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You mean
Paradox-Billiards-Vostroya-Roulette-Forth Dimensional-Hypercube-Chess-Strip Poker
Paradox-Billiards-Vostroya-Roulette-Forth Dimensional-Hypercube-Chess-Strip Poker
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Warhammer 40,000: Discussione Generalis III
- Thread starter Matthew_Schroeder
- Start date
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- Tags
- warhammer 40000
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lol
@Morkar
He also beat Zarakynel, who is one of the top Keepers of Secrets. Other notable things would be possession and the ability to make people kill themselves from at least a kilometer away.
@Morkar
He also beat Zarakynel, who is one of the top Keepers of Secrets. Other notable things would be possession and the ability to make people kill themselves from at least a kilometer away.
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SHIT I FORGOT
this "Bloodward" was described as very, very fast. so, if he could keep up with her physically would it mean he is much faster than the average Astartes?
this "Bloodward" was described as very, very fast. so, if he could keep up with her physically would it mean he is much faster than the average Astartes?
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- #204
I think that Custodes should be Low 5-B to 5-A considering they held off endless legions of Daemons in the Webway for 5 years which included Daemon Princes and Greater Daemons.
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I don't know how I feel about Tier 5 regular Custodes.
Tier 5 "hero" Custodes I can definitely see, though.
Tier 5 "hero" Custodes I can definitely see, though.
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- #206
Regular Custodes should be High 6-C at the least, tho. Scaling from Terminator Marines.
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Considering the Custodes manhandled a WAAAGH! of Orks that nearly wiped out three entire Legions during the Great Crusade, I'd say that's fair.
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- #208
But the Custodes and Sisters WERE holding off legions of Daemons which included things like Bloodthirsters and Keeper of Secrets.
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Yes. Though numbers are important, alongside the number of "hero" Custodes, and the fact SoS weaken daemons through their mere presence.
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- #210
So strong Custodes like Dio and Valdor would be 5-A?
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I would assume.
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- #212
Apparently we see Men of Iron in the Audio Drama "Perpetual". According to 1d4chan, they are Star-Busters and have Information Manipulation Existence Erasure.
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@Matt can i ask you about Necron feats?
like how did they encase the C'tan?
how are the C'tan star busters?
if they are oh so powerful, why don't they use this same tech to kill all life as they wish to do?
like how did they encase the C'tan?
how are the C'tan star busters?
if they are oh so powerful, why don't they use this same tech to kill all life as they wish to do?
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@Morkar
Not Matt, but...
Necrons are kinda bullshit, mostly due to a lot of authors writing themselves into a corner. For instance:
Not Matt, but...
Necrons are kinda bullshit, mostly due to a lot of authors writing themselves into a corner. For instance:
- The Necrons defeating the C'tan is always left incredibly vague, because even at the C'tan's drastically weakened state, they never should have been able to. I'm pretty sure the most we ever get amounts to "The Necrons used the hyperdimensional tech the C'tan taught them to use against them".
- War in Heaven era C'tan would just casually rip open the space-time continuum and destroy multiple solar systems because they felt like it. Free lesser Shards usually eat the stars they can find to regain power. Transcendent Shards can rip stars out of the sky while being imprisoned and actively having their own power redirected against themselves.
- The Necrons have a device where, if they wanted to, they could instantly wipe out the galaxy. Stuff like this is often written off as the Necrons wanting to reclaim the galaxy while doing as little damage to it as possible. They also hate Tyranids because, while they are inherently no threat to the 'crons unless they engage in battle, the Tyranids wiping out all life means the Necrons losing out on a chance for sweet new bodies that can once again feel the sensation of organic life.
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@Azzy
Here's some Eldrad Writefaggotry I wanted to share. It isn't mine but I found it too awesome not to post it:
The Long Odds
"And if you follow me, we are going to the Room of Origins, to see artifacts dating to the very founding of this Craftworld."
The Eldar boy was only one of about twenty, a gaggle of children following a beleaguered tour guide around the Chambers of History, learning about the mammoth wraithbone spaceship that had been their homes for their entire lives, and of the many Eldar that had once lived in them. There was nothing particularly special about the boy, nothing except that he was the only one to notice the figure sitting in the hallway to the side of the wraithbone hall. The tour guide was ushering the children on, but the boy remained entranced. He had to know who the figure was. Which is why it was so surprising when the figure spoke to him.
"Excuse me boy, yes, you there. Could you spare me the kindness of helping an old man?"
The boy took a quick glance at the receding tour group, and then back to the figure. He was so very young, and knew only the Craftworld, having yet to realize that trust was a precious commodity in this universe. The boy approached the old Eldar sitting in the halls of the Craftworld, only to hesitate when he realized who the figure really was. It was Eldrad! The Eldrad Ulthran! The eldest of the farseers, the architect of Armaggedon, he who foresaw the coming of the Kraken, the one who bested the Despoiler. The same Eldrad who was known by as many titles or epithets as the years he had lived! Eldrad of Ten Thousand Names!
The boy opened his mouth.
"El…"
"Silence, boy, I know what you are about to say. Yes, yes, Eldrad of this, Eldrad of that. Eldrad of Ten Thousand Names. Perhaps I should take pride in them. The old wisdom says that every title one earns represents a victory, after all. But I am so very old. And so very tired. I do not have time to remember half-forgotten glories. But if you could, please help an old man up."
The boy reached out his hand, and Eldrad took his, his grip surprisingly strong despite his old age. The boy slowly helped Eldrad to his feet, the old Eldar taking so long the boy wondered if he was going to start creaking like wood.
Eldrad sighed.
"It is so very strange, what the young think life is going to be like when you are old. When you are a young man, you believe that you spend your final days terrified of death, hounded by that final specter. But when you actually get to be an old man, things change. Oh, you never stop fearing death. I believe few creatures in this universe beyond orks and tyranids ever truly do. But when you get to be my age, you tend to stop worrying about what happens to you, and start worrying about all the things you leave behind. All the things you created, and all the deeds you accomplished. The ideas you poured years of your life into. When you are no longer around to make sure everything is right, will there be someone around to make sure the dreams you set in motion still run, or will your victories gradually slip into dust. Forget what the warriors say, boy, about glory being eternal. Glory only matters if there is someone around who appreciate why it matters. Do you understand what I am saying?"
