#fucking horus heresies

[quortknee]

doodle of pre-heresy saul tarvitz (love) and lucius (hate)

[tagedeszorns]

How to get my art on a t-shirt after Games Workshop started throwing around DMCA takedown notices ...

24 hours ago Games Workshop decided to start cracking down on fan artists on sites like Teepublic or Redbubble (or maybe just me, but I highly doubt that), forcing these sites to take down any design tagged with "Warhammer".

So I don't have any designs left.

I know, I could reupload without that searchword - but what would be the point?

Or I could take the lawsuit-route. But honestly - not my windmill to fight for a few Euros.

So I decided to follow Alfabusa's example and cease my activities that could collide with the marketing clowns now ruling GW.

But if you really want to own my art on a shirt or mug or sticker - just ask me, I will send you a high-res JPEG and you can take it to a local shop to get your stuff from there!

They can't silence us fans!

[prettyflyshyguy]

I'm really enjoying reading The Flight of the Eisenstein!

[the-raven-lady]

(Not) The Savior You Long For [Part 2]

[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]

Pairing: Night Lord (OC: Elias Rushorik) x serf!Reader [fem]

Song Inspiration: Jaws - Sleep Token [YouTube] [Spotify] “And I’m not here to be / the savior you long for / Only the one you don’t. / Are you watching me / with eyes of a predator / As you move towards the door?”

Warnings: Violence, cannibalism, explicit and detailed blood and gore, Night Lord things, ownership over reader, accidental voyuerism (sound only), trypanophobia (medical syringe)

Word Count: 3.7k

Author’s Note: 1.6k words of this are just an introduction that I wrote before I even got into the meat of it, completely by accident, because I do not know how to write without adding 30 layers of context and background (4D chess ass writing). Special thank you to @cannibalise for giving me delectable ideas and reading over some of the more graphic parts to help me set the tone!!!

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual

@lemon-russ @moodymisty @dedios-of-the-word @pickpocketing-your-gender @historitor-bookshelf

Even weeks later, you struggle to shake the psychological mark the terminator’s gaze left on you. You make yourself busy sweeping one of the main halls, pushing your broom robotically up and down the grand passageway. The other legion serfs around you serve a similar purpose: readying the ship for the return of your Primarch and his elite troops. The Nightfall had been in orbit of this planet for naught but a week, dealing with a cultish tech-society and its oppressive government, yet the Night Lords managed to convince them to join the Imperium in record time. 

Convince is a strong word. You’re intimately aware that the discussion was had in the language of acts of violence and burned cities. Having once been on the receiving end of the Eighth’s hedonistic wrath, the thought sends an unpleasant chill through you, memories of mutilation and dismemberment still so clear in your mind. It had taken months for you to stop having panic attacks at the metallic tang of fresh blood. The whirr of a heavy flamer still got to you.

On one of your passes, you sweep by the alley leading to the armory and stop, staring down the dark hall. The serf no longer hangs from the torch bracket, and the astartes that attacked you no longer sits limply against the wall. His armor had been picked at and ‘recycled’ back into the legion. You have no idea what became of either body.

Another memory involuntarily takes you back to the night you had been so narrowly saved by the terminator.

—No, you could not call him your savior. He had just wanted his armor shined, and there was something in his way so he removed it. Night Lords are selfish, self-interested and sadistic, and he was no different.

You rested the massive helmet in your lap as you worked, scraping at filth that had built up for who knows how long. It amazed you that the astartes it belonged to could even see through the lenses given how much dried blood was crusted on them. It came off in flakes before dissolving into the moisture of the wash rag. You could have called the stained fabric spotless when you started compared to how soiled with grime it was now; at a glance, no one would be able to tell that it was white before.

The terminator’s eyes watched you like final judgement. The weight of his gaze instilled an unease in your heart, stabbing at every opportunity it could: each time you looked up at him, each time you lost focus, each time you caught a glimpse of the mangled Night Lord on the floor. It all hammered at a primal spike of dread that threatened to overwhelm you, consume you entirely, reminding you that you were only alive because you were useful. The tension was just as strong as when you had been pinned to the wall or huddled on the floor.

