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Warhammer in a nutshell???

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Oh sh- I'm being resurrected

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Woah.

Brother

It was luck of course, though the primarch of the Thirteenth and the Regent of Terra would scoff at the idea of good fortune. A captured Iron Warrior Warsmith, seeing Guilliman striding across the battlefield, seeing a loyalist primarch for the first time in almost ten millennia, unable to control his fear. The mask of arrogant self-righteousness common to many of the Fourth slipped for just a moment. The young Ultramarine Librarian guarding the traitor caught a glimpse into his awareness, a terrified mind collapsing in on itself at the sight of the Emperor’s Avenging Son. A number only, VII, VII, VII. Over and over again, the numbers tumbling down into the sticky black miasma of the Warsmith’s deranged mind, his polluted soul burning with hate. VII.

Was this not good fortune? The right people in the right place, at the exact time necessary to catch a piece of the puzzle? Guilliman would dismiss it as coincidence, but the Librarian knew better. Luck existed and could be kind as well as cruel. Cutting into the Warsmith’s psyche as if through wet paper, he believed luck was a two-edged blade and as such could be utilised as any weapon could, for good or ill. He didn’t get much else from the kneeling Warsmith, a single image only, a memory engram. A noble face, beaten and bloody, a single eye staring through strands of long dirty hair. As the tumblers of the Warsmith’s mind snapped shut again, his nose spurting with diseased blood, the image of the defiant storm-grey eye burned itself into his mind.

Passing the information to his superiors, the Librarian had never felt such urgency, such complete need. He must tell the one person in the galaxy that would care the most. It took time, but Guilliman’s pathological need to assimilate information proved good fortune again. Reading after-action reports, the Thirteenth Primarch came across the Librarian’s account, as well as numerous requests from him for an audience. He sent for the lad immediately.

Guilliman was in informal robes when they met, in his private chambers, the Librarian saluted smartly. Dismissing any preamble, Guilliman’s voice was steady and calm, but with a weight of import.

“Do you think this is genuine?”

“My lord,” began the Librarian, “My masters in the Librarius aren’t convinced of it’s authenticity-“

Guilliman held up a hand to stop the lad.

“I know. I asked what YOU think.”

The Librarian paused for a moment, the burden of the question weighing heavily. He looked into his gene-father’s eyes for the first time, so like the eye still burned into his mind.

“I do sire. I’m certain it is your brother. He is, or at least WAS alive when the prisoner saw him.”

Guilliman said nothing as he turned away. Staring from the huge viewing window taking up one wall of his quarters, he sighed. The blackness of the void, so unimaginably vast and empty, so completely OTHER was comforting to him in a way it wasn’t to other men. A few beats of his heart for the librarian were almost an eternity for Guilliman’s extraordinary mind.

“I think so too.”

 

***************************************

   Tracing the Warsmith’s path of destruction through the Emperor’s realm proved difficult. It would have been impossible without Guilliman’s singular mind. Seeing connections others would dismiss or overlook completely. The entire crusade halted and turned to this one purpose, burning out Iron Warrior’s fortresses, one after another. The might of the imperium’s war machine searching for a single man in the vastness of the galaxy, the Inquisition’s secret ways essential to success. Whispers, snatches of information dug from the flesh of screaming prisoners, pieces of a vast puzzle only Guilliman had the sight to put together.

And so it was, that Guilliman’s fleet arrived in a lonely unnamed system after weeks of ploughing through the immaterium. The primarch himself went in with the first wave, modified jump pack flaring, his Honour Guard barely able to keep up with his supreme aggression. Enemy combatants fell to his flaming sword in dozens, traitor legionaries, filthy mutants, daemons of the warp. Guilliman could feel his goal near. The Armour of Fate streaming with polluted blood, he raced ahead of his warriors. Knowing it was tactically unsound, but unable to stop himself. Assaulting the battlements of the fortress, he had never felt so sure of anything, not since the days of his father’s Great Crusade. He found himself inside, the interior of the huge fortification alternately bare unadorned metal and huge sections of cancerous biological growth, the stink of thousands of years of blood and pain. The Iron Warriors here were changed and mutated, like many traitors he’d encountered since waking, their ancient armour decorated in disgusting displays of spiked trophy racks, smeared with excrement. Helmets of fallen loyalist astartes speared on their backs, blood and gore festering on their dark armour. Guilliman considered killing such creatures mercy. They didn’t deserve to live. He cut a swath through them, his sword rising and falling almost mechanically, those in his honour guard barely needing to fire their weapons.