The Eldar boy shook his head, his mind trying to wrap itself around what the legendary farseer was saying to him.
"Well, I suppose it is something you only truly understand when you get to be an old man. And it is getting late. I have kept you too long and you are probably getting bored of my old man stories. Run along now, boy, before someone comes looking for you."
The boy darted around the corner, as if the hounds of the Warp were after him. He had to tell his friends what he had seen, though they would not believe him. Isha preserve him, even he barely believed what had just happened. When the Eldar boy was out of sight, Eldrad slowly straightened his posture and let the cloaking illusion drop. Although he may be old, he was not that feeble, even though he could feel his bones creak, his joints almost crystalline. And yet he still had so much to do. Miles to go before he could sleep.
The old farseer calmed his mind, bringing his focus to the seer rune he had at his side. Threads of fate sprung to life in his mind's eye, twisting and turning like fiberoptic cables or neural fibers. Eldrad pared down his vision, directing his focus to the area surrounding his current position in space-time, the "real" timeline, and waited to see if his words had any effect. And slowly, the threads of fate, the very roots that underpinned reality, shifted ever so slightly.
Eldrad smirked. It never ceased to amaze him how the slightest actions could have the greatest effects on the universe. A single set of words or a chance encounter could completely change the course of history. Lives could be won or lost. And an empire could fall, or even never be born in the first place. A small piece of advice from an old man remembered later in life could save the life of a warrior, which could turn the tide of a battle, which could save a Craftworld, which could save the galaxy. It was the doctrine Eldrad lived by, to defeat your enemy by knowing what everyone else would or could do before they could possibly do it.
Widening his gaze, the farseer looked further into the future. Looking past all the potential timelines, withered and horrible, like decaying petals of a flower. Until he found the one he wanted. It was a vision of his granddaughter, the one whose face he had never seen, except in his visions. She was a young woman in his vision, standing on the edge of a harbor, a tiny creature on her shoulder. He knew she was waiting for someone, he never knew who, for the vision always ended before he could see. Behind her stood a citscape that seemed to be constructed of wraithbone, of steel, of Earth Caste sculpture, yet none of these things, and around her walked humans, Eldar, and a hundred other races both alien and familiar. Eldrad could never tell what time it was in the vision, but he knew it in his heart. Dawn, the dawn so long awaited after the end of the long night.
Eldrad had seen so many things, great and terrible, in his long life. Supernovae on the horizon. Shrieking forms of things that should not be clawing forth from the abyss. And yet, in his old age, this is what kept him going. Hope. He was always a good farseer, but this was to be his masterpiece. A future for the Eldar, free of despair, tyranny, and dark gods. Peace, in a galaxy that for so long had known only war. It was a long shot. He had only seen a few visions like these, on the order of billions to one.
Eldrad smiled a half-smile. He always did like playing the long odds.
Here's some Eldrad Writefaggotry I wanted to share. It isn't mine but I found it too awesome not to post it:
The Long Odds
"And if you follow me, we are going to the Room of Origins, to see artifacts dating to the very founding of this Craftworld."
The Eldar boy was only one of about twenty, a gaggle of children following a beleaguered tour guide around the Chambers of History, learning about the mammoth wraithbone spaceship that had been their homes for their entire lives, and of the many Eldar that had once lived in them. There was nothing particularly special about the boy, nothing except that he was the only one to notice the figure sitting in the hallway to the side of the wraithbone hall. The tour guide was ushering the children on, but the boy remained entranced. He had to know who the figure was. Which is why it was so surprising when the figure spoke to him.
"Excuse me boy, yes, you there. Could you spare me the kindness of helping an old man?"
The boy took a quick glance at the receding tour group, and then back to the figure. He was so very young, and knew only the Craftworld, having yet to realize that trust was a precious commodity in this universe. The boy approached the old Eldar sitting in the halls of the Craftworld, only to hesitate when he realized who the figure really was. It was Eldrad! The Eldrad Ulthran! The eldest of the farseers, the architect of Armaggedon, he who foresaw the coming of the Kraken, the one who bested the Despoiler. The same Eldrad who was known by as many titles or epithets as the years he had lived! Eldrad of Ten Thousand Names!
The boy opened his mouth.
"El…"
"Silence, boy, I know what you are about to say. Yes, yes, Eldrad of this, Eldrad of that. Eldrad of Ten Thousand Names. Perhaps I should take pride in them. The old wisdom says that every title one earns represents a victory, after all. But I am so very old. And so very tired. I do not have time to remember half-forgotten glories. But if you could, please help an old man up."
The boy reached out his hand, and Eldrad took his, his grip surprisingly strong despite his old age. The boy slowly helped Eldrad to his feet, the old Eldar taking so long the boy wondered if he was going to start creaking like wood.
Eldrad sighed.
"It is so very strange, what the young think life is going to be like when you are old. When you are a young man, you believe that you spend your final days terrified of death, hounded by that final specter. But when you actually get to be an old man, things change. Oh, you never stop fearing death. I believe few creatures in this universe beyond orks and tyranids ever truly do. But when you get to be my age, you tend to stop worrying about what happens to you, and start worrying about all the things you leave behind. All the things you created, and all the deeds you accomplished. The ideas you poured years of your life into. When you are no longer around to make sure everything is right, will there be someone around to make sure the dreams you set in motion still run, or will your victories gradually slip into dust. Forget what the warriors say, boy, about glory being eternal. Glory only matters if there is someone around who appreciate why it matters. Do you understand what I am saying?"
The Eldar boy shook his head, his mind trying to wrap itself around what the legendary farseer was saying to him.
"Well, I suppose it is something you only truly understand when you get to be an old man. And it is getting late. I have kept you too long and you are probably getting bored of my old man stories. Run along now, boy, before someone comes looking for you."
