#Sebastian yarrick 40k

[lazywriter-artist]

Call me Connecticut Clark the way I think about Sebastian ‘ol’ bale eye’ yarrick

We are to be wed

Even if commissar me isn’t too happy about the idea

also YES I did draw his full claw on the first image but it cropped out in the end so here it is isolated

[higgsbison]

they're besties to me

[taudad]

[74rn]

Ship posting on bluesky and realising I could just repost it here

[skitarii-boi]

[tastytoastz]

[hug-of-war]

Just imaging orks having a ‘Hear me out’ thing and one says Yarrick/Ol Bale Eye and there’s an argument that’s he’s a ‘propa orky humie’ so he doesn’t count as a “Hear Me Out”.

[sharenadraculea]

Yarrick/Ghaz soulmate au of the „name of your soulmate as mark“ type and Yarrick burning off/tattoing over his soulmark once he realizes it’s a ork and it‘s all very, very messy

[samaelzdraws]

Basically Ghazghkull x Yarrick in a nutshell

[candyswirls]

Salutations and happy Sanguinala!

If it wasn’t a bother or anything I was just wondering to make a request for something fluffy with Yarrick? Ik you typically do stuff with space marines and primarch so don’t feel any pressure ofc!!!

And if a bother perhaps with a younger commissar he is mentoring

Thank you so much for your time and I hope you have a great holiday!!!!!!

A little Magnus doodle as thanks for giving me the time of day, thank you!!!!

Cute! And I said any 40K character and I mean any!

It was a shabby present.

It was wrapped with various paper, most that was burned, held together by a strange paste glue.

With how his name was written, he knew who it was from.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Who in their right mind allowed this to be shipped,” he started. “All the way to me?? All the way through the imperium!?”

Those before him shuffled awkwardly.

“Get out of my sigh- no don’t touch it!” He snapped. “Leave it there!”

They scurried out and Yarrick sat back in his chair, glaring at the wonky box.

“Commissar,” his apprentice questioned. “What is this?”

“A gift for me,” he muttered.

He growled and circled the desk, observing the present.

Why though?? Why??

He crouched and put his ear to the box. There wasn’t any ticking…

He gently picked it up and dared to shake it.

He sighed and dared to untie the scrap bow. Nothing happened.

“Is it wise to open it?” The young commissar questioned.

“I don’t think it’s malicious…”

He removed the lid… then put it back on.

“Emperor d- ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!”

Hjs apprentice looked startled, “Sir??”

He tore off the lid and pulled out the little squig. It had a red bow on it with a note.

YARRICK

HAVE A SQUIG FRUM MY BEST LINE DAT HAZ WUN MANY SQUIG SHOWS DIS WUZ HER LAST LITTER

LUV

GHAZGHKULL

He looked at the wide eyed squig.

“Litter?” He questioned. “You’re fungus. Squig shows? I-oh.”

It started purring and licked his face.

The apprentice grinned as they read the note, “I think someone has a crush on you.”

Yarrick sighed, “I’m going to have a warp of time explaining this.”

[lazywriter-artist]

Woe! Yarrick lazy stuff be upon ye!

He’s my comfort doodle shush and eat ur soup of me and old man commissar

Info dumping

I’d kill to have him irl when I’m ordering food— I die inside

Family photo

Also remembered Cain exists so back on the trenches o7

I lurv these two dumbasses

[moociaoafterdark]

Baseline workout vs Astartes workout

[74rn]

I love how many Yarrick and random mook Ork interactions are just this comic

[stahlsonne]

Uhm. mmm, hmm, well I sketch Sebastian Yarrick

[tastytoastz]

[badelktales]

The End of Waaagh! Yarrick

The sky was fire. The world beneath them was a ruined anvil, a war-forged hellscape where titans of legend met in final battle. Above it all, the maelstrom of the Warp churned, a vast and endless storm, laughing with the voices of dead gods and unborn monsters.

Angron, the Red Angel, towered over his foe, his body a nightmare of brass and blood, muscles carved from rage itself. His twin Chainaxes—Gorefather and Gorechild—dripped with the viscera of the countless warriors who had dared to stand before him. His laughter was a broken thing, a sound devoid of joy, filled only with war and madness.

