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Hiiii I have a headache so I come with a weird and basic question for Saren, Calix, Origen, and whoever else you want because you know I adore your OCs. If you were to assign each of them an element, what would it be? For whatever reason - maybe it evokes certain qualities, shares some characteristics, or maybe for whatever reason it would be important to them personally, like bringing them comfort or the opposite, bringing back some primal fear. (why do i seem to always end up with "what do they fear" btw)

Saren von Aurastor - lightning & ozone. he's all about sudden, brilliant flashes of power, theatrical displays, and the sharp, sterile scent of discharged energy. his charm is electric, his anger a sudden storm. it's also the element of the void and the warp-drive, the very force that both created his fortune and destroyed his past, making it a source of both his power and his primal fear.

Calix von Fellner - mist-chilled stone. he's grounded, resilient, and defined by the cold, damp realities of his world, Margard. like stone, he endures, carrying the weight of duty and history. but it's a stone perpetually slick with mist, obscuring his true feelings and hinting at the deep, quiet erosion happening within him.

Origen Thule - the abyss. not just deep water, but the crushing, silent pressure of the deep ocean trench where no light reaches. his knowledge is vast and ancient, his presence has immense weight, and he contains horrors that would break the surface world. he is calm, patient, and wields a power that is absolute and terrifying in its quiet totality. when i think about him, i think about swimming shapes under the ice of a frozen ocean.

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thank you sm....for asking...sobs. i love the excuse to think about them in abstract ways. i hope you find this answer to ur satisfaction, i'm sorry i only did the 3 of them but ya know.. work is calling

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With that, von Aurastor turned on his heel—a crisp, Militarum-style pivot, yet executed with a flourish only his unique eccentricity could muster. The grand sway of the overcoat worn across his shoulders seemed to command the very air as he began to walk, expecting Calix to follow. Calix fell into step a pace behind, his gaze fixed on the confident line of his master's back. He wondered if the man ever put down the performance, or if the performance had long since consumed the man entirely.

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wip share

tagged by @blood-on-the-phoenix-crown [thank you again]

'Such unscrupulous hands--' Krasner gasps, choked, rivulets of sardonicism stopping at the back of his throat as he struggles. His words were made to endure the metallic snarl as black intelligence postured at him. The canid, living but not, a mutilated weapon. It could kill him with that industrial maw and he would have no chance of breathing once more before the end. Krasner's pale eyes drift to its own-- optical sensors, not eyes at all, his mind and blood turning to chill under such scrutiny. And did it breathe like-- The snapping of teeth answer him, the psyker's heart staked like ice through his ribs as he winces from it violently. The barking thrust itself into his mind like electric. Black and red erupts across his vision.

tagging @dead--star @eurons @arcane-vault @issilya

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wip share

tagged by @irreverentarchon ty for thinking of me

The air in the medicae bay was thick with the sterile tang of synth-skin sealant and the coppery scent of Saren’s own spilled blood, a smell that seemed utterly alien amidst the usual controlled opulence of the Novacula Mortis. The Lord Captain was a ruin laid out on the diagnostic slab, his magnificent greatcoat discarded, the severe lines of his frock coat torn and stained dark. A deep gash ran from his shoulder down his torso, a wound that had overwhelmed even his suit’s auto-suture system, weeping blood onto the white decking. A medicae-servitor whirred and clicked nearby, its metal claws holding cauterizers and injectors, but Saren had waved it away with a snarl. Calix stood watch, his own hands stained with his master’s blood from the effort of dragging him here. He held a fresh synth-skin patch, the instruction for its application a simple matter, yet he hesitated. Saren’s mismatched eyes were open, fixed on the cold, lumen-lit ceiling, and they burned with an intensity that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with a profound, terrifying rage.