None could stand against him in battle, but this was different. He was almost wild, pure aggression. Operating on instinct, so unlike his usual careful and considered approach to making war. His silence was the most terrifying part. Communication, he’d drilled into his men, was the key to success. Now, that was moot. He expected his men to keep up, or be left behind, so great was his need to see this task done.

Down, down. Into the dungeons beneath the vast fortress, Guilliman’s jump pack scraping the rough unfinished walls, his boots crumbling ancient stone beneath his feet. He seemed to just KNOW the way, an instinct driving him forward. He paused at an intersection, a miserable traitor astartes sliding off his blade to the floor. The traitor was unarmoured, save for his helmet, bizarrely. He was almost naked, covered only in a tough leather apron made from human skin, it was darkened with old blood stains. The iron warrior carried as weapons implements of grotesque torture, black iron pincers and dirty scalpels. Guilliman turned left and continued. The lamps on his suit illuminating the grim darkness, the eye lenses of his helmet shining pure white light.

He stopped in front of a heavy door, bound in iron. Lock after lock adorned it, some old and rusted, others looking new and barely used. He paused for a second, as if collecting his thoughts, giving his Honour Guard a chance to catch up. He reached out and touched the door gently with his huge gauntleted hand.

“This is it,” he said, his voice breathy with effort. That in itself was disquieting to his men, even training with the Chapter’s most skilled warriors, Guilliman was never out of breath. He pulled off his helmet, inhaling the charnel meat stink of the awful place with unfiltered lungs. Dropping the priceless helm to the filthy floor, he raised the sword gifted him by the Emperor himself, and swung again and again, the locks flaring with daemonic wards as the Avenging Son hacked at them. One after the other, they were destroyed. The last screamed as he pierced it, the anguished wail of a tortured child. The door fell open, darkness and pregnant silence spilled out into the tunnel.

Stepping into the room, the flame light of Guilliman’s sword fell across the sole occupant. The room itself was small, the floor dry dirt. Blackened old blood stains covered the walls in sprayed arcs, the smell of piss and shit was overwhelming, even through the helmet filters of the Honour Guard.

A noise escaped Guilliman’s throat at that moment. The flaming sword clattered to the floor.

Kneeling in the centre of the space, was a man. His body, though powerful in frame, was emaciated and starved. His arms were spread wide, chained to the walls at either side of him. The rusted links of the spiked chain had been forced between the bones of his forearms, holding him in place. He was missing his left hand; it’s tarred and diseased stump weeping blood and pus onto the floor. He was naked, with pain goads thrust into the flesh of his body, thighs, chest, genitals. Crude symbols had been cut into his skin, crusted and bleeding freely, his left eye had been gouged from its socket. Scars covered his flesh, layers and layers of them, healed and reopened. Patches of skin had obviously been removed, Guilliman knew tattoos of allegiance had been deliberately taken from him. His once pure white hair was lank and filthy, falling over his bowed head. His beard was long and equally dirty, filled with dried blood, snot and vomit.

Rogal Dorn, proud son of the Emperor, Praetorian of Terra and master of the Seventh Legion, raised his head, painfully slowly.

A single tear ran from his remaining eye, his lips trembled. His voice was barely a whisper.

“… It’s good to see you, brother.”

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rah rah rasputin something something sour cream

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I love this art so much its so cute

“Oh, you want to see my face, why didn’t you just ask? It’s not like it’s some big secret or anything”

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I know one thing, wherever we go, this family is our fortress. Avatar: The Way of Water (2022) dir. James Cameron

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One day I will have a heart attack just because I wrote something in English and felt stupid.

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I started to hum in tune with her

Six Minutes.

