#the ork runes

[quisters]

YORK CAN READ?? (NOT CLICKBAIT!!)

Bonus:

[stupidsharkthing]

Halfway through:

GHAZGHKULL THRAKA: PROPHET OF THE THE WAAAGH

and i gotta say

-holy shit their voice is so hot

also

-gah dayum it gets dark

-but its also fuckin fun as hell

-love the ogryn psyker lady and the space wolf rune priest is alright (tolerable, i hate vulka fenryka)

-the makari bit is also pretty interesting

-it's also so... odd... seeing Thraka behave around other orks

they're... cold

and they're horrifically intelligent.

keep in mind most warhammer orks are either cunning and weak, or strong and belligerent, but they're...

they're both.

like a stalking predator, more... terrifying than any other ork character i've ever seen

they don't find any enjoyment from doing the things that make them... themself

they just see what they do as a chore, a necessity, a path that they walk on

-also, now that i've been reading through it...

(kill me for saying this, but)

Killing Yarrick was the correct decision.

Ghazghkull needed it. I'm tired of people wanting stagnation in warhammer. The wheels are moving, the cogs are turning.

The galaxy has been split in two

Gods are being birthed, and some are even being resurrected.

Primarchs are coming to fight for the endtimes. PRIMARCHS.

Monsters grow deadlier and more horrific by the day.

Things are changing.

Stagnation is no longer enough. I want to see Thraka move on, I want to see them conquer and grow even more. For fuck's sake, they're chosen by a GOD. Yarrick's elimination was the best thing to happen to him. Good riddance, and farewell to that stupid entrenchment.

[phantomoftheshoppera]

Just started reading Prophet of the Waaagh! and I’m entranced by the main cast, you got old lady Inquisitor, Rune Priest, Psyker Ogryn, and Spy Ork

[tearofisha]

Old Wounds.

Across the Imperium, planets were going dark.

This in and of itself was not unusual, of course. The planets of the Imperium fell for innumerable reasons, rebellion, conquest, xenos uprising, Chaos corruption and the spreading threat of Tyranid Hive Fleets were just a few of a myriad difficult ways life on a human planet could abruptly come to an end. What was unusual for these worlds was the aftermath.

"I'm afraid I don't quite see the pattern you see, Ranger." Aelinor said as she rose from inspecting a defensive line of dead Militarum and PDF soldiers. Something had gotten into her travelling companion, like a nervous energy that verged on paranoia. Whatever was bothering him, it brought back the warrior of old: singular, obsessive, and utterly focused.

Rishaeron was atop the tallest structure left standing in the area, scanning the horizon like a ships captain would in the days before ships grew to sail the void instead of the seas.

"Then look for what isn't here, Farseer. The answers will reveal themselves to you."

Aelinor did as she was bid and realised that he raised a valid point. There was not one single body of an enemy combatant for miles despite the piles of Imperial dead that lay around them in all directions. Moreover, no vehicle, artillery piece, or heavy weapon was left behind.

"Greenskins?" She said with no absence of disgust in her voice.

"Not just any Greenskins, Aelinor." Rishaeron dismounted his throne of rubble and began marching beside the Farseer. "What Ork have you ever known to retrieve their dead, or to not settle conquered worlds as a base of operations?"

The question hung in the air for only a moment before the realisation stole the warmth from Aelinors blood.

"The Shaman. From the Shadow War all those years ago." It was her first military loss as a leader of an operation, but while the loss stung, it paled in comparison to what Rishaeron lost in the final battle. Time was a wonderful healer, and the wounds that battle left on Aelinors soul were faded scars by now, but Rishaeron had never allowed himself to let go.

"Rishaeron..." She reached to touch his arm, but the Ranger snatched it away before she could. His pace quickened, as did his choler.

"It must die, Farseer, it is justice for all our dead. For Daenysa, my Rangers and Autarch Madrais, their souls scream for revenge, and I will be the one to give it to them." The Rangers voice was raised to a snarl, and Aelinor knew there was no reasoning with him when his very blood was singing for death.

"It is in the past, Ranger." Aelinor said softly, sympathetically.

"I do not care."

"It is as good as suicide."

"I do not care, Farseer."

"Then walk your Path, friend, may Kurnous guide the shot that slays this beast, and may Isha bless the path that brings you back to us." She said, with a sadness she was surprised to find ran deeper than she ever realised.

"And may the Bloody Handed bless the path of any who stand in my way. Farewell, Aelinor. For now."

The pair parted ways in the ruins of a dead planet, and as she took her first tentative steps away from her companion, she did her best to ignore the pouch of runes on her hip knowing that this was one future she couldn't bear to forsee lest she confirm what her guts already told her. Rishaeron would die in this endeavour.

[aspiring-bl-writer]

After Life: 995 words

I stand amidst a green-skinned horde, blood-maddened monsters trampling over each other to reach me. I tower over them, a giant even among these hulking, howling brutes, my rune-encrusted polearm almost equal to my colossal height. I swing the ancient glaive in wide sweeping arcs before me, the berserk creatures rupturing against the blade. Yet the others rush toward me, ignoring their dead, showered in the blood and gore of their virulent breed.

Sitting on the floor of my home, I am holding my infant son, Pauric. I am not long a mother. I am still young, naïve, romantic. The child has my bright blue eyes and Aidyn’s thick chestnut hair. I am stroking the babe’s cheeks as he smiles, babbling, his intense love unspoken but nonetheless evident. Aidyn, joins us, his arm wrapping snug around my shoulders. I rest my head on his. I have not yet taken my first step on the Path of the Warrior, never set foot in an Aspect shrine. Really, I too am a child. Hopeful. Innocent.

