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It is the time for the zenith of my mounting anxiety and erratic appearance, disappearing for work for the week and a half. Everyone be good and don't destroy yourselves until I get back.

Be good. Be safe in these trying times. Drink your water. Aaand just be safe and strong for yourselves (postively).

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Vopi the Magnificent's armour, The Parvus Regiment v3

Slipped elements of the armour's designs over the years, plus the big constant inconsistency of his poor wings. Slowly but surely, they are making features that remain.

Vopi's helmet is a cruel parody of the Banshee's mask, unleashing horrific psychosonic screams that floods his victims with Warp energy fueled by his unbridled violence, sadism and desire to indulge to every sweet sensation of battle. Victims that haven't become atomized dust with their souls vulnerable to the Warp, driven insane in fear and flooded emotions, and other gruesome degrees of wounded - from the sheer concussive blast crumbling armour and bones, their organs exploding to orifices bleeding, suffer worse fates. There have been few who become victims of possessions or utter overwhelmed in mutations to be Chaos Spawns mewling for death and killing former allies in their newfound madness.

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Changing the Sons of Scylla's colour scheme

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The ritual was done. The boiling fluids of the sacrificed was pushing fumes that first came out in a black smog, slithering and filling the carved summoning runes and circles. It pillowing outward, stretching into slithering tendrils around the last three. The cult-masters continued to pray, their lips black and tongues bleeding with the growing laceration.

More and more reality was becoming a wavering surface. The songs of the long-insane whispering, rippling...becoming louder and louder.

Slanted eyes opening. Spines flaring with long throngs of flickering tongues.

The whimpering of the tortured was becoming a growing cadance. Whimpering into moans and swoons, a background to heavenly songs tittering. Ears was pounding. Brain pulsing. It took all of their willpower to hold themselves. Their bodies burned. Their hearts quickening under their ribs. They could feel it.

Feel him. Closer. Closer. Closer.

Then two great eyes opened into slanted squints. So close, it was too late to look away.

One bowed but the other two was frozen, their souls gone the moment they looked into the maelstroms swallowing into the endless void of its splitted pupils. They blinked. Even with the deaths of sixty-six men and women in throes of esctasy and horror was barely a tribute but enough as they rose and a hand swept the black veil into a flowing fabric of silk to wrap around a curvaceous hip.

Before the Last, he beheld his master. His god. The Arch-Angel under Divinity to answer their sacrifices and pleas, leaning back into a couch of flowing coat. When daring to lift his face, he found a heaven occupied by angels of infernal glory. The Archangel looking warily, appearing as a great fox-mutant with fur of alabaster hugging on sculpted muscle of a hero-god, adorned with gold and jewelry that seem to be worlds crystallized. Eyes framed by the shadowed marks that stretched to his tall ears.

A face that was obvious bestial yet that was a lingering humanity in it that fear and lust held the cult-master frozen.

The Artist-Muse, surrounded by six maidens so beautifully as they sang, swished his luxurious tails and ground dirty under a claw, that was far more interesting than the gnat that summoned him.

"You have summoned the Master of Muses. The King of Defiance. The Devourer of Arrogance. The Queen of Shallow Dreams. The Gifter of Rightful Aspect. Speak or become the newest vocalist in my chorus of agony."

The voice commanded, its baritone as pressuring as a gathering storm strangling the clouds with a spindly whisper underneath as keen as a killer's knife along the ear's edge.

"Do not waste your words, Mortal."

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The Capture of Her Vulpine, M31.???

The evil of the Exalted Daemon, known by countless epiteths and names with the most consistent of 'Ludwig the Aspired', have touched many worlds, corrupted countless innocent souls and seen the defilement of Eldari, both living and restrained in their soulstone.

Finally, sometime after his grevious defeat against the Emperor during the War of the Webway, he was hunted by a coven of Farseer from a craftworld whose name was erased by the very same daemon that they sealed away.

In war that stretched from the Materium and Immaterium, Ludwig had an apocalyptic battle on a maiden world. He had unleashed his daemonic legions upon his foe but the Eldar called an avatar of Khaine empowered by the sacrifice of many for this epic duel.