Your washcloth eventually reached a point where it was only smearing the grime rather than removing it, and you looked up to your silent master. The power of his presence alone made you hesitant to speak, and you found your throat suddenly parched. When you eventually recovered your voice, it left you as a croak, “I-I need to grab my water pail from the other room.”

He simply continued to stare at you, unmoving. As still as the gargoyles adorning the hall. You thought for a second that maybe he hadn’t heard you, and you opened your mouth to try again.

”I need to—“

”Then do it.”

You flinched. A rolling storm, his simple response left no room for questioning. Carefully placing his helmet onto the bench, you scuttled off to retrieve the bucket from the other room. His gaze burnt holes into your back.

The water in your bucket was a rusty brown slop when you returned to it. All of the heavier contaminants had settled to the bottom in a coagulated mass while you were away, gelatinous flesh and tangled hair weaving throughout. You lifted the heavy pail, careful not to spill any of the vile concoction onto yourself. Passing by, you noted that the other serf’s water was substantially less dingy than your own, and you didn’t think twice to grab it instead. It’s not as if it was of any use to her now.

The squelch of meat being torn and defiled echoed suddenly through the otherwise silent armory, instinctually gluing you to your spot on the floor. Cracks and crunches of something solid breaking bounced around you. The abrasive sounds left your heart fluttering and nerves electric, and a panicked tension flowed through your limbs as fight or flight tried its damndest to take over. 

‘It would be safer to hide, hide, retreat to safety,’ it erroneously cried, weighing you down like lead. A comforting lie. 

One you refused to give in to. 

‘There is no safety here,’ you retorted, ‘Only certain death.’ A wolf’s den, and you were the doting lamb. The fear of facing punishment for taking too long far outweighed the hesitation to continue, and you willed yourself to step forward through the icy shackles binding you. 

The sight of the terminator tearing flesh from the body of his former brother froze you as you rounded the corner with your pail. His eyes were glazed in manic pleasure as he ripped off another juicy chunk, sharp teeth effortlessly dissecting muscle fibers from the cooling corpse. Bestial snarling and slurping accompanied every chomp, and growls at a pitch nearly too deep to hear rattled through your bones like a saw. With each gnash of his powerful jaws, blood and spit shot out of the torn hole in his mouth, drooling down his armor in crimson dribbles.

Time itself seemed to stop when his predatory gaze found you. His dilated pupils completely swallowed the outer corners of white— could you even consider them dilated when they took up so much of his eyes already?— and pinned you in place. The ravenous beast swallowed his kill in a silent threat. 

You were about to make a run for it when he lowered the defiled corpse and snarled at you, foreign viscera spewing from his scar.

”Finish.”

You had done exactly as you were told while the terminator continued to make a mess of himself. Once you’d finished his helmet, he made you clean off the rest of his armor as a token of a job well done. 

A strong dissonance contrasted the perfectly shined ceramite and rags of human hide adorning his war gear. You didn’t understand at first why the Night Lords would go through such lengths to clean their armor, only to decorate it with the disgusting tokens of their kills and bathe it in blood again, but over time you began to recognize the mentality. The layers of blood were a byproduct of their work— terrifying in their own right, yes, however ultimately just ‘part of the job’—, but each placement of flesh and bone was deliberate; they chose to wear them. It added terror to their already gruesome countenance.

You figure you must have done well polishing his armor, because the terminator had left you alive in the end. As expected, he gave you no feedback. No thanks or gratitude shown before he simply walked off. For the second time that day, you were left in the armory with a huge mess to clean entirely on your own.

Shaking your head, you return to the present and continue sweeping, pushing the pile of dust around to keep yourself busy. 