The Infinity Circuit is my new home. My kindred welcome me. I am greeted by familiar fallen kinsfolk, as well as unknown ancestors. All are paragons of the Craftworld, fortunate to have their souls recovered. They greet me, try to comfort me, help me adjust to the afterlife. They tell me there is no war here, no fear of She Who Thirsts. They repeat the old proverb: Bonn dan nosh corinnid, “Only the dead know peace.” I am now part of a community. Not a military unit, but a harmonious society, bonded in understanding, united in values. Still, rest eludes me. I miss the war, the cause, the joy of cleansing the usurper races.

The Craftworld has bestowed upon me the title of autarch. I kneel before a statue of Kaela Mensha Khaine, his terrifying visage glowering. As a Fire Dragon I have fed on the fury inside. As a Dark Reaper I have destroyed simply for the sake of the destruction. Yet I have never succumbed to obsession. They say it is due to self-discipline, but the truth is there is a hollowness inside, an absence so cumbersome it keeps me forever grounded. I wonder if the God of Murder can perceive this fact, the gaping void at the centre of my soul.

Aidyn is lying in bed with me. He is on the Path of the Poet. I think he is so accomplished, so far along his path, not knowing that one day I will have walked all the Warrior Paths, then finally the Path of Command. He asks me to promise to die at the same time as him, so we will enter the Infinity Circuit together, and will never be apart. What if, I ask him, our souls are unrecoverable, not captured in a stone? This idea shocks him. He tells me not to think like that. I tell him I think about it all the time. A fate worse than death.

The Infinity Circuit is despoiled. Servants of She Who Thirsts attack a place meant to be inviolate, joined by deluded heretics enacting a rite. The former feed their deity and the latter claim to materialise another. How many gods will we Aeldari create, in our vanity? I am spared, but many of us, the best of us, are consumed, extinguished. I mourn, but in private, in isolation. What cruelty I am saved when I do not want to persist. We have made a prison for our blessed dead and call it an afterlife. I see that now. A paradise, a place of peace, is anathema to me. I am a bride of Khaine. I want to follow him. His example.

I am returning from my first voyage on the Path of the Envoy. A messenger greets me once I re-enter the Craftworld. He informs me, with flawless etiquette, that Aidyn and Pauric were slain by Ork marauders while visiting Aidyn’s parents. Their souls are unrecoverable. Lost. Destroyed. I am inconsolable. I curse myself, She Who Thirsts, we who created her. The next day I change to the Path of the Warrior, adopting the first of many Aspects.

The seers repeat my name like a mantra. “Unnail Sadh Keva of the Billion Battles, the Herald of Demise, Orksbane, Saviour of Laith Lauchlan, Martyr of the Aristech Reach.” They beseech me to pilot one of their wraith-constructs, to aid the evacuation of a Maiden World. They will guide me, shepherd me in battle. I tell them I agree, but on my own terms. They say their visions already told them as much. They do not ask me to reconsider.

They concede I have earned the right to choose.

I am a child sitting on my father’s lap. He is an aged, learned, wise. He tells me about the paths, the ways of our people. He insists the Aeldari will come back from extinction, that one day our civilization will conquer the galaxy as in days of old. I ask him how we can make tomorrow be like yesterday. He just smiles and pats my head. He never answers the question.

The evacuation is almost complete, the seers report. Waves of Ork warriors keep coming. All perish. They are fools jumping into open graves, thinking it will affect some great change, It will not. We Aeldari are more like them than we care to admit. We are not mindless as they are, but we are no less deluded. Some races should know when to die. As the last ships ascend into the stars, the seers bid me farewell, wish me blessings, sing my praise. I do not answer. I turn my glaive and embed its tip in the chest that is not my chest. There is no expression on my white featureless face as I sink it in farther, deeper, until, in one thrust, I shatter my soul stone. With a rush of relief, I plunge into waiting oblivion.

[ambling-ironkin]

The Vendor

Guild Agent Durk Dammin

Fist of the Aspidochelone Trade Union, born of F4-FNYR Consortium

“Some say that there’s limits to how far we can go. That the galaxy is too treacherous to truly ever map. I’d say these types are over cautious naysayers without a tinge of steel in their bones. Our duty as Kin is to explore, and I’m compelled by the Ancestors to do so. That’s what I believe at least, deep in my core. Let’s see how far we can go.”

|Rules|

Height: 4’5”/ Age: 73 Years/

Durk Dammin is an esteemed representative of the Aspidochelone Trade Union, a Guild under the F4-FNYR Consortium League. While a generally younger face amongst his peers, Durk makes up for it with his quick thinking, easy going temperament, and chillingly pragmatic nature.

Tasked with forging new alliances, locating fresh resources, and creating new trade routes, this IronKin is determined to make his ancestors proud, and make a buck doing it. Even if he has to make increasingly tougher calls.

Occupation: Guild Trade Agent

Skills: Skilled Duelist, Limited Xenology, Partial Engineering Expertise, Adept Marksmen, Adaptive Mind, Burgeoning Voidfarer.

Hobbies: Cartography, exploring, ‘drinking’, cataloguing new experiences, learning alien languages, practicing his marksmanship, collecting souvenirs, and virtual beach days.

Goals: Durk is determined to find as many new trade routes, mineral deposits, and allies as possible in order to both fulfill his own wanderlust and bring profit to his Guild. To brave the dark corners of the galaxy and charter a new web of trade throughout the system.

Likes: Open Expanses, precious minerals, unknown ruins, alien technology, digital stimulants, honesty, and friendly faces.

Dislikes: Rogue Traders, Orks, Tyranids, Admech, Imperial Zealotry, disorganized data sheets, enclosed spaces, and gory injuries.

Affiliations:

A.T.U.

F4-FNYR Consortium

Steelsea Kindred

Equipment

HunTR Module

Void Armor

Plasma Sword

Bolt Revolver

Ion Pistol

Weavefield Projector

Plasma Knife

Appearance

Durk is a taller than the average IronKin thanks to personal internal modifications. Covered in yellow and blue armor, with brown fabric, and silver embedded runes, he usually wears a grey jacket over himself. His head is a clear but opaque dome that has simple pixel display on the face to mimic expressive eyes.

