinting for the stairs. Three cannons tracked him as he ran, but Forrix said, 'No, this one is mine.’ Forrix let the man get within a hair’s breadth of safety before he fired his weapon. Shells tore great chunks from the wall behind his victim, shattering several control panels. As fast as the soldier had run, it was not fast enough. A single shell clipped his thigh as he twisted out of the line of fire, instantly shearing his leg from his body just below the hip. He landed in a bloody bundle, shrieking in agony as he saw the ragged stump of his leg, its remains hanging by gory threads. Forrix smiled and marched across the rockcrete floor, stepping across the wide rail tracks to stand above the man. Oh my god. omg omg omg well the guardsman won’t see that smile which probably is for the better. Forrix enjoys this. He was hyperventilating and staring in horror at his ruined leg. 'The hydraulic shock will drag the blood from your heart in a few seconds’ said Forrix, his voice distorted by his armour’s vox-unit. The man glanced up, uncomprehending, his eyes glazing over as death drew near. 'You are lucky’ said Forrix. 'You will die before the Warsmith ascends. Thank your Emperor for that.’ The sound of battle faded and the cavern was theirs. Terminators hurried past him, eager to continue the killing. First of all blood pressure fuckery is NOT a good way to die. Second… is that mercy or contempt? Or both? Or his view being that he just sees a scared little calf not knowing that the wolf (him) murdering him would be the same as following the herd? Dude I love him he’s arrogant but in a cold way and not really particularly self centered (weirdly enough) but so damn confident. HE IS THE HUNTER AND YOU ARE HIS PREY. There’s no negotiation, no escape, no nothing. You were made for this one moment to get claimed by him taking you away, no one or nothing else. He will be your end whether you like it or not. Uuuuuuoooouuuuuugggggh
30k OC sketchesssss lore/songs below the cut Náirescian Scáthach was once a Farseer of some repute hailing from Craftworld Lugganath. In 792.M30, she prophesized that intervention by another craftworld on Nuceria (attempted murder of the newborn Angron) would cause the events they were trying to prevent to come to fruition. As she was unable to stop this in time, she has become inconsolable, and against the wishes of her kin taken the Path of the Outcast and thrown her lot in with a Corsair fleet. For years she has been seeking a way to redeem herself and right the wrongs that have come from her failure. She carries but does not use a Khornate daemon blade, believing it may repel the forces of Slaanesh from her turbulent emotions. Her hobbies include worshipping Khaine and beheading slavers. Maksur Θ-null Avogadro is a Cyclothrathine Magos Reductor and contemporary of Archmagos Yelav Draykavac. Formerly a Magos Lacrymaerta, they have retained their vast knowledge of flesh and biological systems and redirected it towards the complete destruction of enemies of the Unmaker God. They were assigned as an emmissary to the 76th Lacus Hellwalkers by Draykavac, finding kinship with the regiment and their World Eater comrades. Maksur is masc non-binary (they/he).
Ok so. If you noticed I haven’t been posting the past few days, it’s because I fell down the Warhammer 40k rabbit hole (deer hole?). I’ve been a casual enthusiast of the lore for a while, but a few days ago I finally made my first tabletop purchases as my local comic store is doing a sale to celebrate 11th edition dropping soon. I decided I’m gonna build a Tyranid army!! Funny buggos yayyy I started the actual painting process yesterday, and plan to paint a mini a day. I also chose to use a custom color scheme, based on Changelings from My Little Pony G4. I’ve dubbed my army “Queen Chrysalis’ Tyranids” I still have a lottt of unpainted/unprimed bugs. The idea that this is only like 115 of the 2000 points you need to build an army is incredibly exciting… I cannot WAIT to have a huge swarm of buggos. While browsing Tyranid stuff on various platforms today, I saw someone say that if the world worked on Toy Story logic, everything else they collected would be absolutely COOKED. I’d have to agree. Y’ALL!! BEHIND YOU!!!!