The boy darted around the corner, as if the hounds of the Warp were after him. He had to tell his friends what he had seen, though they would not believe him. Isha preserve him, even he barely believed what had just happened. When the Eldar boy was out of sight, Eldrad slowly straightened his posture and let the cloaking illusion drop. Although he may be old, he was not that feeble, even though he could feel his bones creak, his joints almost crystalline. And yet he still had so much to do. Miles to go before he could sleep.
The old farseer calmed his mind, bringing his focus to the seer rune he had at his side. Threads of fate sprung to life in his mind's eye, twisting and turning like fiberoptic cables or neural fibers. Eldrad pared down his vision, directing his focus to the area surrounding his current position in space-time, the "real" timeline, and waited to see if his words had any effect. And slowly, the threads of fate, the very roots that underpinned reality, shifted ever so slightly.
Eldrad smirked. It never ceased to amaze him how the slightest actions could have the greatest effects on the universe. A single set of words or a chance encounter could completely change the course of history. Lives could be won or lost. And an empire could fall, or even never be born in the first place. A small piece of advice from an old man remembered later in life could save the life of a warrior, which could turn the tide of a battle, which could save a Craftworld, which could save the galaxy. It was the doctrine Eldrad lived by, to defeat your enemy by knowing what everyone else would or could do before they could possibly do it.
Widening his gaze, the farseer looked further into the future. Looking past all the potential timelines, withered and horrible, like decaying petals of a flower. Until he found the one he wanted. It was a vision of his granddaughter, the one whose face he had never seen, except in his visions. She was a young woman in his vision, standing on the edge of a harbor, a tiny creature on her shoulder. He knew she was waiting for someone, he never knew who, for the vision always ended before he could see. Behind her stood a citscape that seemed to be constructed of wraithbone, of steel, of Earth Caste sculpture, yet none of these things, and around her walked humans, Eldar, and a hundred other races both alien and familiar. Eldrad could never tell what time it was in the vision, but he knew it in his heart. Dawn, the dawn so long awaited after the end of the long night.
Eldrad had seen so many things, great and terrible, in his long life. Supernovae on the horizon. Shrieking forms of things that should not be clawing forth from the abyss. And yet, in his old age, this is what kept him going. Hope. He was always a good farseer, but this was to be his masterpiece. A future for the Eldar, free of despair, tyranny, and dark gods. Peace, in a galaxy that for so long had known only war. It was a long shot. He had only seen a few visions like these, on the order of billions to one.
Eldrad smiled a half-smile. He always did like playing the long odds.
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So, what do you think?
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I like it quite a bit, actually. It fits with the best depictions of Eldrad in the lore, and even makes mention of the "timeline pruning" that happens in instances such as the Abaddon fight.
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It gave me so much feels I became feels incarnate.
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you know, that reminded me of how i wished once to make a Abaddon short story. you know just him talking, but since it has been like weeks i forgot my ideas
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Finished Horus Rising. Gewd book. Now only 300 more Horus Heresy books to go.
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@Matt so what do you think of the Lupercal? is he likeable to you?
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Horus? I really like him.
Also, I just realize that Sisters of Battle wear Power Armour just as durable as a Space Marine's (According to Codex 7th Edition), so all I need is instance of a Sister damaging another sister in meelee and we'd get High 8-C Sisters.
Also, I just realize that Sisters of Battle wear Power Armour just as durable as a Space Marine's (According to Codex 7th Edition), so all I need is instance of a Sister damaging another sister in meelee and we'd get High 8-C Sisters.
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>High 8-C regular sisters
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
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- #224
Honestly, I'm not surprised. Considering that the Brides of the Emperor held off the Imperial Palace against multiple Space Marine chapters.
There's also the fact that their Bolters are 100% as good as regular Bolters and they don't have their arms shattered when doing so. In the Grey Knights novels, it was shown that their Bolters can damage Space Marine armor just fine, and high-end Sisters (Seraphims with Jetpacks and whatnot) were giving the Grey Knights a hard time.
There's also the fact that their Bolters are 100% as good as regular Bolters and they don't have their arms shattered when doing so. In the Grey Knights novels, it was shown that their Bolters can damage Space Marine armor just fine, and high-end Sisters (Seraphims with Jetpacks and whatnot) were giving the Grey Knights a hard time.
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Researching glorious Custodes for a profile.
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- Gharkhul Blackfang's WAAAGH! is enough to overwhelm the legions of Horus Lupercal, Rogal Dorn and Mortarion. 1,000 Custodes defeat them, killing 100,000 Greenskins with only 3 deaths of their own
- 30 Custodes take down 200 Thousands Sons including a squad of Terminators
- Held off endless hordes of Daemons in the Webway alongside the Sisters for years
- Stated to be to a Space Marine what a Space Marine is to a Guardsmen
- Their Terminator Armour is far superior to Astartes Terminator Armour and carry much better weaponry too
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DesperatioMatthew Schroeder said:
Desperatio
It's a desperate race against the WAAAAGH!
And a race against time
Then the Terran Custodes arrived!
Coming down the mountainside!
Then the Terran Custodes arrived!
Coming down they turned the tide!
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Lord Solar Macharius also needs a profile. He fights a Greater Daemon in the novel Angel of Fire. Granted, it wasn't fully manifested but it should still scale from the Low 5-B dudes.
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@Az do you need further help with Khayon? please name anything you need of either Bl book and i will search it, hell you could even give me what i have to write, i make the profile and you accomodate it if you wish.
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@Matt
Yeah, definitely.
@Morkar
You can make it, if you wish. Or I can. Whichever you'd prefer. I can always make changes, afterwards, if need be.
Yeah, definitely.
@Morkar
You can make it, if you wish. Or I can. Whichever you'd prefer. I can always make changes, afterwards, if need be.
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Angel of Fire has a really good feat.
The summoning of a Greater Daemon causes the planet's tectonic plates to shift, causing great earthquakes which split the land with lava bursting from the openings in enough quantities to form rivers.
And that's before the Greater Daemon is even actually summoned.
The summoning of a Greater Daemon causes the planet's tectonic plates to shift, causing great earthquakes which split the land with lava bursting from the openings in enough quantities to form rivers.
And that's before the Greater Daemon is even actually summoned.