“Stop fussing, Fellner,” Saren rasped, his voice a ragged edge of its usual silken timbre. “Your Margardian pragmatism should tell you when an asset is damaged beyond immediate repair.” “The wound requires sealing, Lord Captain,” Calix stated, his own voice flat, trying to anchor the situation in simple, procedural reality. “Your bleeding is… significant.” A harsh, dry laugh rattled in Saren’s chest, ending in a pained cough. “Significant?” He turned his head slowly, pinning Calix with that unnerving gaze. “It’s all just… fluid dynamics. A temporary state of being, soon to be corrected.” He wasn’t talking about healing. Calix felt a chill colder than any Margardian night. He had seen men face death—with defiance, with terror, with prayer. He had never seen this: a clear-eyed, almost eager anticipation. “Do not speak like that,” Calix said, the words coming out sharper than he intended. “Why not?” Saren’s lips curled into a weak, bloodless version of his usual simper. “Because it frightens the loyal hound to see his master welcome the kennel door? Life is no blessing. For what purpose do we live at all, Fellner? It’s inconsequential, this undignified flailing.” The confession hung in the sterile air, raw and stripped of all artifice. Calix stood frozen for a long moment, the synth-skin patch forgotten in his hand. He didn’t offer comfort; the words were too honest for such a cheap palliative. Instead, after a silence stretched thin by the hum of the medicae slab, he gave a single, quiet affirmation. “Yes,” Calix said, his voice a low Margardian rasp. “It is.” Saren’s head turned on the slab, his mismatched eyes narrowing with surprise. This was not the reaction he expected—not the dutiful protest, not the horrified denial. Calix met his gaze, his own eyes—one of warm earth, one of cold mist—holding no pity, only a shared, grim understanding. “The galaxy is a meat grinder. The gods are mad. The struggle is inconsequential.” He took a slow step closer, his boots making no sound on the blood-stained decking. “But you and I... we have seen the gears. We know the truth. Most beings flail in ignorance. We... we flail with our eyes wide open. That is the only real difference.” Saren stared, his expression unreadable. The usual mask of mockery and command was gone, leaving only the stark, scarred canvas of the man beneath. Calix pressed on, his voice still quiet but infused with a cold, hard intensity. “To choose cessation now is to let the void have the final word. It is to admit the chaos that took everything from you is stronger than your will to endure it.” He leaned closer, his presence steady and absolute. “Survival—continuing this pointless, agonizing game—is not a blessing. It is the ultimate act of defiance. It is the only victory that matters.” The words landed, not with force, but like ice crystals forming slowly in the air, sharp and clear. Calix watched as a storm of emotions warred behind Saren’s eyes. He saw the allure of oblivion fight against the ingrained, ferocious pride that had driven the man for centuries. He saw the nihilist wrestle with the survivor. A long, shuddering breath escaped Saren’s lips. The burning rage in his eyes cooled, banked, replaced by something else—a flicker of profound, weary resolve. His gaze, for the first time, seemed to lose its predatory edge, becoming something almost... raw. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. His voice, when it came, was a rough, quiet rasp, stripped of all its usual power. “The patch, Fellner.” It was not a command. It was a concession. A request. “Help me.”

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his mind broke so beautifully. a masterpiece of terror and revelation.

The recovered pict-log flickers to life, a window into a private hell. Grain and chromatic aberration bleed across the image, struggling to resolve a scene illuminated by the sickly tourmaline light of a Commorrite pain-gallery. A silhouette emerges from the gloom—Marazhai, fluid and terrible. His grip is absolute on the Inquisitor's throat, pinning him against the marred steel. The venomblade in the foreground glistens, its mono-molecular edge not poised to kill, but to paint, each slow drag weeping fresh crimson onto Heinrix's ruined chest.

The only sound is a low, wet tearing and the faint, rhythmic hiss of the blade's neuro-toxin dispenser.

But the true horror isn't the blade, nor the blood. It's the look on his face. His eyes are wide, unfocused, and burning with a terrifying, ecstatic light. A low, shuddering sound escapes his lips—not a scream of pain, but something that could be mistaken for a gasp of profound, agonizing revelation, as if the Drukhari's artistry has finally flayed away his sanity and shown him a truth only found at the absolute peak of suffering.

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hi. hey. scuttling into your askbox. As someone who's not very familiar with Warhammer beyond Rogue Trader... what the hell is the fashion.

I am balding (figuratively) trying to dress my own rogue traders. So far my understanding of the fashion has been just. historical clothing and slap on some random tubes, bits of armour/gear, skulls and waow. you have warhammer clothes now!!

but that's. probably not a very good template to follow as it's not very helpful most of the time

Biggest kiss to all the clothes you draw. I am gonna refrain from saying more because I will sound insane. Anyway. Staring at you with big plink plonk eyes. Is there anything specific you follow when dressing your sillies?

heya i'll do my best to help without just basically saying what's obvious by-i suppose-just outlining my own logic.

i begin with the person's job and ask myself a few questions such as: will they mostly be talking, or fighting? how much mobility is required from their activities? do they need to make an impression or are they purely practical?

then, yes, I reference my mental library of usually 18th century fashion trends and give it the 40k "juice" of wear and tear, in-universe iconography and exaggerated pomp + typical imperial design elements.

some of my personal favourite design elements for my own characters are double-breasted coats, aiguilettes, balancing the shoulders with the waist, frocks, fall-front trousers.

once i have that basic silhouette in my head, i will augment it with the "random" tubes, skulls and aquilas we like so much. but do try to remember what the character does to inform your decisions: psyker? augs and tubes around the head and hands. militarum? augs for combat stims, survival and structure/stability. such as spine, bones, torso injector ports, all usually fully integrated into the outfit itself since much of warhammer fashion is bespoke.

and then, when it comes to colours, desaturated or tarnished always works best. nothing is shiny and chrome in the 41st millenium.

i really hope this helps in any way.