[ave-dominus-nostramos]

Examine: a bone that was scrimshawed by an Imperial Fist @stories-from-the-warp

@stories-from-the-warp

You see something left on a table in the Phalanx's mess hall.

Pick it up: Y | N

A bone 1.54 meters in length, far thicker and straighter than the human analogue, tapering into a ball joint at one end. An ork's femur judging from the size and shape. You have scrimshawed many of your own under Fulgrim's tutelage, though you've always preferred working with far more human materials.

On one side you see an Astartes holding up a banner bearing the 7th Legion's insignia, his boot placed atop an Ork warboss's severed head. His siblings are arrayed around him, fists pumped in the air in an almost sickening display of comradery while the sun and imperial aquilla rises behind them.

How glorious. How absolutely cliche. It'd be right at home in one of those inane propoganda films the remembrancers are always churning out. Always glorifying the Blood Angels, the Fists, the Luna Wolves. But never your legion. Never you. You were something better left out of sight and out of mind. No aquillas or glamorous frontal assaults against an entrenched enemy with the light of the Emperor behind you. That was never your way ( nor that of your legion for they were made in your image, shaped by your own hand ) and you have never needed such accolades. You tell yourself this as you've done dozens of times before.

You turn the bone over. On the other side is some quotation by Rogal Dorn inscribed in painstakingly exact Gothic runes. One so terribly hopeful that you must resist the urge to roll your eyes just from reading it.

On a whim, you lightly throw it at the ground, causing it to fracture. You can feel Dorn's whelps stare at you in silence. Some gasp but even they are unwilling to speak for fear of losing their tongues. You take no small amount of satisfaction in seeing the words 'honor' and 'imperial unity' stricken through by tiny cracks as you pick it up. For you it's a fortunate sign. For Dorn however... You chuckle softly.

You place it back on the table where you'd found it and saunter away from mess hall, the gazes of Dorn's genechildren trailing after you as you make your exit.

[444names]

hobbies + emotions BUT similar to "bilbo"

Ading Adner Afting Agice Aging Agity Aics Aief Ailisc Aing Airs Alding Aling Allety Alorse Amarts Aming Amming Ammism Amping Ance Ancess Anch Ancing Ancity Andess Anes Aness Aning Anism Ante Aphy Aright Arking Armety Arspe Arts Assing Aston Ation Autere Auton Awell Awing Bacing Badism Baling Ball Bation Beage Beago Beery Bilis Bilt Bing Bingon Birse Bleery Boares Boart Boary Bodef Boort Brosc Buise Calf Canise Card Cary Catill Cating Ching Chvolf Cling Coft Coing Colart Colf Coll Colles Colley Comy Cony Corell Coross Cort Coss Cost Couphy Coute Cred Crent Cress Croarm Croast Croll Cron Crones Crypt Cult Curts Cycley Cycoll Dandow Dang Daning Dant Dard Darity Dart Debary Delar Delint Dell Delt Deng Deon Deping Derner Dery Dess Dight Ding Dingef Dion Disc Discur Dism Disoll Divent Dower Drafti Drappy Ecting Elay Elry Embass Ement Emess Emet Emon Eness Entern Enting Ention Equete Euphy Eury Exaste Exathy Excia Excing Exhi Exhing Fang Fanity Fant Faston Fasult Fate Fation Feepre Fery Feth Fics Fing Fism Fispe Fite Fity Flogy Fooder Fooke Fooker Foom Fort Foss Fruse Gamety Garde Glad Glarts Gler Glest Gling Glity Goll Gong Gonge Grunt Guing Gung Gunspe Gunt Guss Gusy Haph Happy Hation Helass Henes Hent Hines Hiness Hing Hoch Hock Hockey Hority Horts Hoss Humilt Huming Hung Hunt Huntme Hurby Hures Icking Icling Ingo Ining Inling Ireds Ires Irria Ishite Jigern Jight Jogy Joll Jong Joving Jubt Judogy Judowe Jugby Juming Jumpy Karts Kating Kation Kaying King Knes Kning Knity Lading Lard Larm Larmy Larts Latint Layang Leass Lecomy Liall Ling Loarad Loga Logy Loning Louton Loving Lucing Lunsm Lunt Macing Making Maleag Mall Mards Mati Mating Maying Mening Ment Menvy Miling Ming Morong Morts Mount Mouphy Moust Nego Nesion Nespoi Ness Nowing Ophy Ordge Orking Orring Orts Pacing Paing Pando Pash Pating Pering Phing Ping Pingon Plecs Poing Poking Poll Polley Polove Poly Porag Port Ports Poting Potong Pred Predo Pring Puting Ques Quill Raging Rating Reag Realon Redow Reds Rego Reldi Relry Rese Resion Ress Rete Revull Rewing Roarm Roing Rolf Ross Runes Sading Sadis Saing Sancy Saning Saphy Sating Sation Satort Scgo Scoi Scolo Scomy Screst Scubt Scull Scur Sebadi Sent Serige Shelia Shing Shkey Shom Shomy Shoss Siling Sion Skarts Skeer Sket Skety Sking Slity Snes Soaph Sockey Soft Soll Splon Sques Staing Stass Sting Stion Ston Stres String Sult Surfis Surry Suss Swing Swirs Taing Tair Tairry Taless Tall Teriet Thing Thlogy Toning Torice Toring Torts Tourry Trath Treass Trell Tria Trient Tross Unhort Unning Unsilt Unting Untion Uress Urfing Vacars Vating Viness Ving Wating Wation Werapt Whami Whing Woomy Woraft Woring Wormy Wort Worts Wria Wrics Wrism Yogy Zeaser Zemary Zess

[football-in-tuxedos]

What Your Favorite Warhammer 40k Faction Says About You

Ultramarines: You're always down for boys with daddy issues

Imperial Fists: You think the best offense is a good defense

White Scars: You think the best offense is a good offense

Salamanders: You like it when the setting is grimdark but not TOO grimdark

Iron Hands: You have almost certainly tried to build your own computer

Dark Angels: Your favorite stories are where the good guys get joined by a new morally ambiguous guy