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I was on the edge of dozing off when the earth shook. A commotion erupted around the table. I noticed everybody gazing at the map. It crawled and changed even as I watched. In the centre was still the huge angel-topped hive of Irongrad. Around it were still the snaking cables of the great pipelines. There was something else, something new, something that reminded me of what I had seen on my way through Irongrad. The earth was splitting all around the hive. Lines of fire appeared.
'What is going on?' Sejanus asked. Macharius looked at Drake.
'The ritual is nearing its climax. The tectonic plates of the world itself are shifting. The power of the Angel of Fire is manifesting.'
The wastelands were split by great fiery chasms. Lava bubbled forth, forming rivers and lakes. It looked as if a new lava sea was being born in front of us.
- Angel of Fire, Chapter 23
Also the presence of the Daemon can be felt even by those with no psychic power:
We knew we could take the hive. We had already done so once. That was not in doubt. What was in doubt was our ability to bridge the great moats of lava sliding into place around the city in time to stop the ritual. None of us wanted to contemplate what would happen if we were still on-planet when the Angel of Fire manifested. One look at Drake's sickly features was enough to convince me that it was not likely to be a pleasant experience.
There was a growing horror in the chamber. In part I suspect it was a product of the manifestation of the Angel. Even people with as much sensitivity to psychic events as a desert rock could sense that there was something wrong. There was a pressure in the air such as you get before a great storm. A cloud of gloom and despair had settled over our entire army. Macharius stared hard at the holo-map. All of his attention was focused on it. He glared at it as if he believed his hope of rebirth in the Emperor's Light depended on it. I suppose in a way it did. Concentrating, Macharius did not fidget. He merely stood there, statue-still, looking completely at rest. His gaze was fixed unwaveringly on the map, on the great hive that it was his desire to reclaim. A cold light burned in his eyes. It was as if he was staring at some hated personal enemy.
The shadow of the Daemon's power is reshaping the entire planet's surface:
It seemed that we were insignificant to whatever power was manifesting itself in Irongrad. It was not creating a flaming barrier to keep us out, except perhaps by accident. It was manifesting a tribute to its own glory and might, reshaping the desert and the earth and the elements of rock and fire into a pattern that was significant only to it.
'It's very close to the sign of Tzeentch,' said Drake. 'The Changer of Ways. It's obvious now that you point it out.'
His voice was so soft it was hard to pick out the words. I think he was speaking only to himself. Nonetheless a chill passed through the room. An eerie silence fell. The inquisitor had named one of those names that it is very ill to speak, one of the greatest of all the enemies of humanity. Anton gave out a soft yelp. I understood why. Was it possible that this great daemon-god was going to manifest on the surface of Karsk? If it did, what would happen then? Even the shadow of its power was already beginning to reshape the land. Once it was fully present, what would it not be capable of?
'What is going on?' Sejanus asked. Macharius looked at Drake.
'The ritual is nearing its climax. The tectonic plates of the world itself are shifting. The power of the Angel of Fire is manifesting.'
The wastelands were split by great fiery chasms. Lava bubbled forth, forming rivers and lakes. It looked as if a new lava sea was being born in front of us.
- Angel of Fire, Chapter 23
Also the presence of the Daemon can be felt even by those with no psychic power:
We knew we could take the hive. We had already done so once. That was not in doubt. What was in doubt was our ability to bridge the great moats of lava sliding into place around the city in time to stop the ritual. None of us wanted to contemplate what would happen if we were still on-planet when the Angel of Fire manifested. One look at Drake's sickly features was enough to convince me that it was not likely to be a pleasant experience.
There was a growing horror in the chamber. In part I suspect it was a product of the manifestation of the Angel. Even people with as much sensitivity to psychic events as a desert rock could sense that there was something wrong. There was a pressure in the air such as you get before a great storm. A cloud of gloom and despair had settled over our entire army. Macharius stared hard at the holo-map. All of his attention was focused on it. He glared at it as if he believed his hope of rebirth in the Emperor's Light depended on it. I suppose in a way it did. Concentrating, Macharius did not fidget. He merely stood there, statue-still, looking completely at rest. His gaze was fixed unwaveringly on the map, on the great hive that it was his desire to reclaim. A cold light burned in his eyes. It was as if he was staring at some hated personal enemy.
The shadow of the Daemon's power is reshaping the entire planet's surface:
It seemed that we were insignificant to whatever power was manifesting itself in Irongrad. It was not creating a flaming barrier to keep us out, except perhaps by accident. It was manifesting a tribute to its own glory and might, reshaping the desert and the earth and the elements of rock and fire into a pattern that was significant only to it.
'It's very close to the sign of Tzeentch,' said Drake. 'The Changer of Ways. It's obvious now that you point it out.'
His voice was so soft it was hard to pick out the words. I think he was speaking only to himself. Nonetheless a chill passed through the room. An eerie silence fell. The inquisitor had named one of those names that it is very ill to speak, one of the greatest of all the enemies of humanity. Anton gave out a soft yelp. I understood why. Was it possible that this great daemon-god was going to manifest on the surface of Karsk? If it did, what would happen then? Even the shadow of its power was already beginning to reshape the land. Once it was fully present, what would it not be capable of?
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>Greater Daemon performs Multi-Continent level feat through the act of beginning to exist
>Bloodthirsters slicing through mountains is clear hyperbole
Ihate love the internet.
>Bloodthirsters slicing through mountains is clear hyperbole
I
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Also this book confirms that Macharius is indeed a Living Saint. The only male one, too, to my knowledge.
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Gerstahl and Lozepath were also male. But Gerstahl's remains were destroyed by Abaddon to negate the prophecy of his return and Lozepath was murdered by Kharn.
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****, spend many minutes writing a post and it was swallowed as I posted.
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Well, trying again.
More info on the world being warped:
We swept forwards and I could see the lava flows clearly. Jets of liquid stone spurted upwards, incandescent and ruby red. The earth was cracking. Occasionally, the Baneblade shifted oddly in response to the moving ground. It felt like it might spin out of control if I was not careful. I watched all of the volt gauges and meters carefully. I kept my hands ready on the controls. I did not want to be taken off-guard by anything. We followed the paths predetermined by Macharius's discovery. It reminded me of our first approach to Irongrad. It was just as tricky and we did not have time to take things slowly and carefully.