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calix von fellner, interrogator

he had learned from Origen Thule that true power was not in the overt violence of Dominus-Law, but in the crushing weight of knowledge; that the most effective threats were never spoken aloud. his unique psychic gift, once an iron certainty in his own will, had been honed into a terrifying art. it was no longer just discipline, but a predatory pressure he could exert upon a mind—he'd become a master at unmaking a heretic's resolve with an unseen hunger, all devouring. the transition had left his gaze colder, his stillness more profound.

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investigating the genesis of threats to the imperium, Lord Inquisitor Origen Thule of the Ordo Originatus. he believes every heresy has a history, every mutation a source. to him, understanding the beginning is the only way to dictate the end.

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submission, rendered

The air hung thick with the scent of ozonic static and Saren’s cloying, expensive tastes. A low thrum, perhaps from the ship or from Heinrix’s own over-stimulated nerves, pulsed in his ears, blurring the edges of the room into a haze of distorted light. He felt the rough, gilt-edged fabric of the greatcoat swallow him whole, a suffocating veil that obscured everything but the crushing reality of the Rogue Trader’s presence. Saren’s grip was an anchor point in the chaos, one gloved hand pinning Heinrix’s wrists high against the cold sheets, the other holding his jaw in a proprietary vice, thumb pressing just hard enough to be a promise. He could feel Saren’s breath, warm and measured against his cheek, a stark contrast to the cold finality in his low voice, a whisper meant only for him amidst the crackling scanlines of their shared, silent accord.

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previous < 5-6 end for now.

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i think about them every day............................ look at their faces omfg

// --- fenrix and krasner

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OC TAG GAME!

Thanks @fuchsiareign for the tag

Rules: Cross out the things your OC hasn't done.

Saren von Aurastor

Killed Someone Under Orders | Had Someone Killed On His Orders | Killed Someone In Self Defense | Spared Someone’s Life | Invented Something | Been Hungover | Kissed Someone | Slow-Danced | Been In A Long-Term Relationship | Had Sex | Had Sex And Regretted It | Had A One-Night Stand | Had A Threesome | Experimented With His Sexuality | Had A Kid | Adopted A Kid | Wanted To Have A Family With Someone | Done Something On Impulse They Regretted | Gone Traveling | Had A Bounty Put On Them | Eaten An Insect | Been Groped By A Stranger | Been Groped By Someone He Knows | Been Dumped | Dumped Someone | Smoked | Gotten High | Flirted With Someone To Get Free Drinks | Put Someone In A Headlock | Won a Bet | Lost a Bet | Forgiven Someone Who Wronged Him | Indulged In Petty Revenge | Hallucinated | Has A Noticeable Physical Defect | Gotten A Noticeable Scar | Been Permanently Disfigured Through Injury | Kneed Someone In The Groin | Had An Unattainable Crush | Laughed Himself To The Point Of Tears | Been Kidnapped | Been Sexually Assaulted | Been Brainwashed/Hypnotised | Had A Recurring Nightmare

Been Bullied | Bullied Someone | Experienced Survivor’s Guilt | Been Tied/Chained Up | Given Someone A Massage | Received A Massage | Been Backed Up Against A Wall | Shot Someone | Stabbed Someone | Saved Someone’s Life | Cheated On Someone | Been Cheated On | Been In An Open Relationship | Had A Friendship With Benefits | Been In A Queerplatonic Relationship | Had A Stalker | Been Betrayed

Been A Traitor | Been Possessed | Been In A Bar Fight | Been Thrown Out Of A Bar | Been Arrested | Broken Out Of Jail | Been To A Funeral | Been To A Brothel | Had Surgery | Broken Someone’s Trust | Broken Someone’s Heart | Had His Heart Broken | Broken/Damaged Something Out Of Anger | Broken/Damaged Something Out Of Spite | Gotten A Piercing | Gotten A Tattoo | Used A Fake Name | Been Beaten Up | Been Tortured | Tortured Others | Been Abused | Been Blackmailed | Gotten Away With A Crime | Framed Someone Else For A Crime He Committed | Shared A Bed Platonically | Been In Love | Suffered From Sleep Paralysis | Been Forced To Flee His Home | Learned A New Language | Joined A Rebellion | Fought On The Losing Side Of A War | Fought On The Winning Side Of A War | Became A Godparent | Became An Aunt/Uncle

tagging @irreverentarchon, @kredous and @arcane-vault

ty i will not be elaborating on any of these without prostration

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the type of ship i fuck with the most

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love whenever in rogue trader there is a decision & u can ask the retinue what's up. problem with a cursed laptop powered by the souls of the innocents?

heinrix: give it to the inquisition, we may or may not stick our dick in it.

pasqal: praise the omnissiah. we shall most surely insert the holy mechadendrite into it

argenta: the faithful shall perform holy slam poetry at the foul machine

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previous < 3-4 > next

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next

there's a lot more written out if i decide to draft the rest.........