Space Wolves: You have at least one rant about how Nazis don't have a monopoly on Norse Runes primed at all times

Blood Angels: You kinda wish vampires still wore cool outfits

Raven Guard: You don't see why aesthetic should trump effectiveness

Black Templars: You don't see why effectiveness should trump aesthetic

Grey Knights: Your addiction to the aesthetic is rapidly becoming crippling

Deathwatch: Your favorite stories are about an elite group dropped behind enemy lines

Custodes: This is just the same joke as Grey Knights but somehow even more so

Astra Militarum: Your friends think you're a little too into World War 2 stuff

Mechanicus: Your friends think you're a little too into Deus Ex

Adepta Sororitas: Your friends think you're a little too into She-Ra

Imperial Knights: You probably cried with joy a little when Titanicus was announced

Inquisition: Your favorite meme is the Ron Swanson "I can do what I want" meme

Sisters of Silence: You worked very hard to find the most ignored faction in the game, well done

Black Legion: You think the only thing better than hot guys with daddy issues is BAD guys with daddy issues

World Eaters: You have made at least one joke about how the T'au are cowards

Death Guard: You have made at least one joke about how the Covid outbreak is Nurgle's Will

Thousand Sons: You have made at least one joke about getting a "Magnus did nothing wrong" tattoo. It wasn't really a joke

Emperor's Children: You have written and deleted at least one rant about how non-straight sexualities are portrayed in 40k

Iron Warriors: You are heterosexual

Word Bearers: You are just a little too into the Chaos lore

Night Lords: I can't promise that you've written some weird Batman fanfiction, but you've definitely read some

Alpha Legion: You are Alpharius

Daemons: You are consistently pissed that spiky Marines are the face of the Chaos faction, Daemons are so much more unique

Renegade Knights: You are consistently pissed that spiky Marines are the face of the Chaos faction, Renegade Knights are so much spikier

Craftworlds: You want a girlfriend to write tragic poetry with you

Ynnari: You want a goth girlfriend to write tragic poetry with you

Drukhari: You want a goth girlfriend to [PUNCHLINE VERY CENSORED]

Harlequins: You have some very specific superstitions, probably involving fairy circles

Necrons: You have at least one rant about how much potential the Terminator franchise is wasting by not making a good future movie primed at all times

Tyranids: You played a lot of Starcraft growing up

Genestealer Cults: You believe strongly in the power of collective action and you played a lot of Starcraft growing

T'au Empire: You believe strongly in the power of collective action and you watched a lot of Gundam growing up

Orks: You think everyone above is taking the setting too seriously

[betabites]

[Image ID: seven photos of painted miniatures. The first photo is of a Warhammer 40K ork with two raised power claws. He has green skin, blue clothes, and heavy cybernetics. His left boot is bright red. The plaque on the pole on his back reads, “Sz Klaws.”

The second through seventh photos are all detail shots of a scratch-built ork flat-bed truck, crudely covered in blue paint. The photos are focused on graffiti scrawled on the sides of the truck.

On the right side of the truck: “Wiv Compl’m’t’ry Shootas.”

On the front bumper: “If U kan read this then you rodkill [sic]”

With an arrow pointing to a mounted Space Marine storm bolter: “Beaky Boy Bitz”

On the inner left side of the truck: “So zogging bored” followed by a crude rune of a lower jaw and tallymarks. On the truckbed next to that, “zog zog”.

On the top of the cab, with an arrow pointing to an ork pet consisting mainly of mouth: “He bites”

A screen showing the words “Dakka” “Krump” and “Panik” on three separate lines. The indicators next to “Panik” are illuminated.

On the rear right side: “Lucky Trukk”. On the opposite side of that wall: “Not Zoom Enuff”. On the truckbed next to that: “Brokehorn wuz here”

On the back of the cab: “Nika Nika Nika”.

On the rear left side: “Zog Ya Footsloggas”. End Image ID.]

And that’s the last of the everything on the orks! At least for this month. All told, that’s ten grots and a grotherd, five nobs and an ammo runt, a mekboy, and two burnas and two lootas. And three killa kans and a trukk. Not a bad orktober haul.

Not counting any of the rest of the minis, and orktober isn’t over yet! Just got in the Day of the Dead minis that I’m painting for my sister, so we’ll see if I can get a proper glowing marigold. Probably going to see if I can dash out some less complicated ones first. Sheep? Daleks? Something like that.

[anneangel]

Bilbo before the adventure was a rich bachelor who was very fond of flowers, he didn't have any apparent job or occupation, he just lived in his late parents' house, taking care of the amazing house (which had twice as many rooms as ordinary houses and many pantries, much to keep tidy and clean), he would prepare the 7-8 meals a day of a respectable hobbit, and in his spare time would smoke his pipe-weed, sitting and blowing smoke rings. He getsed the occasional visits and socializes with the neighborhood like any respectable Hobbit somethimes.

After his adventure, he learns to appreciate each of these things even more, like food, peace, flowers, and comfort, as we only learn to appreciate after we lose (even if it's for a little while) and he's learned. In addition, he starts takes a liking a lot to poetry and music (influences of elves and dwarves by singing and rhyming all the time. Even Goblins/orks sing), takes a liking to maps (like Thorin's map), and start write your adventure and translate others and is open to unexpected new situations if they arise. 

Of course, he already liked maps and calligraphy, runes and elves, but that was only in his papers, things he never really lived, and the farthest he went was just for walks in the neighborhood, but in the end, he appropriated his own story better, it is no longer maps abstract on his table, but HIS STORY and the places he has been and can return.

He discovers things about himself that were previously unknown to him, things he already had in him but didn't know: like his courage, bravery, daring, determination, resilience to face obstacles and his admirable willingness to help his companions and finish what he set out to do in the beggins.

