#Thunder Warriors

[wh40kartwork]

Thunder Warrior

by Wulfric Hilston

[alternativeminiatures]

Source @Mick19988

[thegodemperorsmycopilot]

Look at this... 👀 https://pin.it/7EStIrtNE

[sculptorofcrimson]

Tyrant’s Lullaby

Once upon a time, there was a glorious, terrible man. He built horrors. He built wonders. He brought monsters up from the deep. He took a child from the arms of a horrified, weeping family, and raised him not as a boy but as a general. He took a child and ruined his future, He took a child and made him a king, a pet, a dog. He marched armies over the face of the ravaged earth, and trampled all that did not kneel before the weight of the storm. He burned tundras to ash and shook the mountains until they crumbled, He boiled the seas to mist and the skies to charcoal. And when the scouring was done, and the earth was entombed in ashes, He turned His dreaming, endless glare upon His own.��

He strangled the thunder that had bore Him a throne, He sent the golden, the children stolen from their cradles, to plunge down long knives into turned backs raised so fervently before His regard. With their blood they had built Him a kingdom, and with their bones He crowned Himself a throne. And when Terra knelt, cowed, battered, in awe and in fear, He turned His gaze skywards.

And the stars felt His benevolent wrath. 

He bore twenty sons, two of them sacrificed, and He unleashed them upon the earth, the skies, the stars. They hunted for Him, they loved Him, they adored Him, yet some had strayed too far from His light, some had gazed upon the man that would be a god with sullen, hungry eyes, doing His bidding, and knowing His wrath. They are those who were there when affection curdled to treachery.

There was no peace among the stars, no mercy, no rest, simply a slow, heartless drowning as the gold claimed them limb by limb, inch by inch, and swallowed them into the endless light. 

And then war. Treachery, when the stars themselves were swallowed. When brother turned against brother, and father against son. When the Phoenix cleaved the Gorgon’s head from his shoulders, and the Immortal bashed in the Haunter with a hammer, when the Angel fell to the Traitor and He stained the Palace’s stones red with His son’s blood. When Horus burned, when the Angel shed his wings and the golden were shattered upon the anvil of betrayal, the Father fell to His son. 

He was buried upon a rotting throne, screaming hollowly into the fading dark, the stars basking in His rage, His pity and His wrath. He was buried alive in a tomb made from gold, ashen bones ruling a decaying kingdom from the grave, dreaming forever of brighter days. Dreaming of His sons, and how He betrayed them first, how they betrayed Him, how they abandoned His bones. And finally could the golden rest, bathed in the heart of their greatest shame, enshrining the decaying dust of a master they had failed, in an empire He had forsaken. 

That man was the Emperor. That corpse is the Emperor, golden, glorious, and decaying just like the slaves.

Do not think your bones different from a slave's. When you rot, your corpse will be indistinguishable from those of your servants.

[cursed-40k-thoughts]

Ushotan is one head shorter than Valdor, who is a foot or so taller than the average Custodes, which implies either Ushotan's exceptionally tall for a Thunder Warrior, or Thunder Warriors are the height of Custodes.

Also, if he's more muscular than Valdor, this implies either Valdor's a twink, or Ushotan's just built like a brick shithouse.

I absolutely loathe this knowledge.

Ushotan was both a big motherfucker and built like a brick shithouse. It's not really wild knowledge.

That said, all Custodes are twinks in the Emperor's eyes (he doesn't actually know what "twink" means, despite Malcador's yelling and diagrams).

[horuslupercal]

[scp-xxxx]

Warhammer Sea AU

The Astartes as mermaids.

The Emperor as Poseidon

The Primarchs as various mythical seabeasts

Thunder Warriors as sailors(I suppose)

The Custodes as fishermen.

I literally have 6k words written out.

[supercomputer-lizard]

Thunder Warriors poll

There is a picture of my fucked pencils, if you see it, then put “Those be some fucked pencils” in the tags

Here are my fucked pencils

edit: if your wondering what’s wrong with those pencils, look at the lead and then at the outside, you see it?

[doolallymagpie]

Did I build a Thunder Warrior to serve as my Shield Company’s Vexilus Praetor?

You tell me.

[liquidrenders]

thundie warriors

[artbytal]

Recent gubbins, Space Marangs, Munkis, thunder warriors and what not

Hope you like

[wh40kartwork]

Birthday Present

by Mick19988

[evanreichel]

first wh big work made a life ago

[siamesephoenixrandomideatank]

God-Emperor "Philip Wittebane" of Mankind AU [The Owl House/Warhammer 40000 AU]

I wrote this because I am bored and wanna assure I am still alive.