Letters and Answers Author’s note: More of Malchior and Clara in Husbandry AU. Summary: Clara writes some letters and gets some answers, and more questions. Warning: LMK if I need to add anything else. tagged: @sleepyfan-blog @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @i-am-a-dragon34 @ms–lobotomy @jaghatai-khock @legionsofthehungry tagged: @kit-williams @aprofessionaln00b @bleedingichorhearts @thevoidscreams @gra93fruit-blog Tagged: @felinisnoctis @egrets-not-regrets @finchly-tintinnabulation @nereidof40k @bookandyarndragon Part of her wishes to ask - to be able to send Evangeline a message, to have on who had once been her dearest friend to be at her wedding. But the rumors- that she has - that she has been… That a Space Marine has taken her bright firebrand friend hurts. She had decided she would send her dearest friend a letter- if she doesn’t it would wound her friend dearly for not being invited. Dearest Evangeline, The vines are restless this autumn. The workers insist the fog lingers too long between the rows, but perhaps it is only my imagination, sharpened by too much solitude. Paris feels very far away, and I find myself thinking of our conversations, the laughter that carried well into the night, and the sharp comfort of your honesty. I have heard whispers of your… Bond. I will not pretend I understand it, nor that I do not feel fear. But fear is not disgust, Evangeline. It is the fear one feels standing at the edge of a precipice, gazing into something vast and unknowable. I confess—there are moments when I feel something not unlike what you described before you left. A tug, faint and insistent, as though my very soul is being tuned to a note only I can hear. Perhaps it is folly. Perhaps it is the champagne. But I cannot shake it. Tell me truly, does it consume you? Or do you still remain yourself? I am torn between dread and the shameful relief that someone else has felt what I now begin to fear. I long for your reply, even if only to confirm that you still exist, that this path does not erase. With affection always, Clara The Family’s Intercepted Response On the stationary of the House D’Aubigny, delivered to Clara unopened, with her wax seal broken. Mademoiselle Clara D’Aubigny, Your letter of the 12th instant, addressed to Evangeline Moreau, has been duly received by her kin. It is our duty to inform you that she is no longer considered a member of her family, nor of polite society. Her choices have placed her outside all protection, and any continued correspondence with her would invite scandal of the gravest kind. For the sake of your engagement, your family’s reputation, and your own future, you are strongly advised not to pursue further contact. The Bond you allude to is a corruption, not a union, and those who toy with such matters are inevitably lost. Should you disregard this warning, know that your association will be made known. By order of the House of Durand, Madame Béatrice Durand Clara sat at her vanity, the rejection notice trembling in her hand. Her pearls rattled against the glass surface as though mocking her. The language was so bloodless, so cold— corruption, inevitably lost. A human being reduced to a warning, a disease. She pressed the letter flat, then crumpled it again, her pulse thrumming like the tug she dared not name. Shame burned in her chest—shame that she had reached out, shame that they knew, shame that she could feel relief that Evangeline had not denied her existence outright. Tears pricked, but she refused them. “If you are gone, then let me hear it from your own hand,” she whispered, as though Evangeline could hear through the shuttered windows. That night, while her family dined and laughed, Clara slipped away with paper and ink. She wrote quickly, the words half-prayer, half-defiance, and sealed them under plain cover. Not to the Moreau estate, but to the little cottage in the countryside where Evangeline once fled when the city pressed too hard. A place only Clara would think to try. My dearest Evangeline, I do not know if this letter will reach you, or if your family’s hand will once again intrude to erase you. They have sent me their “warning,” with all the cold authority of their name. They call you lost. They say you are no longer of this world. But I know that is not true. You are not erased. You are not a shadow. You are you. Evangeline—will you come to my wedding? I ask it not out of duty, but longing. I do not know if you would even wish to sit among these people again, but to see your face, if only once, would steady me. The thought of standing there with everyone watching, with Julien smiling his polite smile—I confess, it chills me more than the fog that drifts in from the vineyards. If you cannot come, if the Bond forbids it, then I beg you: write to me. Even a single line, even a word, would be enough. Let me know you still breathe, that your voice has not been taken from you. They may call me foolish, reckless, disloyal. Let them. I would rather be thought scandalous than forget you. Always, Clara A slip of paper, the handwriting unmistakably her own, pressed between the folds of Clara’s letter. It smells faintly of woodsmoke and rosemary, as if kept in a country hearth. My sweetest Clara, I wept when I read your hand again. Not for sorrow alone, but for the courage it took you to send me these words knowing the eyes that watch you. Do not believe what my family writes. They cast me out because they fear what they cannot name, and because fear makes polite society cruel. Yes, I am Bonded. Yes, it changes everything—and nothing. I am still myself. But I am also… more. There is a clarity now, a sense that I stand in two worlds at once. It is not annihilation, Clara, though it can feel like fire. It is not loss, but