#Warmaster Horus

[reclusiarch-orm]

Warmaster Horus. You may think you are seeing the mess of his armour I made back there but you don't. You are too transfixed by his steak jawline

[haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

Horus Heresy by Zheng Wei

[tagedeszorns]

Marine Meat Monday Special: Old-lore Primarchs!

Horus, the Seducer

Last week the topic of very old lore came up, especially Fulgrim not getting possessed by sword-demon, but getting seduced by sooopa charisma Horus.

So @yanagikou and I are giving you: Seducer and seduced! It's not just the oldest of old lore, it's also kind of a diptychon! Have fun.

The other half is here.

Seriously, as an EC-fan: Let's return to this old lore. It's way better. WAY better.

Here's the quote. It's from the Legions-section of the 1999 Chaos Codex (you know, the one with Doom Rider).

[sorormaior]

Does Cary have grey hair and if no, are they dying their hair to hide that they actually have grey hair?

this is a really good question bc it allows me to reveal

cary's weirdly young for an astartes. still. physically speaking they're about 121 (as of writing VOTF act 2). if titus isn't greying at 250 then cary sure as hell isn't greying at 120

though i won't lie and say greying hair cary has crossed my mind- i cant find it rn but i have given them silver streaks before in AUs....

[breizhpixtoyz29]

The Horus Heresy

[skunts-own-truth]

Been secretly shipping Erebus and Abaddon since End & the Death came out. Abby is Erebus’ embarrassed little puppy, getting used to all this Chaos Undivided and Warmastering business. You know what I mean? You feel me? You drinking from the same tap, you fucking bastard?

[lumi-klovstad-games]

"I Am Osiris"

(A very short story set in my Alternate Future for Warhammer 40k, The Age of Reclamation)

The Reclaimed Sixteenth Primarch had long been afraid of that room.

The Imperial Throne.

A lifetime of memories of a man he was, but also never was, churned through his mind as he finally made the approach to the doors that led to the Golden Throne. He remembered his own death. The mortal wound that he, no, the TRAITOR, had inflicted upon his father. The wound, the WAR, that had ruined mankind’s first, best chance to be something else. Something far, FAR better.

How long did he pace outside those doors? Minutes seemed hours, hours seemed days. The memories kept coming. Sanguinius, broken and dead. Terra, aflame. He didn’t do these things, but he did. He remembered it. The Reclaimed Sixteenth could not guess as to his origins, but he knew he was supposed to be… better. Supposed to be the man that Horus had failed to be.

He ran his hands over his head.

The Custodes just watched him, silent. Judging.

He straightened his posture. He had to do this. He had to speak to his father. He had to begin amends.

The Sixteenth approached the Custodes guarding the door.

“I am… ready. To face my father.”

A host of Custodes emerged from a place unseen by the Sixteenth, but he caught their presences immediately. It had to be at least a hundred. Probably more. He didn’t blame them.

“Lord Guilliman vouched for you. That’s the only reason why.” icily spake one of the Custodes at the door.

“I am aware. I do not fault any of you. Even I am unsure where the Lupercal ends and I begin. I hope that my father might hold some insight.”

A mechanical scoff came from under one of the Custodes’ helmets.

“Once a traitor…”

Nevertheless, the doors opened, and the Sixteenth stepped through, followed by the host of the Emperor’s Talons.

He knelt before the Dessicated Corpse, itself a great symbol of what his past had made of his father’s great work.

Dead, yet very alive. Somehow, in a way the Primarch could not identify. Sacrifice reforged into pure psychic presence.

He began to speak.

“I kneel before You now, Father… Though I do not know if I am truly your son. I remember… I remember everything. The storm-wracked halls of the Vengeful Spirit. The howling of daemons as the light of Terra dimmed beneath our guns. The screams of Sanguinius— The final, shattering moment when he—when I—stood before You, blade raised in betrayal. And then— Oblivion. And now… this. I do not understand how I yet live. Am I a shadow cast by regret? A ghost given flesh? A weapon of your will? Or some deeper punishment? I do not know. All I know is that I wake each day with the weight of a crime I did not choose, but cannot deny. I see through his eyes in my dreams— His voice in my throat, His fury, His ambition, His fall. But I am not him. Not truly. …Am I?”

The tortured Primarch lifted his eyes to meet his father’s, or where they would have been but for the ever tormenting actions of the past. Gazing into those pits, where once sat eyes that burned with the intensity of supernovae, hurt — as though making eye contact with past sins embodied. Yet, he forged onward.

“You are silent, as the man I remember made you. But I feel it now—something echoing from You. A fracture of thought, barely grasped— A truth without shape. You know me. And you do not know me. I was your Warmaster. And I was your Betrayer. I... I am not who I was…”

He thought he heard a scoff from one of the Golden Host. The Sixteenth felt his breathing intensify, and though expressing the truth made the air itself weigh heavier in his lungs. The atmosphere had a texture, a weight, a density beyond what was natural. Perhaps it was guilt. Perhaps it was the Emperor’s Presence. Maybe it was all in his head.

“I feel it. The shadow of who I was... the darkness that clings to me, even now. The echo of betrayal... Horus. The name still burns like a wound on my tongue. Horus. The one who led a rebellion, turned his back on you. The Arch-Traitor.”

He paused, shuddering as the weight of the memory pressed in on him. His eyes drifted downward, as though seeking some comfort in the cold stone beneath him. But there was none. In this place, in this moment, surrounded by the cold eyes of the Adeptus Custodes, simply waiting for the slightest inkling of the Great Betrayer’s return, enveloped by the psychic remnants of the Emperor, there could be no stumbling backward. There was only forwards.

“I remember it all. Every battle, every word, every scream. I remember killing you. Not just in the halls of the Vengeful Spirit, but in my heart. I... I watched as you fell. I was there when you died. And yet... you were not the one who fell, were you? It was me.”