The psychic winds howled and tore the planet around them. Were it not for the arrival of an Inquisitorial fleet, the fates of what came next wouldn't have stirred. By burning lash and culling the dark powers against him, Ludwig the Aspired was defeated - turned and trapped into a miniscule jade fox statue. But not before cursing all who dared to disrupt him. He vowed the destruction and horrific suffering of the Eldar, in ways that will have his infernal patron salivating in lustful gluttony for the day he even allow their souls to be spilt into the Warp.

As for the mortal humans, there was a curse that saw many turned into beastmen and their bloodlines tainted. To be heretics, tragedies, and playthings to the muses of fate itself. Above all, he prophecied he will return. He will return with the Folly of Man and the Arrogance of Eldar are joined.

A prophecy that will come fulfilled...

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Ovad'ia, Emissary of Lorgar.

The Word Bearer Daemon Prince in DoW: Dark Crusade, no more generic daemon prince model.

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Debating to move my precious Slaaneshi fox here or not. He'll be collecting dust no doubt but he'll be better appreciated I think.

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More of my BOYS ❤️ In order of appearance Heka, Luca, Marax and Shenzyk (Shen for short)

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Every time I remember about my main Noise Champion, I remember wisely he uses a hydra-necked sonic blaster and dirge siren.

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The Fox-King's Procession

“Forces of Chaos,’ the voice carried in the howling gale of perfumed winds. Every warrior that called onto the Dark Powers and been caressed by the ruinous gifts felt it touch their minds and bodies into a quivers that faltered their battle for the briefest blissful moment. All eyes were following a great being striding into this reality. ‘Bow to me.”

And they did, even when their minds commanded otherwise. Their knees were weak. Their hearts pattering and the warbands fell one at a time before the passing power. Those of the Dark Prince fell into the prostate before a great vision of their stolen god. Musclebound and intent, swaying like a courtesan among hungry nobles and soldiers to the curvaceous attraction bedazzled by jewels bouncing off bountiful thighs and tight waist. Armoured of limbs, layered by a hateful dragon yet boldly naked of chest and groin, pristine velvet-soft pelt of death’s pallor. 

Its face clad by a twisted fox’s laughing sneer with the most hateful gaze, none worthy to even a moment’s glance. Those caressed by the whipping nest of tails sixfold dropped dead of cruel razor-fur, salivating maws full of teeth that shouldn’t be, or the crushing whip of disdain. Every soul plucked to give the miniscule sample of life onto the crossing being. 

None raised their eyes. All forced to the dirt as they should. Nostrils bleeding with the bountiful musk that pushed through the six-limbed daemon’s pores. A smell so odorous of sulfuric poison yet demanding that they huffed again, hoping for another painful taste for that slightest hint of the pure carnality. For Pain was its commandment. The only bliss that it radiates is the freedom of the mortal coil that everyone wore, even the temporary presence of the undead. 

At its heel, a great host processed behind its ruinous king. The bounding of daemonic steeds ridden by prideful knights and salacious hunters to attend its great hunt, ranks of hellplated warriors and scarred marauders, dissents and love-slaves of every race and faction behind it while daemons danced and cartwheels singing their master’s hateful motif that roused the submissive audience. Their hearts pounded and eyes wept as if they felt a wanting bounty to the Fox-King’s rage and tragedy, hundred of standards flew in a multitude of fleshly color and runes to his kingdom and god’s dominance. Even those of other gods had been transformed to that of the Dark Prince provided the moment of shade.

 Oh woe, To lose his opulent kingdom and godly might to a jealous megarie, even his beloved divine stolen. How could these cretins continue to live?

Warriors of Khorne started to fall on their own blades in associated shame. Their axes maiming their beloved weapon limbs, mutated tendrils coiling their necks for rightful strangulations, nails popping eyes in sweet agonizing pleas of forgiveness, blades piercing their too-aching hearts. Those too strong under their Skull-Father lunged, allowed a moment’s present glory and fell to Slaaneshi daemons and men happy to murder them with hundreds of stabbing and tearing. A single stroke of a quick death. 

This and more turned into a growing aroma into the air, distorting and twisting to a perfume that clung to the battlefield. It brought the power of the Dark Prince deeper and fuelled the daemons’ malevolent flesh. Men and women were plucked and added to the procession, seamlessly joining the mourners and bearers. The rest will be forever envious to have survived and be unchosen by the Host of the Fox-King. 