He loses the respect of the neighbors when he comes back. But he earns the respect and friendship of a wizards, dwarves, elves, humans, eagles, and Beorn (he's pretty much loved and cherished for all everywhere he setsed foot).

And the coolest thing is that he doesn't have superpowers, he's not big, not famous or important, he doesn't look threatening or strong, he doesn't even know how to fight or handle weapons properly. But he was essential throughout the trip and managed to make a difference in the little things, and in the end that was what mattered (with a “little luck" and his great good moral character).

He is fearful and have afraid of a lot of things, besides not knowing how to swim and being afraid of heights. But his fears don't stop he from doing what he have to do!

And he is not perfect, he lies, grumbles, complains, is accommodated, besides being a total Drama Queen when he wants to, and needs to be helped and carried for much of the journey. But that only makes it more original and real. Of course he is my favorite in The Hobbit and in LOTR too, besides being super charismatic, polite, cute and funny.

Bilbo is just a small Hobbit in a giant world. But he faced this world and accepted the challenges, however unexpected they were. He didn't come out unscathed (and not your heart and feelings), but that's part of living, all rigth? There have been happy and sad things on his journey, but he keeps going, move on. 

He is the identifiable protagonist and from whom one can learn a lot!

[dracite-aeril]

@traveling-freebootah

Aeril watched from the small, slightly cramped bridge of her Nightshade-class destroyer as the swirling incandescence of the webway transitioned to the darkness of realspace.

“Flotilla, this is Javelin. All ships, confirm status,” she spoke after waiting a few moments, pressing a rune on her command chair to broadcast her voice to the collection of vessels under her command.

Running escort duty for supply ships was by no means how Aeril preferred to support the Ynnari cause. She was hardly trained in the mariner arts, but ever since her Archite had positioned her as the Shattered Fang’s unofficial ambassador, Aeril had had little choice but to go on these little outings. Whenever a new trading partner was established, she’d have to take her kill team’s personal ship, join up with a few other destroyers, and lead some transports into the unknown to make sure anything didn’t go wrong on the first expedition.

Aeril’s eyes lazily moved back and forth as she scanned the IFF pings she received, and she let out a sigh of relief when all ships were confirmed as present and accounted for. Thank Ynnead. Missing ships were at best an enormous inconvenience to find, and at worst never turned up at all.

“All ships confirmed present,” she said into the fleet com network. “Destroyer escorts, assume standard defensive spread. Let’s get to the next jump point, we’re only one transition away from Neni'Shelwe.” She nodded to her helm officer, and the vessel ever-so-slightly rumbled as its drive accelerated.

Aeril leaned back in her chair and sipped from a cup of venomfruit juice. Hopefully, the hardest part of their voyage was behind them.

A ping emanating from the helm console cured her of such delusions.

“Dracite, we’re detecting unknown vessels at mark 37-42, 12.7 million klicks. They just started a heavy burn towards us. Drive readings are clumsy, so probably orks.”

“Oh, wonderful. How many?”

“Unknown. The… irregularity of ork engines makes it hard to tell if you’re looking at one big ship or a lot of little ones from far away. But it could very well be enough to be a threat.”

Aeril resisted the urge to groan.

“All ships, high alert; We have company. Escorts prepare weapons,” Aeril ordered. “Javelin and Zothera, plot intercept course, full burn. Cybaen, Alerai, Tempest, adjust defensive perimeter accordingly.”

The fleet pinged back messages of affirmation, and the bridge lights dimmed as the little destroyer went into high alert. Aeril watched the starfield rotate on her viewscreen as the Javelin banked to line up with its approaching guests. According to her holographic readout, holofields were up, torpedo tubes and weapon batteries were ready.

Aeril hoped whoever this was had no ill intentions, but if they did, they’d soon witness the destructive capacity of a Nightshade bombing run.

[maddyaddy]

@ask-rune-priest-ulfric

So! Godwyn led his Bullroarers //

and there was never a more impetuous band.

We have heard tell of their wars.

To Fennia, he came //

Rampaging amongst Orks

He cut down their chief.

On Avidya's blasted surface, he fought well //

And sent the Skin Wolves back to Uppland.  Godwyn fights on //

Sailing the sea of stars.

His saga is not yet done.

[xenosgirlvents]

Any stories where Xenos utterly defeat a imperial force?

Hmm. There are some. Off hand the ones I remember well are the following; 

The Twisted Runes: Not a big engagement, but the Silver Skulls squad is utterly, and completely, curb-stomped by a Farseer and some Howling Banshees. Always a nice read.

Farsight Series: The 2nd novel in the series, the name escapes me, where he leads the attack which claims the first world of what will become the Farsight Enclaves, has Farsight and the T’au successfully attack and conquer the world from both Marine and Mechanicus forces. In the book Farsight almost completely wipes out the Scar Lords Space Marine Chapter and there is a fun scene when battling against the Hammers of Dorn, against a Thunder Shield armed unit of Terminators, where the T’au deploys optical munitions to blind the sensors of the Terminatos, forcing them to ditch their helmets to see, and then a Crisis Suit engages from above, where the Shields are not covering, and snipe their heads.

Kauyon: This has a fun engagement where a Pathfinder, who’s squad was killed by Space Marines, alone acts as a spotter for some Skyrays to destroy a column of Imperial Transports, including the Space Marine squad who killed his team.

Brutal Kunnin: Is probably the most recent example, featuring a Forgeworld of Mechanicus forces and a Titan Maniple who are just overwhelmed and defeated by the Meklord’s Waaagh.

Fire Warrior: One of my favourite novels, Kais within this is really awesome and the T’au kick both Astra Militarum and Ultramarine ass in it.

Even when Xenos win in stories it is, sadly, a rarity that they face Marines. Most of the time BL is only willing to let Astra Militarum or Mechanicus lose to them. Wins against Space Marines are ultra-rare for anyone but the T’au, for whom it is just normal rare. 