Sharp clanks of heavy boots cut through the relative peace. You look down the hall to see other serfs parting ways and scurrying off to make way for a coming company of giants. Their armor dwarfed that of the regular Night Lords, tanks of metal and firepower that razed battlefields in their wake.

The Contekar Elite.

You knew of them from hushed whispers passed between serfs in the chow hall. Units of butchers that sowed despair in the hearts of their foes. Ruthless in how they constantly checked one another, the Contekar took advantage of any perceived weakness to prove their dominance over the rest of the legion. They were notorious for simply killing any commanders they disagreed with, and only the likes of First Captain Sevatarion or the Lord Night Haunter himself could tame them. 

Each colossus carried weapons as long and large as your entire body as they approached: chainblades, flamers, and cavitators, all ready to be used at a moment's notice. You hurried to get out of their way, tucking yourself behind a hallway corner. The monoliths of steel shook the ground with each step, a deafening thunder echoing down the main hall that signaled their arrival. There was no chorus or fanfare amongst them to be found; each marine was as silent as death itself.

They ignored you as they passed by. The Contekar couldn’t care less for the meddlings of a common legion serf, too busy with themselves to notice you, and it brought you shallow comfort.

At least, it would have. 

Preoccupied with watching the marines at your front passing by, you didn’t realize that one of them was headed straight towards you until his footfalls physically rattled the ground beneath you. You whip your head towards him and nearly jump out of your skin, clutching to the corner of the wall as he stares down at you. 

His entire body is marred with blood. Even from where you cower, you can see that he must be at least three meters tall in his armor, if not more. The digits of his power claw have pieces of mangled flesh still caught between their hydraulic pistons, forming webs between them. A mummified head dangles at eye level from a meat hook, and it crosses your mind that it could have been yours. 

You recognize his tusked helmet immediately.

The Contekar studies you. He is a perfect statue: unmoving and silent aside from the faint whirring emanating from the power pack on his back. Behind the scarlet lenses, his eyes scrutinize you down to your very last atom. A lion picking apart its prey.

“Come,” he orders, his gruff voice offering no further explanation. He takes a step away from you with the intent to continue further down the passage, and you suddenly find your limbs leaden and weak, unable to follow. Sensing your trepidation, his head turns back towards you, eyes locking on yours. The faded skull decal isn’t as cute when you’re at the receiving end of its ire.

Pain shoots up your left arm as you’re yanked off of the wall and lifted without another word. The cold metal of the Escaton power claw digs into your bones uncomfortably, sharpened claws at each fingertip poking into your flesh. The terminator grasps you by your forearm and drags you beside him until you can find your footing and walk on your own, stumbling into a jog to keep up. When you retrieve your arm, partially dried pieces of viscera stick to it from where you were grabbed. You brush them off hastily with a grimace; at least the power claw didn’t break skin.

You hug closely to the terminator’s leg as you walk with the group, not wanting to get trampled. The other serfs mostly keep their heads down as you pass them by, but a few give you a sympathetic look. The rest of the Contekar continue to ignore you.

The suites housing the Elite are grander than any part of the ship you have been in thus far. Compared to the regular Night Lord’s dorms, the metal halls leading to their private quarters are pristine. The usual decor of skulls and tanned skins is present, but there is no buildup of filth and grime along the floors and walls. The scent of fresh air is jarring. Most surprising to you is that each of the marines has their own private rooms, which you learn when you are unceremoniously shoved into one. 

The tusked terminator’s room is shockingly comfortable, for a Night Lord. A thin light strip, the same brightness of a full moon on your former world, serves as the only illumination of the dark room. Along the walls are various trophies that you assume are from his time in the field, both of his kills and plunders. A large work table and chair take up the whole of the wall to your right. Instead of a regular astartes-sized cot, there is an actual bed with pillows and a wide plush mattress. In the back corner of the room is a closed door, which you assume leads to a washroom.

Whoever your new charge was, he lives well.