"You," he spat, voice thick with contempt, "thought you could challenge me?"

Before him, wreathed in the smoke of the dying, Gazkhul Mag Uruk Thraka stood unmoved. The Beast of Armageddon, the Prophet of Gork and Mork, the one who had brought a Waaagh! that burned half the stars. And yet, in this moment, there was something more about him.

Gazkhul did not rage. He did not bellow.

He simply stared.

The warlord’s fists clenched, his clawed gauntlet flexing. Blood dripped from his tusks, his armor cracked from a hundred battles fought in Yarrick’s name. But he did not break. Not now. Not ever.

"Yarrick," Gazkhul rumbled, voice like the grinding of tectonic plates. His red eyes burned, twin suns of something primal and wrathful. "You killed ‘im."

Angron sneered. "He died like all mortals do. Pathetic. A weak, broken thing." He chuckled, bitter and cruel. "Your weakness, ork. He was your pet. You should be grateful I put him down."

Gazkhul’s breath hitched, just once. A memory, unbidden—Yarrick standing before him, that glint in his eye, that wolfish grin that spoke of endless war, of battle eternal.

"Yer don’t get it, do ya?" Gazkhul said, his voice low, the kind of calm that only came before a storm. He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, the weight of inevitability behind every motion.

Angron, child of the Butcher’s Nails, did not wait. He roared and swung. Gorefather shrieked through the air, an executioner’s blade—

And stopped.

A single green fist caught it.

The ground beneath them cracked.

A silence spread through the battlefield, through the screaming heavens themselves.

Angron’s eyes widened, rage flickering with something dangerously close to confusion.

Gazkhul lifted his head, and the Red Angel saw what should not be. The orkoid form that loomed before him was not merely the warlord of Armageddon.

It was something more.

Gazkhul Mag Uruk Thraka was changing.

His form expanded, his armor snapping and reforming, muscle stretching beyond even the monstrous bulk of a Nob or a Warboss. His frame hardened, his tusks grew, his posture shifted to something ancient and terrible. The air around him shimmered, like the heat of a furnace, but there was no flame.

Only power.

Something primordial.

Something eternal.

He was not just an ork. Not anymore.

He was a Krork.

The Red Angel, the slave of the Blood God, snarled and wrenched his weapon free, but it was too late.

Gazkhul moved.

A fist like a collapsing mountain slammed into Angron’s chest. The Daemon Primarch’s ribcage buckled, his armor shattered like brittle iron, and the Blood God's chosen was hurled across the battlefield, cratering into the blackened, ruined ground.

Gazkhul followed, relentless, unstoppable, his shadow blotting out the sky. His claw gripped Angron’s throat and wrenched him up, slamming him down again—again—again—until the world itself seemed to quake beneath the blows.

"You ain't a god." Crunch. "You ain't even a warboss." Crunch. "Yer a slave."

Angron howled, a beast unchained, but it was no longer his fight. The Blood God had no power here.

Gazkhul lifted him one final time, raising the broken Primarch high, red eyes gleaming with something deeper than hatred. Something pure.

Something holy.

"For Yarrick," he said.

And then he tore Angron’s head from his shoulders.

The Warp shrieked. The skies opened. The galaxy shuddered.

And in that moment, the Emperor laughed.

A deep, knowing, mirthful laugh.

Gork and Mork grinned.

And for a single heartbeat, on a battlefield littered with the dead, Yarrick stood.

Not the old man, not the weary, broken soldier.

But Yarrick as he was meant to be.

Strong. Fearless. Younger. A warrior, grinning that same wolfish grin. His augmetic eye gleamed, not with the red glow of a machine, but with something more—something infinite.

Gazkhul blinked.

The vision was gone.

He stood alone, the corpse of a Daemon Primarch at his feet.

And around him, the orks roared, not in simple bloodlust, but in reverence.

Gazkhul Mag Uruk Thraka, the Beast of Armageddon, was no longer just a warlord.

He was a Saint.

A saint of Mork and Gork. A saint of the Emperor. A saint of War Eternal.

And the Waaagh! had only just begun.