It’s really upsetting to me how utterly unwilling BL are to just let Aeldari and Orks beat Space Marines some times.

[skunts-own-truth]

Having done some Wrath & Glory in person, and given the C7 Core and Forsaken System a read from cover to cover both; I’ve decided it’ll be my go-to for 40k RPGs from now on. I’ve fallen in love with it, and can’t wait to play more one day.

I ran a little micro adventure with the wife and a pal, and I believe we’ll play more. I’m running too many in-person games, though. Rune Quest, Unknown Armies, and now Wrath & Glory. Not a bad thing, really, I like ‘em all, and all three games are vastly different experiences. That said, W&G is an addictive little thing, and I can’t help but cling on to it even though I’m already running two games! It’s fun, y’all. Very fun.

We’re doing a Tier 4 game with a framework set in the core book’s setting, the Gilead system. The party consists of a psychic blank commissar and a pious guardsman who’s flowing with faith talents. They’re sorta acting as a two-man kill-team dealing with localized daemonic influence and tainted religious matters, on behalf of the system’s Lord-Militant/Planetary Governor lady Fylamon. So far, they’ve rescued the mummified arm of an imperial Saint from nefarious space pirates who were once a regiment of the system’s PDF. When we left off, fighting the pirates drew in some nearby Freebooter orks, who are currently giving chase to the party’s troop hauler.

[thelordofdarkreunion]

Magnificent Scoundrels- The Shadowed Lords

I know I keep throwing new characters and places at you.  Sorry.  Scoundrel shenanigans will return next story.  However, this is important for the story progression, and, to be blunt, these are some of my personal favorite characters I wrote in here.  Enjoy the story, and if you are interesting in it, please read the end note.  

“Nine heroes and their colleagues.

Six Shadowed Lords and the assets they bring:

One Ghost.

One god.

One collector.

One Man

One Cypher.

One Leader.

Six Stones.

One Weapon.

One Crucible.

One Ring.

Seven Lords:

One Lion

One Phoenix

One Warhawk

One Wolf

One Son

One Salamander

One Raven

And a little luck.”  -A List of Items Required

Titanfall Galaxy

The Outlands

Hammond Robotics Lab 365-772

It was night out, and Dr. Lisa Wiltalker sat in the same chair, in the same office, as she did every night.  But this time, she didn’t really mind.  It was a wonderful night outside, crisp and clear, with the stars shining through the window, creating an ambient atmosphere of peace.  Though, in reality, it was actually due to her work that she didn’t mind staying late.  

She was the head of the facility, one of the most important ones in the Outlands region of space, and it was her duty to advance the Hammond company by any means necessary.  And, by God, the opportunities that presented themselves now!  Eight new universes that had just materialized from nowhere.  Eight!  The circumstances that presented themselves for Hammond and herself were...endless.

She was currently studying everything she could about these new galaxies, trying to learn anything and everything she could…

She looked up sharply.  Could have sworn something was moving in the shadows…  No.  She had been here for...fifteen hours, was it?  It was nighttime, and it was a lonely, empty office building, so no wonder her senses were playing tricks on her sleep deprived mind.  She stood up, stretched, grabbed a coffee from the machine in the room, and sipped it while looking out the window and the stars.  Feeling better, or at least more caffeinated, she returned to the task at hand. 

Eight new galaxies.  Endless opportunities to sell the products of Hammond.  Spectre robots, the latest and greatest in infantry fighting machines, faster, stronger, and tougher than a man; explosive Ticks, small drones that seeked out enemies and detonated; and, of course, Titans.  She didn’t think that any of the other galaxies had technology like that, and where better to add to their arsenals but from the Hammond Corporation?  Made perfect sense…

She snapped around sharply.  She swore she could have heard something moving, swore she could see something just inside her peripheral vision…  She shook her head again.  The office was massively secure, with guards, both of bolt and steel, and flesh and blood stationed throughout it.  When in a sleep deprived and lonely situation, everyone started seeing the boogeyman hiding in the corners.  She shook her head ruefully and turned on more lights.  

Where was she?  Ah, yes.  Opportunities.  Who to sell to?  Everyone, if possible.  Who could turn down six meter tall war machines, implemented with the finest in A.I. technology, programmed in the art of death and destruction?  Well, probably a few of the more dense and/or peaceful of the governments out there.  She leafed through a dossier.

The Galactic Assembly?  No.  Has only had two major wars in the last century, both of which had ended within the year.  The United Federation of Planets?  Also no.  Too regulatory, too jealous of their own technology.  The Galactic Empire?  This one looked promising.  A pro-human empire that had been fractured and on the losing side of a major war in recent years, desperate for anything to turn the tide.  Yes, this-

A cold, metallic hand gripped her throat, preventing any sound from getting out, and a horribly deep, rasping, grating voice sounded in her ear.

“You ever get the feeling you’re not alone in the room?  It’s because you’re not.”

The extremely tall, spindly...thing stood over the corpse of Dr. Wiltalker.  The body had a massive, jagged, yet precise hole ripped through the torso, directly where the heart was, and currently lay deep in a pool of its own clotting blood.  The thing, made of cold steel yet looking oddly humanoid, stood above it, watching, savoring the sensation.  

“One more off the list,” it said in the same rasping voice.  It made a move to turn, to exit the room, but stopped.  It stared at the desk.  At the dossier.  “Interesting,” it muttered.  It picked it up.  “Very interesting indeed.”  It leafed through it.   The machine turned.  

It had once been he.  He had once been living.  He had been turned into this… synthetic nightmare by Hammond, against his will or knowledge.  He snarled and suppressed a shudder of rage.  Once the greatest hitman the Syndicate, Hammond, or anyone else had ever known, at some unknown point his mind had been altered, his body destroyed and replaced with… this.  He snarled again.  

He had been having his revenge against everyone and everything associated with the company… but this new knowledge.  This changed things.  So many possibilities.  So many skinsuits.  So little time.  He was the boogeyman.  He was the Revenant.  And he would have his vengeance.