A click catches your attention, and you turn to your left to see him removing the heavy pauldrons of his armor. He places each of them on the sturdy table, then turns his attention to his power claw, his gauntlets, his vambraces— steadily pulling them off one plate at a time. After removing his helmet, shakes out his greasy black hair and turns to look at you with a furrow in his brow. 

You remember your place and jump into action, aiding the marine in removing his sabatons. The plates of ceramite are much too heavy for you to lift on your own, but it’s easier for your smaller hands to get into the creases to release locks and latches. The two of you enter a wordless synergy, pulling off the heavy terminator armor piece by piece and placing each on a designated mantle. You’re extra careful not to get caught on the hooks of his armor. The desiccated head serves as a good reminder.

Even reduced to just his body glove, the astartes is colossal. His height easily dwarfs the majority of his brothers. You have to crane your neck upwards to look at his face, barely coming up to chest level on him. This close, you can see the sprinkling of grey hair within his sideburns and the lines of his face that indicate some arbitrary older age. You never did know how to tell the ages of astartes.

He uses his newfound freedom to stretch his limbs. Each is as broad as a tree trunk, and you figure they’re likely just as immovable. When he catches you staring and waiting, he simply returns the look, quietly raising an eyebrow.

“Would you like your armor shined, my lord?” you try, gesturing vaguely to the table and mantle. His eyes track the movement, looking over his war gear in silence before he gives you a curt nod. He points to a drawer beside his bed, then without further clarification turns his attention to removing his body glove. 

Within the drawer you discover a stack of folded shop towels. Why they’re there is a mystery to you. Judging by the size of the terminator armor, you decide three is enough for now, grabbing them and sliding the drawer shut. You look up to ask if the Contekar has any armor oil around, only to see him half-naked walking through the door in the corner. It swings shut behind him, leaving you once again to solve your problems on your own.

You wonder what force in this universe blessed you with such a communicative master.

It took him three entire days to tell you, “you live here,” instead of simply denying you the ability to leave and making you sleep on the floor. You swore he was going to turn your rib cage into a new trophy when you eventually did get out, trying to navigate your way back to the serfs’ dormitory for much needed food. He had hunted down like a rabbit, snatched you up from behind, and thrown you back into his quarters with a growl to, “stay put.” What the terminator lacked in words, he greatly made up for with his intimidating presence.

He did get you food, though, and an abundance of it. You hadn't seen so much variety since you were still living on your home planet. Delicacies like meat were rare to you, and you eagerly scarfed everything down. In your hunger, you did not ask where the meat came from.

It’s not as if he would have told you anyway, given how scantily he spoke. You haven’t even gotten his name out of him yet.

The only times you were permitted to leave the suite were when you could accompany him. Trips to the armory gave you vital chances to hoard cleaning supplies, having gotten accustomed to the lesser atmosphere of decay around the Elites’ quarters. On top of the standard armor oils, you managed to snag an expensive looking jar of polish, which you hoped would gain you some favor. Your master doesn’t particularly show you signs of care, but he also hasn’t killed you yet, and that has to be worth something.

On your way back to his quarters, a discordant howling rings out from one of the rooms adjacent to his. You flinch at the sound, assuming the worst: that somebody nearby was in the midst of being tortured and flayed alive, and that you would have to hear their slow untimely demise throughout the night. It wouldn’t be the first time you had to fall asleep to the sounds of screams and cries. The Contekar, however, scoffs. His nose scrunches up in annoyance, teeth bared in a disgusted snarl. 

“Don’t understand the appeal,” he grunts, shaking his head and continuing forward. 

Glancing over in confusion, you start to pay more attention to the sound. The rhythmic pattern of each holler and whine. The sound of skin on skin. The quiet pleas of, “more, please, more!” 

Your eyes widen when you put two and two together, ducking your head down to hide the blush steadily rising on your cheeks. That was not the type of torture you were expecting to hear. You pick up the pace and hope the terminator doesn’t recognize your sudden newfound urgency.