The formation rolled on, feeling its way forwards through the shifting terrain where the sign of the daemon-god was being written on the living flesh of the world. It was slow progress and it became all the slower when the heretics realised what was happening. Not all of them were wrapped up in their ritual summoning. The great batteries on the armoured skin of the city opened fire. Swarms of flyers engaged our air-cover in battle. Within the city itself I had no doubt troops were being marshalled.
As we got closer to the city, following the channels of the infernal symbol surrounding the hive, the earth tremors became more intense and the air seemed to shimmer and pulse. Whirlpools of multi-coloured light swirled in the air. At first I thought it was some sort of heat haze. Rocks split and tanks were swallowed like men going down in jungle quicksand. That was not the worst of it.
Out of those swirling whirlpools creatures were starting to emerge. They were roughly humanoid in shape, but their outlines seemed to shimmer and shift as much as the whirlpools that spawned them. They were an odd shade of pink and they belched flame from numerous orifices that seemed to appear in their skin, like blowholes bubbling out of a mudpool. There was something awful just in their very appearance. At times they seemed as if they were not quite solid, not quite there, as insubstantial as a heat-haze or a fever dream. At other times they looked somehow more solid than a tank. They shimmered and were gone only to reappear a few strides away from where they had been. They opened mouths as wide as their entire bodies, revealing fangs the size of bayonets and roared challenges as they threw themselves at our fighting vehicles.
The laws of reality are breaking down under the Daemon's power:
I heard Drake grunt behind me. I avoided turning to look at him, but I could not ignore his muttering voice. 'The power is spiking. What new horror is this?'
Looking out through the drive periscope I saw at once what he meant. The statues were coming to life. It sounds absurd when I say it now, but that is exactly what was happening. All of those fire-winged metal angels were starting to stretch and flex, like men waking from long sleep. I knew then that something truly unnatural was really happening in Irongrad. When statues come to life, stretch out clawed fingers and take to the air on wings of plasma fire, you know that natural law has been suspended. They soared above the burning buildings and seemed to draw strength from the blaze.
Judging from the screams echoing through the streets around me, I was not alone in my realisation. It looked like the citizens of Irongrad were starting to wake up to the truth of what the materialisation of their deity might bring. It was a miracle of sorts but it was a dark and unholy one. Statues should not come to life. They should remain decently posed and immobile. They should not twist and gesture. Most of all they should not sing. From all of the angels came a full-throated hymn of triumph, at once joyous and evil, strangely thrilling and terribly ominous. The sound did not seem loud within the hull of the Baneblade but the fact that it could be heard at all was troubling. We were supposed to be warded from the siren song of Chaos.
The living statues swooped over us, stretching out their hands and sending bolts of flame arcing down. They splattered off the side of the Baneblade. A strange aroma of brimstone and something else, not unpleasant but haunting and odd was detectable even within the tank. I assumed this must be an actual smell, working through the filters, not something supernatural.
'We must hurry,' said Drake. 'The daemon-god is almost through. Its power is starting to manifest and reality is starting to warp under the force of its power.'
Inquisitor Drake's report on the Daemon:
It is far, far worse even than I had thought it was going to be. The forces of the Architect of Fate have manifested themselves on the surface of this world. The thin skin of mortal reality has broken and that which lurks beneath has become visible. I am making these notes in what may prove to be the final moments of my life in the hope that they may be found and benefit the Imperial force that comes after us.
(...)
The skies swirl with daemons but that is nothing to what only a psyker can perceive. The sky above the hive is splitting. A great fissure in reality is opening. Something dark and terrible and majestic is moving through. I pray that we are in time.
Implication that the Angel of Fire is more powerful than a Warlord Titan:
We piled out of the hatches and swarmed down the sides of the Baneblade. Even that enormous, ancient presence seemed dwarfed by the cathedral.
The air smelled of brimstone and incense and a scent I remembered well from the factorum-foundries of my youth: molten metal. A strange light glowed around everything. Our surroundings looked too bright, but sometimes shadows that should not have been there rippled across walls, as if cast by something huge moving against a light which had no source in our world. It was eerie, unnatural and disturbing. Sometimes the shadow of the Horrors was visible as if they were just about to manifest.
Over everything was an oppressive sense of the imminence of something supernatural. I felt like I was in the presence of something greater than human, much greater. I was reminded of the moment when I had confronted the Titan in the rubble of the factorum but this was a thousand times worse. The ancient warmachine had been a being compared to which I was an insect. To the thing manifesting itself now, I was a microbe.
More info on the world being warped:
We swept forwards and I could see the lava flows clearly. Jets of liquid stone spurted upwards, incandescent and ruby red. The earth was cracking. Occasionally, the Baneblade shifted oddly in response to the moving ground. It felt like it might spin out of control if I was not careful. I watched all of the volt gauges and meters carefully. I kept my hands ready on the controls. I did not want to be taken off-guard by anything. We followed the paths predetermined by Macharius's discovery. It reminded me of our first approach to Irongrad. It was just as tricky and we did not have time to take things slowly and carefully.
The formation rolled on, feeling its way forwards through the shifting terrain where the sign of the daemon-god was being written on the living flesh of the world. It was slow progress and it became all the slower when the heretics realised what was happening. Not all of them were wrapped up in their ritual summoning. The great batteries on the armoured skin of the city opened fire. Swarms of flyers engaged our air-cover in battle. Within the city itself I had no doubt troops were being marshalled.
As we got closer to the city, following the channels of the infernal symbol surrounding the hive, the earth tremors became more intense and the air seemed to shimmer and pulse. Whirlpools of multi-coloured light swirled in the air. At first I thought it was some sort of heat haze. Rocks split and tanks were swallowed like men going down in jungle quicksand. That was not the worst of it.