He lifted his head slightly, his eyes like distant and tortured stars.

“I’ve lived through it, Father. That heresy, that damnable thing. It is a nightmare I cannot wake from... but also not truly mine. The horror of it, the pain, the death... I did not choose it, and yet... I remember every breath, every word."

"I remember these hands—bloody, unworthy, stained forever.”

The Reborn Warmaster’s voice caught. He swallowed hard, struggling to maintain composure, though to what end he didn’t know. The Custodes would never accept his rebirth. Not truly. Not yet. And he didn’t even know if there was enough left of his father to judge him if he simply broke and became a sobbing mess on the throne room floor.

“And yet... here I am. Still alive. But who am I, truly? A shadow of what was, or something new? I don’t know where I begin and he ends. Was I born from him? Or am I a lie given flesh—some dream of redemption made real? If you made me... why? If you didn't—then who did? What right do I have to bear this face, this name? To wear this skin and call myself your son again? He died. You killed him. You had to. And I—I live? By unknown hands, I clawed my way back into a galaxy that I discovered curses my name. They look at me and see a monster reborn. And sometimes... so do I. I hear the memories of gods I have never worshipped, yet remember serving. I feel the weight of a crown I never asked to wear. So tell me—please—tell me what I am!”

There was a long silence. Then, as if brushing a distant star, something stirred within him—a whisper not of voice but of being. A fragment of psychic truth. The Emperor did not so much as speak, but he acknowledged. He recognized.

“Even you don’t know? Then we are the same, you and I. Both bound by purpose, drowning in mystery, living on long past our time. We are both relics and memories of a bygone age, I suppose. Yet here we both are. Our time is long over, yet not our ability to act. I suppose there is no answer to what I am, so I will become my own answer. I cast aside the name that damned me. I bury him here, at Your feet, among the dust and ash of all that was lost.”

The Reborn Man, rose reverently, reborn yet again. One Custode shifted slightly, the motion sharp with tension—but said nothing.

“I am not Horus. I am Osiris. I will never stop fighting for the Imperium. I will carry this shame until the stars themselves burn to cinders. I will bleed, suffer, redeem— Until the day You rise, and judge me. And until that day… my Crusade continues. I will not rest. I will not falter. I shall fight for our Imperium forever... until you forgive me... and the galaxy knows peace again. Upon my blood, and that of my sons, I swear it shall be so. I will make this right, or I shall fall in the doing. I will NOT fail as Horus did.”

Osiris looked back at the assembled Custodes. 

“You have witnessed the last death of Horus. In his place rises the Redemptive Son. Bear sight and recognition of my oath, for the walls make a poor witness.”

As he moved to leave, the best of the old Wolf of Luna reasserted itself, embodied in a wordless way of confidence and command, driven not just by Osiris’ new sense of being and value, but perhaps also encouraged by the Emperor himself. Whatever the case, the Custodes parted and made way for the Sixteenth Primarch’s exit in a much more reverent and respectful manner than they had permitted his entrance.

As he departed the inner sanctum, his First Captain awaited him.

“Did you discover why we’re… here, sir?”

“No. My Father held only recognition, not answers.”

“That’s… inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient, but not the end, Zekarion. I have resolved to embody the answer itself.” “...sir?”

“It is not for the ghost of a long dead traitor or my father to truly say who I am. They can inform me as to who I was, but not who I might be. That is for me to decide.”

Captain Zekarion gave a confused smile. 

“Captain, I reject the name of Horus. I choose to be Osiris. And our Legion is once more to be known as the Luna Wolves. Inform the men upon our return. We’ll fight like Wolves to be worthy of our redemption and our honor.”

Zekarion’s smile became more earnest.

“YES SIR!”

[buffmrtumnus]

Angron's Heresy - A 40k/World Eaters Fic

So I wrote a small thing, only 2k words for once lol. It's a bit of an idea I've had ringing around my head for a couple of days, and I decided to put it to paper today, so let me know what you think :)

Summary:

The battle for Terra rages as daemons and traitors rampage across the planet. In a desperate last gambit, the loyalist forces, including the very Emperor himself teleport aboard the Warmaster's ship, the Conqueror.

Fueled by all four Chaos Gods, Warmaster Angron prepares to face the Master of Mankind, and achieve vindication for his years of suffering.

But it's Horus Lupercal, loyal son of the Emperor, that first reaches the Red Angel, discovering the fallen Primarch at the height of his power. The odds are stacked against him, but Horus is determined to end his rebellion once and for all.

(This is a "What If" for the end of the Horus Heresy, where Angron is Warmaster instead of Horus)

(CW: for some bloody violence, it's an Angron story after all)

[supercomputer-lizard]

warmaster poll

I haven’t done a poll yet, so have this

Edit: so I made this art poll a few days before this one and one day is left. I want it to have more then 7 votes, so here is the link:

Edit 2: if it has 7 votes then it would be tied for my poll with the lowest amount of votes

[doolallymagpie]

I’m being tempted by terrible visions…Redjak-augmented Atlas IIs with the fucking bunny ears and chainglaives and shit

[ask-valerian-40k]

black legion chads; we are so back

[skunts-own-truth]

Love it when Horus has his Fun-Glove on. Ready for a night on the town.

Lupercal 

by George Earl Abalayan

[haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

Warmaster Lupercal by Mikhail Savier

[tagedeszorns]

Abaddon doing his part by motivating the troops.

Look at him wearing daddy's claw!

[gabrielsantar]

mmm delicious parallel comparing malcador and erebus to one another

[fandom-geek]

#his super charisma is just the light bouncing off his head going into people's eyes

Inspired by a post from @sonofcurz

He is so radient, just like his father ...