The hatch cycles shut...

One

She was alone. The sound of the Things was drawing closer, their hissing alien otherness made her feel sick. She turned her back to the hatch, the corridor before her was littered with packing cases and equipment crates. Flashing yellow emergency lights lit the space for a second at a time, interspersed with appalling blackness. The ship was listing badly, the gangway several degrees off true. She needed to get ready, she could hear them getting closer still. They'd have caught her scent and that of the Angel's rich blood. Even she could smell it now.

Two

Crouching behind one of the fallen packing cases, she spread her remaining four power cells in front of her in easy reach. Fumbling for one in a pouch when she needed them would get her killed. Her heart was racing, she could hear them getting closer, their hooked feet pounding down the decking towards her with a clackclackclack. But the blood rushing through her veins gave a clarity she'd never experienced, her vision sharp in the gloom of the corridor. The wounded Angel said he'd return for her as soon as he was able. No, not the Angel. Reynard. He'd told her his name and asked hers. Promised he'd return in his plate within six minutes. Thats all she needed to do, hold this position for six minutes. So she would. Every hideous alien that came towards her was targeted, only one or two at a time at first, but more with each passing second, the muzzle of her lasrifle glowed orange in the intermittent dark.

Three

Her makeshift barricade wouldn't hold for long she knew. She had to keep them back as far as possible. Her shots were carefully placed, marking her target for a half second before firing. No longer ones- and twos-, the hideous unrelenting enemy flowed like a white and purple wave; the corridor funnelling them towards her with laser focus, their black eyes glittering in malicious intent. Acidic saliva pored over their needle teeth as they caught scent of her, trampling each other in their squealing eagerness to devour their prey.

Four

The xenos filled the corridor in front of her, more and more drawn by the sound of her desperate defence, or driven by some unseen mind, it was impossible to know. She fired again and again, blowing chunks of armour from the hideous beasts, severing bladed limbs and destroying hissing gleeful faces. Her pounding heart rhyming with the bursts of her Lasrifle, hamminering in her chest like it never had before, her panic almost overwhelming her as she snatched up a fresh power cell and struggled to slam it into the receiver. Quite unconsciously, she began to hum. A small tune, so old and innocent, a nursery rhyme of ancient origins. A child's quiet plea to the darkness to spare her, to leave her unnoticed so that she might see the light of day once more. The words, half remembered at first but more and more confident as the seconds passed, spilled from her mouth into the corridor before her.

Five

The xenos just kept coming. The screeches of excitement at finding cornered prey and the clack clack of their chitinous limbs overlapped into a deafening roar. More and more they came, a neverending wave of sickly white and purple bioarmour. Her shots were no longer meticulously placed, but firing almost blindly, it was impossible to miss now. The smell of them, its dry OTHERNESS, was overwhelming her and making her gag. Her last power cell was down to the final few shots; her voice still singing the nursery rhyme as loud as she could, screaming it into the faces of the monstrous beings before her, hoarse and cracking, pleading for a few more seconds of courage against the suffocating dark.

Six

The hatch cycles open...

"Evelyn Robyns." The Angel, Reynard, booms from his vox speakers.

"I have come for you."

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I thought long and hard about what to do with this prompt, and then it struck me like lightning:

Mamma Mia AU.

(Guest starring Cher as the Emperor of Mankind.)

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other people writing ao3 comments: love this! can’t wait to see more ❤

me writing ao3 comments: gyjfsdghjkldsfhj fukc dude i………..id eat this if i could….

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Guys I went to Tumblr and there is a character there who is literally me

Forbidden rat: possums

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We all know how it ends.

Lord of Iron

Art by Nan

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Reblog to make the person u reblogged this from comfy n cozy

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That one big official action figure has all the armour on the front. What is up with that.

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It was getting better and better with every phrase.

Black Templar sloppy must blow your dick off

If the transhuman suction doesn’t, then the acidic saliva certainly will. Either way you cry out the God-Emperor’s name at the end

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the problem is that going to bed at night feels like a chore whereas lying down for a forbidden nap at 4pm feels like the pinnacle of decadence