Out of those swirling whirlpools creatures were starting to emerge. They were roughly humanoid in shape, but their outlines seemed to shimmer and shift as much as the whirlpools that spawned them. They were an odd shade of pink and they belched flame from numerous orifices that seemed to appear in their skin, like blowholes bubbling out of a mudpool. There was something awful just in their very appearance. At times they seemed as if they were not quite solid, not quite there, as insubstantial as a heat-haze or a fever dream. At other times they looked somehow more solid than a tank. They shimmered and were gone only to reappear a few strides away from where they had been. They opened mouths as wide as their entire bodies, revealing fangs the size of bayonets and roared challenges as they threw themselves at our fighting vehicles.
The laws of reality are breaking down under the Daemon's power:
I heard Drake grunt behind me. I avoided turning to look at him, but I could not ignore his muttering voice. 'The power is spiking. What new horror is this?'
Looking out through the drive periscope I saw at once what he meant. The statues were coming to life. It sounds absurd when I say it now, but that is exactly what was happening. All of those fire-winged metal angels were starting to stretch and flex, like men waking from long sleep. I knew then that something truly unnatural was really happening in Irongrad. When statues come to life, stretch out clawed fingers and take to the air on wings of plasma fire, you know that natural law has been suspended. They soared above the burning buildings and seemed to draw strength from the blaze.
Judging from the screams echoing through the streets around me, I was not alone in my realisation. It looked like the citizens of Irongrad were starting to wake up to the truth of what the materialisation of their deity might bring. It was a miracle of sorts but it was a dark and unholy one. Statues should not come to life. They should remain decently posed and immobile. They should not twist and gesture. Most of all they should not sing. From all of the angels came a full-throated hymn of triumph, at once joyous and evil, strangely thrilling and terribly ominous. The sound did not seem loud within the hull of the Baneblade but the fact that it could be heard at all was troubling. We were supposed to be warded from the siren song of Chaos.
The living statues swooped over us, stretching out their hands and sending bolts of flame arcing down. They splattered off the side of the Baneblade. A strange aroma of brimstone and something else, not unpleasant but haunting and odd was detectable even within the tank. I assumed this must be an actual smell, working through the filters, not something supernatural.
'We must hurry,' said Drake. 'The daemon-god is almost through. Its power is starting to manifest and reality is starting to warp under the force of its power.'
Inquisitor Drake's report on the Daemon:
It is far, far worse even than I had thought it was going to be. The forces of the Architect of Fate have manifested themselves on the surface of this world. The thin skin of mortal reality has broken and that which lurks beneath has become visible. I am making these notes in what may prove to be the final moments of my life in the hope that they may be found and benefit the Imperial force that comes after us.
(...)
The skies swirl with daemons but that is nothing to what only a psyker can perceive. The sky above the hive is splitting. A great fissure in reality is opening. Something dark and terrible and majestic is moving through. I pray that we are in time.
Implication that the Angel of Fire is more powerful than a Warlord Titan:
We piled out of the hatches and swarmed down the sides of the Baneblade. Even that enormous, ancient presence seemed dwarfed by the cathedral.
The air smelled of brimstone and incense and a scent I remembered well from the factorum-foundries of my youth: molten metal. A strange light glowed around everything. Our surroundings looked too bright, but sometimes shadows that should not have been there rippled across walls, as if cast by something huge moving against a light which had no source in our world. It was eerie, unnatural and disturbing. Sometimes the shadow of the Horrors was visible as if they were just about to manifest.
Over everything was an oppressive sense of the imminence of something supernatural. I felt like I was in the presence of something greater than human, much greater. I was reminded of the moment when I had confronted the Titan in the rubble of the factorum but this was a thousand times worse. The ancient warmachine had been a being compared to which I was an insect. To the thing manifesting itself now, I was a microbe.
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- Thread starter
- #238
Description of the Angel of Fire entering Realspace for good:
Ahead of us were massed ranks of priests chanting and singing their awful hymn. In front of them stood their High Priest, the focus of the whole devilish ritual. It was not he who commanded our sight though. It was the Angel. It had already manifested under the vast vaulted roof. The hanging banners already smoked and burned in contact with its burning wings. Around it everything seemed to shimmer.
It towered above us, seemingly a hundred times the height of a man. It looked bigger, as if something infinite were compressing itself into the tiny space available in our world. It came from somewhere else where its size had no limit or meaning. In my mind I imagined it larger than a planet, able to hold a whole world in its beautiful clawed hand. Its skin was the colour of bronze. Its robe was shimmering white. Its face was beautiful. Its eyes were filled with fire. Its wings billowed from its back in a cloud of gaseous plasma. It seemed immense but not yet solid. All of the flames in the temple twisted towards it, dancing worshippers genuflecting to their god.
It looked down on us and it smiled.
I felt as if it was looking directly at me. I am sure every man there did. It is a discomforting thing to come under the gaze of a great daemon. It was looking into my soul, seeing my darkest secrets, measuring every particle of sin. It knew me in a moment better than I knew myself. It knew all the dark and hateful things I wanted to keep hidden even from myself. It recognised me as one of its own. It made a beckoning gesture with its hand. There was an awful invitation in the movement. It called upon me to step forwards, to join it, to be purged by its cleansing flame and renewed.
There was a promise of immortality in that gesture and the fulfilment of all my dreams. I could walk forwards and join the ranks of its followers and become one with the immortals. I could welcome the presence of this tremendous cosmic being into my life and become part of its legion of worshippers and leave this place and conquer worlds in its name.
Visions of an eternity of splendour danced before me. I would be ruler of a world, many worlds. My enemies would fear me. Women would adore me. I would be greater than any king. I watched transfixed. I think it was curiosity that saved my soul, strange as that may sound.
For some reason I looked at Macharius, perhaps even then seeking to follow his lead. He stood transfixed. His eyes were locked on the daemonic Angel. There seemed to be some sort of direct communication going on between them. I wondered what he was seeing, what temptations were being placed before him. I was being presented to myself as a conqueror of worlds. He was already all of that and more.
What could it offer him?
Ahead of us were massed ranks of priests chanting and singing their awful hymn. In front of them stood their High Priest, the focus of the whole devilish ritual. It was not he who commanded our sight though. It was the Angel. It had already manifested under the vast vaulted roof. The hanging banners already smoked and burned in contact with its burning wings. Around it everything seemed to shimmer.