Instead of the Anatolian tribe during the 8th Century BC, a man Imperium knows as Emperor of Man was actually a 17th British Colonial witch hunter who claimed the power of an Archivist and secrets of Titan, as well as all the souls of people on Boiling Isles sacrificed to the Warp during the early 21st century. With generous gifts to three of the Chaos gods, Khorne granted him the great warp weapon that against psychic beings, Nurgle gave him more stabilized immortality, and Tzeentch with charisma, wisdom, and shapeshifting abilities. The myth he was created by a thousand human psychic shamans was a lie, but the sacrifice of an entire planet's population to the three gods who he wouldn't bow to for real anyway.

He discovered the church had been corrupted and he must be(or pretend to be) the fourth Messiah and the Emperor of humanity. He slowly seeded conflict and destructive tendencies on different factions of 'Old Terra', which led to the Age of Strife quicker than the canon. Plus, giving Belos a better prepared first impression as 'the God-Emperor'.

With His Thunder Warriors, symbolized as 'A War Cry of God', are a group of zealots who embrace the blessings of the Emperor as God's intervention and duty as his Earthly angelic warriors. Actually, they were made by the blood of Titan, an Archivist's knowledge and Grimwalker creation-based cloned organs to make the 'The true children of Emperor'.

However, with a combined vengeance, bitterness, and a sense of betrayal from Caleb to Hunter, the implants use parts of their flesh and essence to transfer their anger, warning, and bending of mind to against the false emperor.

Unknown if Belos planned to kill his Thunder Warriors beforehand or not, but they were eradicated after the unification of Terra. Belos realized part of Caleb influenced the Thunder Warriors, so he did Grimwalker cloning with his own gene and sample from the historical greatest figures he could retrieve to create 20 legions of Space Marines, as the Primarch being his 'Perfect Grimwalkers of humanity'.

Lorgar and Horus are destined to be traitorous as Lorgar's DNA is based on a Templar Knight who served God under blind faith and had a tendency to strong vengeance. Horus, in other hand, was based on the Ambitious footsoldier who served as his 'new golden guard', which Caleb, with help of Chaos gods' intervention, reached his mind and destiny.

[sculptorofcrimson]

Without Him

The Custodes, the perfect and the golden, aren’t they just beautiful? 

Aren’t they just a horrifying, broken concept to hyperfixate on?

Brought to life by the breathe of a half-god, created for nothing but the weight of your duty and knowing nothing but adoration for the Emperor, feeling nothing but overwhelming obedience when you gaze upon Him, and nothing but lasting emptiness when you gaze inside. He walks among you, He orders and commands and you obey, all is well, all is as it should you, with the servants plodding along the Master’s orders. Obeying His every whims, all is well, all is right. 

You are perfect. You are golden. You are glorious and you are hollow and you are filled with nothing but the shadow of His glory. The truth lies as barren as snowbeaten rock. He hollowed you out, and now He shall breathe life into your senseless corpse. What are you? What are you but the dregs of His dream? What are you without His last dying gasp rattling through your bones? 

Do you even have a will? Are you even human anymore - less- are you even living, when life itself has been drained of all honor? What are you, when you can’t even dream for yourself? What have you for ambition, when you cannot even fathom a dream? 

And the bite of betrayal. The cracklings of heresy. You are broken. You are hollow. You are imperfect. You have failed. The truth lies as barren as flesh flayed bone. The first, unhidden, beautiful, horrifying breath of freedom, the first tears to fall as you screamed for a dead master. As He fell, as you failed, as He died. The first breaking of the cycle. A servant without a master, a perfect creation out of tune, with its core snapped out, its tubes cracked, its broken machinery on display. The Throne is hollow now. The Palace is empty. The Master’s house has been broken by the Master’s tools. 

You have failed. You have failed Him. You have forsaken your duty. 

You have broken your oaths.

What does it feel like, to dream? To dream in the shadow of obedience? To dream as the Thunder Legionnes Primarch dreamed so long ago, to dream as the High Lord dreamt so long ago, to dream as the Astartes once dreamt before you snuffed them out? What does it even feel like, to hurt, to pain, to suffer for anyone else? What does it even feel like to mourn, captain-general? Can you even remember?