And this insulted rage fell upon their new unity against the stormhost to stand in the Exalted of Daemons’ way in his Great Hunt. They threw their fury and lives to the storm of Sigmar’s Un-Men before Ludwig the Obsessed dirtied his great claws, his voice was malevolent thunder over the flesh and ears as he sung in shrieking howls and venomous cries, turning blood into lead and melancholy slugged noble warriors’ righteous swings.

Even for his size, he moved with a lightning-bolt’s passing. Four limbs startling blows that claimed scores of lives as he swirled and twirled. A blade thorned like a spiteful rose and as red in its crystalline length sliced as fine as a painter’s brush and tossed blood just as fine. The death-bolts of Anvil-casted were the drums steadied and added to the warlike music, their supplement of freemen screamed in horror a chorus swooned by daemonettes and spell maestros directing the symphony to the wind of magics. 

Even as the draconiths were claiming their own bounty of ruinous mortals, their hide were plucked and hearts given as great fistful grapes by the leaping dancers of Ludwig’s following Keeper-kin attracted to his self-pity and hateful following, jeering and swooning. Praising and urging him on, some even finding loving embrace and gossip-filled whispers to one another among the chaos. 

The Aspired Patron cared little. His heart was too blackened and his body urged, as if his Stolen Prince could feel it all and begged him;

Go! Keep going, my beloved pet. Hunt those who undone you. Hunt for your lust of vengeance. Even chained, I love you and adore you. Send their souls onto me for your passion. Send your lovers’ souls onto me for your obsessions. Send your pain onto me, so I may feel it carve my perfect ribs. And when their souls fill your breached gullet, let it remind me of my stolen bounty soon to return, O Precious Lap-Darling Mine.

Just the thought of those words drew poisonous tears that stained cheek and ground, Ludwig screamed as he cried out his Master-Mistress’ name and a tempest of scorning scourges spiraled around his being, claiming ally and foe both in bone-crushing coils and life-ending lashes. Their souls to be scattered and drunk, what wounds that felt like brushes of gnats closed and spurred their killer into a higher glory.

Kill! Kill! Kill! 

Maim. Torture. Flay. 

Kill everything denies you! 

ALL FOR SLA’A’NESH!

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Guys. Guys please. We have to remember that protagonist is not a stand in word for hero and antagonist is not a stand in word for villain. Please. We learned this in middle school. The protagonist is the character the audience follows. The antagonist is the character who is working against the protagonist.

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It moved. The stormtroopers couldn’t find themselves able to aim. Their fear was stinking the air. The sounds. The croaking gurgled as its tongue whipped and tugged itself out of sergeant Tark’s cadaver with a wet slip. It turned into the most spine-quivering swoon of pleasure with the whimpering and moans of faces smothered under its twisted neck, hiding under shameful hands. 

No one could see in the fog of war, but its shape was unmistakable despite its profane making. Limbs twisted backwards, crawling on fingers and toes. Breasts swaying in the air while another set of hands quivered painfully in the air, sometimes groping along its suggestive length whipping with a weeping stinger. 

Its figure crawled slowly, occasionally pawing and moving bodies that it had butchered and sampling like a person still parched for more water. It even whimpered and groaned. A voice - a woman’s voice, oh Emperor he could have sworn to the Throne itself that it sounded like Janette - moaning for more. It was so thirsty. 

He even found his fingers treacherous trying to pull at his trigger, to give the signal for the lascannon to boil this abomination into slag and bubbling flesh. However, how it swayed and dipped, it was like seeing a pathetic victim of xeno torture trying to survive despite everything. Even if every feature telling otherwise. It was far bigger than a human, meeting almost a tank in its appalling size but it looked every bit of a once proud thing ruined. 

What was this thing? Why is this thing…?

“Maria.” Someone whispered, seeing another woman. Then its face turned slowly. The rings of eyes piercing through the fog. The whimpering turned into a humming moan. The cries become harsher. Louder. Until it became a paralyzing scream as it charged, they couldn’t even hear their own screams as their hotshot lasfire did nothing but bounce off the death-pale skin of daemon metal. 