He allows you to store your armory stash in his bedside drawer alongside the rags. It nearly knocks you over when he throws an arm out to keep you from closing it, sending you staggering back with a huff. He removes one of the towels, then abruptly drops it over the top of your head. You don’t even get the chance to remove it before you’re being pushed in a direction, blindly stumbling along. A transition strip between some passageway causes you to trip and fall to the floor. Pulling the towel off of your head, your vision clears to the sight of the bathroom. 

You shoot the terminator a bewildered look before he lifts you by the back of your shirt and throws you underneath a showerhead, giving you no warning before turning it on. The cold jet hits you like a hose spray, causing you to yipe at the sudden temperature shock. Freezing water saturates your clothes. 

He breathily laughs at your agonized shiver.

Despite the rude beginning, you return from the washroom refreshed, feeling for the first time like your skin isn’t permanently encrusted with the gunk lining nearly every surface of the ship. It had been weeks since you could last bathe in any capacity. The water did warm up eventually– not warm, but not frigid– and allow you to scrub the filth off.

When you exited the shower, your master was nowhere to be seen, and there was a new uniform on the oversized counter. It wasn’t difficult to tell that it was intended for you, given the vast size difference between you and the Elite. The navy blue outfit bears an embroidery of the Eighth’s winged skull over each shoulder and lines of Nostraman text that you are unable to translate. You’re just happy the new garbs aren’t tattered and fraying like the last, which you gleefully toss. They land in the bucket with a wet squish.

As you approach the door to the main room of the quarters, you’re alerted to the sound of quiet conversation, not expecting there to be anyone but the terminator about. The tonal register is too low and quiet for you to make out any spoken words. 

You enter the space in time to watch your master sit at the table and place his arm out flat upon it. An apothecary stands beside him unpackaging a syringe. He stabilizes the terminator’s arm in the crux of his shoulder, turning his palm upwards and pressing the bevel of the needle into a prominent vein running distally from the elbow. Crimson liquid slowly fills the barrel as he pulls the plunger back.

The apothecary’s cart bears instruments uncharacteristic of typical medicae. Replacing scalpels and suturing utensils are various packaged needles and pigment bottles. A large battery pack wires into a small rectangular box, the screen and dials illegible to you from your current distance, with a strange metal stylus connected to it. Sitting atop a stack of disposable napkins is a tall wash bottle containing a clear substance. The apothecary flicks the syringe until the bubbles have all risen to the top, slowly venting the air until only blood remains, and he carefully ejects a drop into each of the waiting ink cups.

Your gaze falls back on the Contekar in time to see him rising from his chair and walking towards you. You cower back on instinct, anxiety creeping up from your chest. 

He wipes a stray drop of blood from his arm with a thumb, and when you move to question what’s going on, he jams the digit into your mouth. The coppery taste spreads over your tongue as you gag from the intrusion, unable to pull away due to the unyielding grip he has on your jaw. He jerks your head upwards, forcing you to look at him, and the abyss of his black eyes swallows you whole.

“Strip.”

Not everyone saw the art the first time around, so here's your Mans

[Part 3]

[dixie-the-pixie]

i swear, 99% of the people online who like warhammer are just weird racist white men who think the imperium is morally correct

like every other account i see talking about warhammer ends up just being a weird 20-40 year old man who thinks racism is the pinnacle of comedy, and that saying slurs instantly makes them the funniest people ever

like warhammer 40k has some of the most intricate lore i’ve ever seen, but most of the people in the hobby only get their lore from people like majorkill. like the guy can’t go two sentences without saying “cock” or “shit”. it’s like he’s trying to be moistcritikal, but somehow doing a far worse job than charlie ever could.

not to mention he doesn’t know anything about the lore he’s talking about. like this dumbass unironically says that Fulgrim and the Emperor’s Children spends all their time just having a massive orgy, or that the Orks can just think a log is a cannon and then use the log as an actual cannon, and that the Tau are space communists and that the only reason humans join them is because of mind control

any actual knowledge of the lore would show how stupid this moron is, but most warhammer fans don’t care about the lore. they just want to hear someone say poop jokes and slurs, and majorkill is the biggest source of those in the community