transformation. If you wish it, I will come to your wedding. I would risk much for you. Though I may not sit at the front with the perfumed gossips, I will be near enough that you might look out and know you are not alone. With unbroken affection, Evangeline Tucked beneath Evangeline’s page, written in a bold, controlled script. The ink is darker, the lines straighter, the words few. It feels less like correspondence, more like declaration. Lady Clara, Evangeline is under my protection. No harm will come to her while I still draw breath. Know this: the Bond is not chains, but covenant. You see her as she is—changed, but true. Do not let others’ fear blind you. The mortals may think it is damnation, but it can be salvation. Stand as you are able. Endure as you must. — T. Varinus, 4th Company, XIII Legion Clara unfolded Evangeline’s page first, her breath catching at the familiar, looping hand. Each word was like a hand reaching back across an abyss: warmth, memory, affection. She pressed the page to her lips, eyes burning. For a moment she felt not alone, but tethered again to something real and kind. Then she saw the second sheet. The paper was heavier, the ink darker. The hand was utterly unlike Evangeline’s—it was as if carved into the page rather than written. She read it once, twice, a third time, the words etching themselves into her thoughts. “The Bond is not chains, but covenant… salvation.” Clara’s hand trembled. She had never spoken aloud of the pull she felt, not even in her letter. And yet this—this stranger, this Titan of a man—wrote as though answering a question buried in her very bones. She hid both letters in a silk pouch beneath her gowns, close to her skin, where no maid nor fiancé could stumble upon them. But all that evening, through the laughter of guests and the hollow sparkle of champagne, her mind returned again and again to the bold lines of his hand. The thought that chilled her most was not fear. It was longing. My dearest Evangeline, Your words have brought me more comfort than I can rightly say. To know you still live, still write, still are you —even if changed—gives me strength in this place where every smile feels like a mask. I tremble as I write this, but I must confess: I feel echoes of what you described. Not in fullness, but in faint tugs, moments when the world seems tilted toward something I cannot name. It frightens me. And yet—it would be dishonest to claim I do not also feel a kind of awe. I have hidden your letter, and his note, close against me. If discovered, I would be ruined, but I cannot part with them. They burn against my heart, reminding me that I am not mad, that what I sense is not invention. If you come to my wedding, even in shadow, I will look for you. Just to see you again, to know I am not alone, would mean more than any jeweled gift or whispered blessing. Yours in defiance of all they say, Clara Written in a different ink, slanted as if an afterthought. Clara uses imagery that could pass as idle fancy if intercepted. P.S. Do you remember when we were girls, and we spoke of ghostly knights wandering old vineyards? I think I have seen one. A figure among the vines—too large for a man, too silent for a laborer. The workers laugh at my talk of shadows, but I feel him there. He does not come close, yet sometimes I wake with the certainty that he watches. Tell me, Evangeline: when you first felt your Bond, did it begin with such distant company? Sent in the same delicate stationery Clara has grown to recognize, the scent faintly of lavender and smoke from her country hearth. My dearest Clara, Your words make my heart ache and flutter all at once. I understand the trembling, the awe, the fear. That strange, immense presence you speak of—ghostly knight, shadow among the vines—do not doubt yourself. It is real, even if the world insists you imagine it. I remember well those first tugs, the quiet pull that seemed to whisper in our very bones. You are not alone in this. And neither were we truly alone, not ever. Fear is natural, but it is only part of it; the wonder, the awe, the warmth you cannot name—these are gifts as well. Come to me when you can, even if for a stolen hour, and I will teach you what it means to walk both worlds. And yes, it began just so: distant, patient, insistent, threading itself into everything until one day it is no longer just a presence, but a truth you cannot ignore. Always yours, Evangeline Written on heavy cardstock, the letters are precise and deliberate, unflinching as steel. Lady Clara, You describe the figure accurately. Your perception does not deceive you. He is not a shadow, nor a product of imagination. He is as you sense: present, observing, patient. Do not approach him without preparation. Do not speak of him to others. Do not attempt to name him in a way that invites interference. Your family, your society, your fiancé—they cannot comprehend, and any mention risks ruin. Observe. Endure. You are not yet Bonded, but the thread has begun. Keep your mind clear. Your courage will be required, and your discretion is paramount. — T. Varinus, 4th Company, XIII Legion
DAILY FACT #636: The Inertial Hammer is a type of exotic Archaeotech melee weapon. Found mostly on several ancient Dead Worlds in the Calixis Sector, these weapons have a very long haft. An inertial hammer is surrounded by what are thought to be power cables and the esoteric engines that drive the device. When swung, the head seems to gather inertial energy exponentially, so the weapon seems lighter and swings more easily the further it moves. On impact, the inertia is transformed into kinetic energy, allowing a single strike to hit with such concussive force that it can rupture a tank hull. ALT
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