It towered above us, seemingly a hundred times the height of a man. It looked bigger, as if something infinite were compressing itself into the tiny space available in our world. It came from somewhere else where its size had no limit or meaning. In my mind I imagined it larger than a planet, able to hold a whole world in its beautiful clawed hand. Its skin was the colour of bronze. Its robe was shimmering white. Its face was beautiful. Its eyes were filled with fire. Its wings billowed from its back in a cloud of gaseous plasma. It seemed immense but not yet solid. All of the flames in the temple twisted towards it, dancing worshippers genuflecting to their god.
It looked down on us and it smiled.
I felt as if it was looking directly at me. I am sure every man there did. It is a discomforting thing to come under the gaze of a great daemon. It was looking into my soul, seeing my darkest secrets, measuring every particle of sin. It knew me in a moment better than I knew myself. It knew all the dark and hateful things I wanted to keep hidden even from myself. It recognised me as one of its own. It made a beckoning gesture with its hand. There was an awful invitation in the movement. It called upon me to step forwards, to join it, to be purged by its cleansing flame and renewed.
There was a promise of immortality in that gesture and the fulfilment of all my dreams. I could walk forwards and join the ranks of its followers and become one with the immortals. I could welcome the presence of this tremendous cosmic being into my life and become part of its legion of worshippers and leave this place and conquer worlds in its name.
Visions of an eternity of splendour danced before me. I would be ruler of a world, many worlds. My enemies would fear me. Women would adore me. I would be greater than any king. I watched transfixed. I think it was curiosity that saved my soul, strange as that may sound.
For some reason I looked at Macharius, perhaps even then seeking to follow his lead. He stood transfixed. His eyes were locked on the daemonic Angel. There seemed to be some sort of direct communication going on between them. I wondered what he was seeing, what temptations were being placed before him. I was being presented to myself as a conqueror of worlds. He was already all of that and more.
What could it offer him?
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Damn
Good feats
Good feats
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- #240
The thing we were all waiting. Macharius vs The Angel of Fire:
The swirling essence of the daemon descended upon the corpse of the High Priest. The body slowly rose, one eye dangling from an optic nerve torn from its exposed skull. The other was filled with fire. Great flaming wings emerged from his back, a sword of fire appeared in his hands. His ruined corpse had become the vessel of the Angel. Some of the sense of terrible presence was gone.
'It has not fully manifested,' Drake shouted. 'It cannot draw on its full power. We can still overcome it.'
I was not sure I believed him.
The corpse advanced towards us. The flesh of the right cheek had been ripped away to expose grinning teeth. It looked evil and terrible and filled with awful wrath. Macharius raced to meet it, chainsword screaming in his hand. The daemon parried the blow with its weapon. It seemed impossible something so insubstantial could parry a weapon as solid as a chainsword but it did. It struck back, blade flickering forwards impossibly fast, a line of fire searing Macharius's cheek.
Drake and his psykers started to chant then. A glow surrounded Macharius, of the sort you see depicted in religious paintings of the Emperor and his primarchs. It was the first time I had ever seen it in reality. I swear a halo of light had appeared around Macharius's head. He looked like a saint made flesh, which was in its way reassuring; to survive this we were going to need the assistance of a saint and more even than that.
Macharius fought with the Angel of Fire. I thought I heard something over the roar of battle and the chant of plainsong. I realised it was Drake. He was shouting: 'Kill the priests!'
We waded in among the heretics, stabbing and bludgeoning and shooting. I have never considered it honourable to murder unarmed men but in this case I was prepared to make an exception. The priests screamed and died. The air where the Angel had been swirled; looking up I saw what appeared to be a hole in the fabric of our reality, a gateway to somewhere else, to whatever distant, Chaotic realm the Angel had come from.
All I seemed to see were swirling colours, flames dancing in all manner of strange patterns and bearing a resemblance to whatever real-world objects my mind projected on to them. They took on shape, like those castles you sometimes see when staring into a fire. I saw molten landscapes over which rose citadels sculpted from flame and around which fluttered hosts of fire-winged angels. They were assembling themselves into disciplined regiments and preparing to jump the gap to our world.
I tore my gaze away from that portal into an alternative reality and I saw that Macharius was still engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the avatar of the Angel of Fire. As ever, he moved with blazing quickness. His motion was a blur, too fast to be followed easily with the human eye. It did not appear as if the daemon had any trouble doing so.
The Angel parried Macharius's blade with its sword of fire. If anything, its attacks were even faster than the general's. I was surprised that anything could live when faced by the full fury of its onslaught. :Every time that fiery blade licked out it seemed to impact upon the general's armour. And yet, Macharius did not burn. It took me some time to realise why. He was being protected by the power of our own psykers.
As ever, Macharius had a very sound grasp of the situation. Of course, in all likelihood, he knew no more about how to deal with it than I did. On the other hand, he knew that there was someone present who did.
'Close that infernal portal before it is too late.' Drake heard and obeyed.
Lines of light began to emerge from all of the Imperial psykers and converge upon the stalwart figure of the inquisitor. He did something with all that power, channelling it into a mesh of potent energy that swirled outwards from his hands and surrounded the glowing gate. He began to pull the net tight. The opening started to close but not without resistance.
Men screamed and I wondered what was happening because there was a note in the screams that I had never heard before. The psykers around Drake started to fall, their mouths open, their faces pale, blood gushing from mouths and nostrils and eye-sockets. It was not the same sound as the heretics made as they were slaughtered, it was something else, the sound of men who were losing their very souls, having them drawn from their bodies and offered up as a sacrifice to something greater.
Beams of light emerged from Drake's hand and surged around the gateway, forming a lattice around it. His whole body was lit by the energies he wielded. His eyes blazed with the Emperor's Light. Every one of the people who still communed with Drake stood frozen. Their eyes were wide, their mouths stretched in ghastly rictuses as if screams were being torn from their very souls. One by one, they toppled and died as if their life force was being wrenched from them and used to power whatever exorcism Drake performed.