Warhammer 40k Galaxy

Solemnace, Necron Tomb World

The hallways were jet black, cut from a strange stone that seemed to absorb all light around it.  The only illumination came from strange runes and lighting fixtures that seemed to blend into the halls and ceilings.  The light was a pale, bright green, and cast strange shadows on the halls and objects residing within.  It swirled throughout the space, as if it didn’t quite understand what exactly it was supposed to be illuminating.  A human would have found the long halls exceptionally strange.  Disconcerting.  Creepy, even, if one were less eloquent.  It seemed like something from a horror movie, with mad creatures waiting to leap from the shadows on the unaware.  

Even more strange and disconcerting were the objects located within the halls.  Strange devices, artifacts, and objects littered the space.  Each one almost unrecognizable; completely unknown except to the most knowledgeable of galactic historians, and, of course, the curator.  For this place, this entire planet, in fact, was so much more than strange alien hallways and lighting that did not agree with the human ocular system.  Above all else, itt was a place that preserved history.

The massive galleries, for that is what they were, contained a great many strange, horrifying, and wondrous things.  Everything, from inactive artifacts of history to living beings had their place here.  Each was protected, frozen in status by eldritch technologies.  A massive man in baroque power armor.  Tens of thousands of Imperial Guardsmen, from many different worlds, (including some lost) scattered throughout different exhibits.  Huge war machines, from almost every race to bestride the stars.  A large, beautifully embellished bell.  Korks, the ancient and ferocious genetic predecessors of orks.  The ossified husk of some strange, jellyfish-like being.  The preserved head of an Imperial Saint.  The graceful Eldar of the last high council of the destroyed Craftworld Idharae.   Space Marines, from almost every chapter and legion imaginable.  Several Inquisitors that had been just a bit too nosy.  A Custodian.  Stange, undocumented blue crab-like aliens.  Members of species thought to be long dead by the rest of the galaxy.  The total list would probably take hours, if not days or weeks, to describe.  

The long galleries were patrolled by odd beings, bipedal silver robots with elongated skulls, wielding strange spears.  They seemed to be mindless, uncaring of the weariness that would affect any other beings by the constant patrolling.  

On one of the wings of the planet-sized museum, an individual studied a huge sculptured head.  It was old and grimy, its original and secondary colors lost to time.  The figure was lost in it, its bulk taking up a huge display gallery.  Once upon a time the head had been part a a figure called the Statue of Liberty, and had resided in the human hive city of Nuva York on the Throneworld of mankind.  38,000 years ago.  It was a huge monument to human accomplishment.  38,000 years ago.  It was a historical relic, a testament to mankind’s history.  30,000 years ago.  It disappeared, never to be seen again, a missing piece of history.  24,000 years ago.  Now it resided here.  It mattered nothing to the individual.  He was older than the statue.  Older than the human race itself.  

His body was similar to those of the gallery guardians, but much more ornamented and higher quality.  Made of silvery metal, his legs were long but powerful.  A metallic rib cage, with a strange symbol etched in the breastbone attached, the legs to similarly structured arms.  His metallic skull had a largely elongated jaw, with a permanent mouth etched in the metal.  A cloak made of interlocking metallic plates was thrown across his back, and in his hands was a strange staff, made of the same metal as he was.  

A sigh of contentment, strangely synthesized, escaped his lips (or what passed for them).  While he did often travel the galaxy, looking for artifacts and individuals to add to his ever-growing collection, it was nice to look at his gains.  He turned and strode out of the gallery hall.  

A vast open room stretched before him, much better lit than his galleries.  Ornamented skeletal warriors, weapons at the ready, stood on guard.  They were there not only to protect him (not that he needed it, mind you, there were plenty of tricks up his sleeve), but the massive museum itself.  He surmounted the steps to his throne, ornamental carved from the black rock, and surveyed his domain.  He was not here simply to oversee his galleries.  No.  A voice broke him out of his thoughts.

“My lord?” asked another metallic servant, this one bearing heavier limbs and more decoration than its fellows.  The seated figure looked up.  A huge holographic map, made of eerie green light, sprung to life, taking up the majority of the colossal room.  It showed not one, but nine different galaxies.  Each a treasure trove.  Each begging to be explored.  

Trazyn the Infinite, Phaeron of the Nihilakh Dynasty, Archaeovist of Solemnace, curator of the Prismatic Galleries, and collector extraordinaire turned his head to the map.  Eight new galaxies.  Eight new sets of history.  So little time.  So much to collect.  

Marvel Galaxy

Within the passages between worlds

There were ways.  Passages between realms and planets, known to only a few.  Some might call them ‘wormholes’, some ‘slip spaces’, others just plain ‘magic’.  They were small, strange, holes in time and space.  While naturally occurring, and while able to be explained by science, few ever found them.  Fewer still ever used them.  

Loki of Asgard, God of Mischief, was not among those few.  He was with the tiny minority, the smallest percentage of all beings: he knew where they were, knew how they worked, and used them frequently.  They were so incredibly useful; too hard to pass up.  Not even Heimdall, all-seeing guardian of the Nine Realms, could not peer into them.  Poor Heimdall.  The man was a tedious bore, but he really didn’t deserve to die like he did.  

Loki died that day too, choked to death at the hands of the Mad Titan, Thanos.  Or did he?  Was this the original Loki, cheating death yet again?  Was this another Loki from the same universe, the same timeline, transported here?  Maybe.  Or was this a Loki from somewhere else entirely; the same individual from a different universe?  It was possible.  One never really knew with the God of Lies.  

Loki wasn’t truly evil.  He had a habit for causing mass death and destruction, but those killed were mortals, were they not?  A few years taken off their miserably short lives wouldn't really affect anything.  He liked power, enjoyed it, would use force to get it, but, at heart, he wasn’t malevolent.  