[staticymaticyyourlifeisatravesty]

Decided to rank the other Primarchs (Plus Sevatar) in rank to how close of a relationship Lilith has with them:

Jaghatai Khan: Less Uncle More Mom, has the closest relationship with him. Almost always gets a visit from her soul when she dies. He enjoys seeing how her warp form has grown and has long noticed that her presence still lingers even after she's been reborn into the Matirium once more. Also figured out quickly she was basically a primarch, though he wouldn't learn that she was an infant warp god until later. Also knows that she's still a juvenile by warp god standards. Somehow feels nothing but pride.

Lion El'Jonson (Post heresy/40k): Was never close before the heresy, but have ended up being rather close in 40k especially after he rescued her from Fabius Bile. Have bonded, and Lion is currently trying to get Lilith to accept affection again. The progress is slow. The Dark Angels are jealous asf.

Rogal Dorn: Bonded over bone carving, stuck fast since. Really wanted to help her when she was sick but didn't know how

Jago Sevatarion: Not a primarch, but gets his place as Uncle due to bonding with Lilith over carved bones. He stole Konrad's place. Very close, and was surprised by the sheer delight Lilith held for the carvings of the Night Lords, and how interested she was in learning about them.

Fulgrim (pre heresy): Bonded over a love of soft fabrics and art. Enjoyed figuring out how design clothes for her, especially while she was growing. Learned quickly that Lilith hated strong smells and refrained from using perfumes around her. Adored her greatly and enjoyed finding out about her new projects even if it was about her trying to find a good soldier to carve the skull of.

Magnus the red: Taught her most of what she knows about biomancy and pyromancy. Still have a descent relationship to this day, for some reason having a calming affect when she visits him in the warp. Saddened by the fact she's become afraid of her blood magic, or the flowers that she's able to bloom. Wants to help her, but understands that in his current state she has a right to be cautious of him. Also stands as the only traitor primarch to still have a relationship with Lilith. Has a small garden filled with her flowers. It's nice to rest there, though he is wary of why Tzeentch allows him to have the flowers.

Corvus Corax: Good friends, and taught Lilith a few of his tricks. Keeps a few raven skulls that were carved by her and still sometimes gets visits from her. Usually this is her soul, and Corvus has learned that her way of telling him to eat is to simply drop prey at his feet. He has also learned that her soul won't leave unless he's eaten. Which is fair enough, he supposes. Often finds her flowers and thorns growing around the place he uses as his home base. They make for a surprisingly good defence.

Vulkan: Also fairly good friends, enjoyed listening to her, also was one of the few to realize that when she first came she was merely overwhelmed and slowly gained her trust. Enjoyed watching her develop her pyromancy skills, though he was never close enough to know the true depths of her nature.

Leman Russ: Used to be fairly close, until the council of Nikaea, in which Lilith lost trust in after speaking against psykers. It was the hypocrisy that did their relationship in, though she understands it was due to his culture. However, her reason for losing trust is a complicated thing that's rooted in fear as well, for in her mind if he is against pyskers, then is he against mutants? She doesn't know, but she still distanced herself because of it.

Roboute Guilliman: Neutral, was never all that close to him, but did have trust in him. In 40k, relationship is slowly getting better, Guilliman is sad to see what the years have done to his niece, and is angry that she was put into exile. Is a bit spooked by how much her aura has grown since the heresy and strongly suspects she has worshippers somewhere despite her denial.

Ferrus Manus: Never close, but were civil with each other and never knew each other all that well. She mourns him as she does everyone else who fell during the heresy and keeps a candle lit for him on Sanguinla just as she does her father and others who fell.