The daemon began to oppose the inquisitor's efforts and tried to get past Macharius in order to cut him down with its fiery blade. Macharius kept himself interposed. He stood between it and Drake. Seeing the Lord High Commander at risk, more and more of our soldiers pressed forwards. The Angel chopped down but it could not find a way through that wall of flesh that opposed it. What human courage and human muscle could achieve our soldiers did. They wanted to protect Macharius even at the cost of their own lives. They threw themselves forwards, again and again forming a rampart of blood and gristle. I saw Anton and Ivan struggle to get forwards. They were almost within striking distance of the Angel when I lost sight of them in the press.
I sensed the change in the atmosphere around us. Where once there was a wind of power blowing outwards into our world, now it felt as if the current was flowing in a different direction. All of the fire and energy seemed to be being sucked out of the air around us and returned to the place from which it had come, and as it did so I could see that the Angel of Fire was being drawn back into its own fiery realm. It fought every step of the way but, at last, it passed through the portal and that eerie gateway swirled shut.
And then suddenly, it was silent. The Angel of Fire was gone.
The swirling essence of the daemon descended upon the corpse of the High Priest. The body slowly rose, one eye dangling from an optic nerve torn from its exposed skull. The other was filled with fire. Great flaming wings emerged from his back, a sword of fire appeared in his hands. His ruined corpse had become the vessel of the Angel. Some of the sense of terrible presence was gone.
'It has not fully manifested,' Drake shouted. 'It cannot draw on its full power. We can still overcome it.'
I was not sure I believed him.
The corpse advanced towards us. The flesh of the right cheek had been ripped away to expose grinning teeth. It looked evil and terrible and filled with awful wrath. Macharius raced to meet it, chainsword screaming in his hand. The daemon parried the blow with its weapon. It seemed impossible something so insubstantial could parry a weapon as solid as a chainsword but it did. It struck back, blade flickering forwards impossibly fast, a line of fire searing Macharius's cheek.
Drake and his psykers started to chant then. A glow surrounded Macharius, of the sort you see depicted in religious paintings of the Emperor and his primarchs. It was the first time I had ever seen it in reality. I swear a halo of light had appeared around Macharius's head. He looked like a saint made flesh, which was in its way reassuring; to survive this we were going to need the assistance of a saint and more even than that.
Macharius fought with the Angel of Fire. I thought I heard something over the roar of battle and the chant of plainsong. I realised it was Drake. He was shouting: 'Kill the priests!'
We waded in among the heretics, stabbing and bludgeoning and shooting. I have never considered it honourable to murder unarmed men but in this case I was prepared to make an exception. The priests screamed and died. The air where the Angel had been swirled; looking up I saw what appeared to be a hole in the fabric of our reality, a gateway to somewhere else, to whatever distant, Chaotic realm the Angel had come from.
All I seemed to see were swirling colours, flames dancing in all manner of strange patterns and bearing a resemblance to whatever real-world objects my mind projected on to them. They took on shape, like those castles you sometimes see when staring into a fire. I saw molten landscapes over which rose citadels sculpted from flame and around which fluttered hosts of fire-winged angels. They were assembling themselves into disciplined regiments and preparing to jump the gap to our world.
I tore my gaze away from that portal into an alternative reality and I saw that Macharius was still engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the avatar of the Angel of Fire. As ever, he moved with blazing quickness. His motion was a blur, too fast to be followed easily with the human eye. It did not appear as if the daemon had any trouble doing so.
The Angel parried Macharius's blade with its sword of fire. If anything, its attacks were even faster than the general's. I was surprised that anything could live when faced by the full fury of its onslaught. :Every time that fiery blade licked out it seemed to impact upon the general's armour. And yet, Macharius did not burn. It took me some time to realise why. He was being protected by the power of our own psykers.
As ever, Macharius had a very sound grasp of the situation. Of course, in all likelihood, he knew no more about how to deal with it than I did. On the other hand, he knew that there was someone present who did.
'Close that infernal portal before it is too late.' Drake heard and obeyed.
Lines of light began to emerge from all of the Imperial psykers and converge upon the stalwart figure of the inquisitor. He did something with all that power, channelling it into a mesh of potent energy that swirled outwards from his hands and surrounded the glowing gate. He began to pull the net tight. The opening started to close but not without resistance.
Men screamed and I wondered what was happening because there was a note in the screams that I had never heard before. The psykers around Drake started to fall, their mouths open, their faces pale, blood gushing from mouths and nostrils and eye-sockets. It was not the same sound as the heretics made as they were slaughtered, it was something else, the sound of men who were losing their very souls, having them drawn from their bodies and offered up as a sacrifice to something greater.
Beams of light emerged from Drake's hand and surged around the gateway, forming a lattice around it. His whole body was lit by the energies he wielded. His eyes blazed with the Emperor's Light. Every one of the people who still communed with Drake stood frozen. Their eyes were wide, their mouths stretched in ghastly rictuses as if screams were being torn from their very souls. One by one, they toppled and died as if their life force was being wrenched from them and used to power whatever exorcism Drake performed.
The daemon began to oppose the inquisitor's efforts and tried to get past Macharius in order to cut him down with its fiery blade. Macharius kept himself interposed. He stood between it and Drake. Seeing the Lord High Commander at risk, more and more of our soldiers pressed forwards. The Angel chopped down but it could not find a way through that wall of flesh that opposed it. What human courage and human muscle could achieve our soldiers did. They wanted to protect Macharius even at the cost of their own lives. They threw themselves forwards, again and again forming a rampart of blood and gristle. I saw Anton and Ivan struggle to get forwards. They were almost within striking distance of the Angel when I lost sight of them in the press.
I sensed the change in the atmosphere around us. Where once there was a wind of power blowing outwards into our world, now it felt as if the current was flowing in a different direction. All of the fire and energy seemed to be being sucked out of the air around us and returned to the place from which it had come, and as it did so I could see that the Angel of Fire was being drawn back into its own fiery realm. It fought every step of the way but, at last, it passed through the portal and that eerie gateway swirled shut.
And then suddenly, it was silent. The Angel of Fire was gone.
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