The barking vomit of autocannon rattled from the screaming lesser heads, drooling ichor as they claimed the lives of soldiers that saw only their loved ones. This stalker of hell came for them. Hungered for them. And the daemon that shaped its core howled for more.

WARNING: Suggestive Imagining beyond, Such sights to behold:

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Zaaresh Joysong, daemon prince of the Emperor's Children

I refuse to believe I didn't post this already. Have my rendering of the Oldhammer Daemon Prince for the Emperor's Children. At least one of the depictions made. Loved working him forever ago to the point of extra doodles.

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Kranrar Warpkin, Champion of Tzeentch

I looove Oldhammer champions and this one, I always wanted to draw. My fingers leveled up enough to attempt him. I dont know his actual name but this is my snatch of him. Bonus Blarb:

Kranrar Warpkin called out to his warriors under the Wyrdfire Iconoclasts, how he bounded on his avian legs without fear of death nor belief of defeat. The Mark of Tzeentch burning upon his almost wood-like raiment. The face that was once a mere helmet squawked violence, to commit the souls that dare to challenge him to the Master of Fates. His serrate-edged sword came to hack across greenskinned muscles and sinews, slicing as hot as fire. Their screams an unknown incantation to the spell of war. The Chaos Champion extended his double-jointed arm out, the most distinctive of the Mad God’s gifts – the oversized hand of a Tzeentch – wrapped its sucker-ended fingers around a Black Orc’s skull, its fell power warping its helmet like yeast before squeezing with a gory pop. “In the name of Tzeentch, twist their bones! In the name of the Constant Change, flay their flesh! In the desire of plots untold, eat their brains and take their will!” Kranrar Warpkin cried out, the Chaos Champion bounded and carved skull to chest. Nape to ass. Side to side. His madness as true as his skill as a warrior blessed by the Ruinous Powers. He made a mere gesture and a ruby-mote of warpfire lashed from one of his many bewitched rings, claiming a gang of Orcs into a melting pool flailing and changing, only for four mewling Chaos Spawns baring bare resemblance of their former lives with flailing axe-hands, claws, and bubbling maws full of teeth. His marauders with their flesh seared with the magical wards of protection, armed with shields and axes charging to meet against the green horde with javelins lined of fetishes and heathenish prayers hurled with impossible aim. Their greater companions, the Warpkin Warriors themselves, marched forward with a presence that demanded reverence and fear. The goblins crushed under boot, given the attention of mere contempt by these men swollen with Tzeentch’s gifts as their swords gleaming with their magics and shields deflecting arrows to carve into the orcish lines with their master. The chained Chaos Spawn that served Kranrar threw themselves deep into the WAAGH in their unbridled madness for some kind of ease to their screaming minds, and hopefully the solace of death finally claiming them. By the fortune and wisdom to make a pact with a Lord of Change, the ‘gift’ of a Blue Horror retinue was a fine addition into the battle. Their glittering rain of warpfire had turned one of the Greenskins’ beasts into a bubbling twisting monolith of decolored flesh and metal, led by their incandescent horror who cackled and gaggled with a language far beyond mortal understanding or acceptance. With long multi-jointed fingers and a wave of its staff, a storm of falling iron blemished the wasteland’s ugly nothingness to a glittering carpet of pain that earned more of the daemons’ glee!

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The Price of Failure

The greatest mistake done was not dying for him. It was allowing themselves to retreat before the battlelines of the Emperor. As his hammer crackled and hurled lightning against the Fox-King. Claws and talons tearing daemonic flesh and noble griffin barding. Man and beast against devil.

And when the Emperor's life was within his claws, only to be torn by a foreseen ferocity, Ludwig's rage was ungodly.

It took the mountains and boiled the sea. Within his palace of flesh-gold, the daemons who served as his retinue suffered unlike any other. Foolish was it to fail a Child of Slaanesh, for their creativity in the measures of pain was unfathomable.

For they learned, immortality have its own horror and in the Realms of Chaos - time had no meaning and eternity was cruel under a wrathful master. What emerged from Ludwig's Parlour was horror shambling and groaning, to serve him still and earn the respise of release.

Their gods could not reclaim their mangled forms, bound by the Eightspurred Wheel and cursed by Ludwig's weaved song. There is no escape...until he deems it so.