Angron: Again, never close. Angron before he fell to chaos, actually went out of his way to avoid her because he never wanted to hurt his niece. Liked her quite a bit, and wanted to have a relationship with her, but he feared hurting her too much to do it. Sometimes during moments of clarity he wishes he had.

Alpharius/Omegon: She has no idea how to feel about those two, but they did like their niece and generally have never really tried fucking her over. They have, however, made sure a couple of times that she gets a safe rebirth when they come across her flesh egg.

Konrad Curze: Had a strangely descent relationship during his saner moments, and would often offer her fresh humans. Relationship became quite strained once Konrad began to grow increasingly unstable.

Horus: Found him a bit much for her liking and would've had a great relationship, had he not tried so hard to be likable around her. Eventually did learn that she just wanted him to be honest around her, and the relationship started to get better between them. Unfortunately before they could rekindle it properly, the Heresy happened. Did love her a lot, and was sad that she never seem to like him all that much before falling to chaos.

Perturabo: Decided he would not have a relationship with her because she was close with Dorn. Secretly wanted to make things with her too, but his pettiness prevented him. Lilith was under the impression Perturabo hated her, he did not and sometimes he regrets not putting his pettiness aside to get to know her better.

Mortarion: Hated her, absolutely despised her for what she was. Didn't like she was mutant and didn't like she was a witch. Often referred to her as Mutant and spawn, never using her actual name or giving her much person hood. Made the mistake of acting that way in front of Horus and Konrad. This resulted in Mortatrion learning that Konrad actually cared deeply for Lilith the hard way, and Horus being pissed. Has a gnarly scar from Konrad because of his poor choice of words.

[nevesmose]

So there I was on Lexicanum researching a shitpost when

I DON'T WANT YOUR BONER PILLS EREBUS

[ladymirdan]

Remember that one time i made a video stiching Filthy Frank as the voice actor for Konrad Curze?

Because I didn't and then I looked through my old videos and found it.

Here have some Curzed content:

[pleiadesnuts]

[bispectral-poltergayst]

LETS FUCKING GOOOOO

I CAN’T STOP WINNING

[a-gay-little-cat]

incredible wonderful 10/10 no notes

[quortknee]

dan abnett is the king of writing the hardest lines in the world

[tagedeszorns]

Adobe's increasing enshittification forced me to clean up my WiP-folder (in this case: They'll kill their cloud services that came with a subscription next week. In case you haven't noticed - they are rather subtle about it. I found it while looking for the reason why my cloud-folder wasn't synchronizing any more. Well, surprise, I guess!).

And I found stuff I didn't even remember starting! I mean, look at the guys!

I need to finish all of them! And so many others I found!

[prettyflyshyguy]

My Horus Heresy Blackshields army (Fangs of the Emperor) is complete! 1250pts ready to go for a local event happening tomorrow. For once I wasn't awake till 3am the night before the event painting a tank. It's clearly cause I dissented and became a Loyalist. For the Emperor, lol. It's a doubles event so my army is very skewed but it compliments my partner's well.

Everything's WYSIWYG, but the short and simple of my list:

Master of Signals with a heavy support squad (lascannons)

Dread with melta and graviton in the fist

Seekers, magna combi (melta), with augury scanner and infravisor

Veterans with nemesis bolters, augury scanner and infravisor

Destroyer Assault, thunder hammer for bonking and 2 toxiferran flamers

Squint's bringing Sisters of Silence and together we are "Oops!! All pinning!" so wish us luck. Do NOT wish the Emperor to protect us, we don't worship him as a god in HH because there are no gods only man.

[ndotknees]

Kicking my feet, blushing and saying “you’re so funny,” reading A Thousand Sons whenever Ahriman does anything.

The Enumerations said what now? That’s so crazy,,,,could you have your armour described again,,just for me? ☺️

[ask-the-crimson-king]

The Death of Horus Lupercal

SPOILERS FOR THE END AND THE DEATH VOL. III since this is going into the main tags. Also adding a cut for it for that reason.