But now, out there, seen in the spaces between time and space, there were new things.  Things that truly were malevolent.  Evil.  Things that would enslave all sentients, destroy all life, rend reality asunder.  

He was no hero.  But things like this...they needed to be stopped.  So, unfortunately, he would probably end up fighting on the side of heroes.  However, that didn’t mean he still couldn’t find time for mischief...  

Mass Effect Galaxy

Cronos Station, Headquarters of Cerberus

The room was bare, with only an ergonomic chair standing alone in the center.  A huge window, sleek and curved, with no obstructions, gave view to a massive fiery star.  Tendrils of fire, both red and yellow, spun into space, guaranteed to take any viewer’s breath away.  The floor was black and polished, reflecting the star’s burning light.  Sitting in the chair in the center of the room, surrounded by orange and blue holograms, was a single human.

He was wearing an extremely expensive, well-tailored suit, the edges perfectly cut to fit his frame.  His brown hair was neatly styled, and his eyes glowed blue, replaced long ago with prosthetics.  He stood, glass of incredibly expensive liquor in hand, the glowing tip of a cigarette sticking from the edge of his mouth, staring at the holograms.  Somehow, he contrived to make the vices look incredibly elegant and classy, like a movie star of old.  

He was the Illusive Man.  One of the, if not the most powerful individuals in the galaxy. Creator of the pro-human terrorist organization Cerberus.  He saw his duty plainly: humanity must become the most prominent race throughout the stars.  He was not xenophobic.  Far from it.  He simply wanted his species to succeed, and if lesser individuals saw that as racist, saw him as a terrorist, then so be it.  He cared nothing for the opinions of the weak.  Those who were not willing to act were not worthy of inheriting the stars.  But now...complications.  

Eight new galaxies.  He knew a great many things about them; far more than most.  There were new threats.  New problems.  New factions and people of incredible power.  But most importantly, humanity existed in all eight.  His species.  

Whether through the iron might of the Imperium of Man, or the peace and technological progress of the United Federation of Planets, humanity was in a prominent place in all of them.  He would see them remain that rightful place.  But now there were threats.  Too many to handle alone.  He would need help, and he would need it as quickly as possible if he were to succeed.  

The holograms scrolled past, showing names.  Faces.  Dossiers.  Heroes.  Villains.  Species.  

The Illusive Man sat in his chair, cigarette dangling from his mouth as if forgotten.  He was thinking.  Planning.  He needed more help, needed more people, needed more knowledge.  Knowledge was power.  Power was required to raise mankind to the top.  Simple, but not easy.  He thought some more.  

Unknown Location

The faint light, cast by the glow of a nearby star, emanated from large floor to ceiling windows.  The star was old, cold, but still let out a pure white light, enough to illuminate the room through the heavy, cathedral-like windows.  It contrasted with the empty blackness of space, the only light beyond the star being faint pinpricks, barely enough to cast a second glance at.  The room itself was dark.  Nothing could be seen of it.  Not its size, not its purpose, or any items within.  The light only illuminated two figures standing side by side, staring out into the blackness of space.  

The one on the right was the shorter of the two.  It looked to be human, with two arms, two legs, and a head sticking out from a normal human frame.  However, one couldn’t really tell what it was, for its face was hidden by an armored black mask and helmet.  Two rectangular eye slits, glowing a dim red in the light of the star, looked out through the window.  It wore black armor and gloves, stylized so as to allow the greatest range of motion possible.   A heavy black coat, reinforced by some form of anti-ballistic material, reached down to the figure’s ankles.  Holstered at its side was a large pistol, a human-made automatic of heavy calibre.  

The figure on the left was massive.  While the one in black was slightly taller than six feet, it towered a full eight feet tall.  Its form was large and bulky, with joints of massive power armor poking through a plain white robe that hid the majority of its figure.  A white hood covered its head, and while one might think this figure was some strange alien, the bottom of the face that could be seen through the hood and shadows was unmistakably human.  It had a broad and chiseled face that fit the rest of its massive form, hinting that the bulkiness of its figure came not from the armor, but from the body beneath it.  Two pistols were holstered at its side, both oversized to fit in the figure’s large armored gauntlets.  One was blocky and black, and while heavily ornamented, seemed to be of the type that fired something akin to bullets.  The other glowed a soft blue, coils replacing what would have been the slide on an automatic pistol.  

An utterly massive sword was strapped to the figure’s back, and while beautifully adorned and seemingly crafted by a master, it was too large even for the tall man to wield it.  Instead, it was kept in its place, resting on his back.  

The taller man spoke.  “You know what must be done, yes?”  His voice was a deep baritone, rumbling with massive power and reverberating through the darkness.  

“Yes.”  The shorter figure’s voice was scarred and metallic, spoken through some sort of modulator in the mask it wore.  

“Then we must move quickly.”  The man on the left turned and stared down at the black-clad figure on the right.  “There are those who would seek to stop this.”

“It is logical.  I see no other way to make things right for everyone.”

“Good.  Then it is necessary to do what must be done,” said the deep voice.  

“The fate of the universe hangs on the shoulders of a few.  But they have done it before.  Proven their worth,” replied the black figure.  

“This time there are forces outside of their control.  Things they are not powerful enough to fight.  This is why we must help them.”  The red lenses tilted up towards the tall man’s face.

“Indeed.  We have a mission, and for the good of all we must not fail.”

Hope you liked the story.  I know that both Loki and the Illusive Man are kind of bad guys, and the the Illusive Man goes heavy off the deep end in ME 3, but that hasn’t happened yet, and I need all of these characters on the same side.  Now, the message.  If you have any ideas for stories you want me to write or any characters that fit in with the Shadowed Lords you want to include, please tell me and I will consider writing them if the fit in.  If you have any comments, criticisms, concerns, or questions, don’t hesitate to ask!  I hope you enjoyed the story, and I hope that you have a great day.  Or night.  Or whatever.  

Edit: Also, Revenant is a sociopathic murderer, so he isn’t exactly a good guy either.