The truth lies as hollow as your king’s decaying bones. How fragile. How despicable. Decaying. Covered in dust. Ruined. Broken and abused. Would you wish to dream? Do you wish to embrace what it feels like to be flawed again, to know how to live, if even it was for a moment, in a flare of agony from death to death, siphoning and leeching scant moments of humanity from the haft of the Apollonian Spear as you taste the lie seeping out of broken limbs? Feeling the last sediments of agony, of sensation, slipping through a sinking mind mired in ash, seeing the moments of another worthless man’s life flash through your hollow mind, filling you with memories that were never yours and could never be, watching what have been robbed, stolen, forever lost to you now? And just what perversion of a dream is that, Constantin Valdor? 

Would you have taken the bargain, if you had know the price?

Do you even care anymore? 

Damned together now. Damned together in failure. You failed Him, and He died. He died, and you failed. You left Him behind when He fell and you didn’t, when you failed to trade your life for His as any loyal servant should have. In that, you were broken, and He abandoned you when He died ten thousand years ago. The grieving remnants of your Order was left behind, their silence as fragile as a wailing beast’s grovellings, and you left them. Those servants, who were made to love Him, who never knew if He loved them back yet ached for it. The oldest bond between Master and Slave, now broken. 

(Is there forgiveness? Can there ever be atonement for the crime of your failure?)

Do you ever wonder anymore, in the absence of His light? Do you ever, tentatively at first, retracing memories He wiped out, a mind too ravaged to even pain exploring a past He burned to oblivion, wondering what you were, wondering what you could’ve been. Reliving memories with perfect recall yet broken understanding, those conversations with the Cataegis, the screams in the frost, the simple horror of the betrayal. Do you resent them, for being what you could not? For having what you, and your brethren, in all their perfection, could never achieve? Did you even have the privilege of knowing resentment?

Do you hate them for being better at living, at being human, instead of eking out an existence without substance, an immortality without life? Do you hate the way they looked up in reverence, do you loathe their conviction, their justice, the way they trusted so blindly in their own foolish, naive, ignorant, human way, when they loved Him, and felt His wrath? 

The Primarchs you sentenced to death on Ararat. They looked at you with such hollowness burned into their gaze, knowing they’re here to be slain, knowing you’re here to kill them, knowing they - the Judas lamb - had led their troops here to die and be slaughtered. Do you resent them too? Can you know resentment? Some had fought against you. Some had raged, screamed against the dying of the light. One, even, had escaped. But the worst just looked on, with those sickeningly human eyes, in simple, broken and numb horror as their world dissolved, as they cried out for unity and heard the blade fall. Do you resent them too? Do you resent them, for you could never resent what you’ve done, for He would not let you? 

(A tool that loathes its own sacrifice is no tool at all. You may not love the slaughter, but you no longer have the right to hate it. Kill for Him. Kill for Him, it is what good hunting hounds do.)

Do you even regret the bones upon the snow? 

You failed. And the brokenness will never leave.

Do you even know hate anymore? Can you even hate anymore? Has that too been eroded? Do you hate for Him, do you hate what you have accomplished, do you hate the man you could have been but never was? For he could have been a better servant, a better man, a better captain-general, if only He had given him the right to dream? 

You failed. You failed, and now the leash you’ve lived under for so long is broken, the chains are shattered, the Order has crumbled into ruins. They live on, but how could the body do any more than endure when its heart - its mind - has been ruptured, its primal arteries torn away, left with nothing else than to preserve its bones for eternity? 

What of your lost brothers? Do you ever wonder what they could have been, if you had not fetched them from weeping mothers and brought them before your lord to be turned into His tools? Do you regret? Have you ever cared at all?

You are perfect. You are broken. You are the Custodes, and ten thousand years ago you failed. Your brethren failed the Emperor. You were built to serve a god, not until even you die, but until even eternity burns out, until the foundations of civilization crumble, and kings and emperors decay. You were perfect, once, but there was a flaw in His design. He could not have tolerated true perfection, if not for His own. He does not err, He desecrates, as He has desecrated the holy texts when He built His angels. 

You are not perfect. He built you to be flawed. He built you without a dream, without even a mind of your own, without even the will to question or care, without even the hate to ponder and rage against such a cruel existence. He built you without pain, without even loss, with nothing but an eternity of trudging onwards for scraps of His love. 

But what happens now? What happens now when you have failed so utterly in your duty? What happens now when His love is no more, but your obsession no less painful, your existence no less empty? What happens now when the part He ripped away and replaced with Himself is hollowed out again, when nothing is left behind but a gaping wound where a heart once was? What happens now, when the servants no longer have a king?

[cursed-40k-thoughts]

I resonate with Ushotan