- Location
- U.S.
oh...well I am sure I could have convinced them eventually to try to eat that too.
And They Shall Know No Fear (Warhammer 30K-40K Astartes Quest)
Interlude - In Service to the War Glutton
- Location
- Anatolia
You are Bazekos, a Drukhari bridge runner. Deemed important enough to pilot the flag ship of the raiding fleet and not expendable enough to be tossed into the Pain Engines like the rest of the slaves. To be honest, this is a pretty simple and cushy job. Fly the ship with your not unnoticeable skill, follow the directions from the bridge master who in turn receives his orders from the raid leader, and don't give your masters reason to find fault in you. Surprisingly enough, the core of this fleet's soldiery and ship crew are unnaturally restrained and professional. Meaning they actually WILL search for fault to execute you rather than for kicks.
They don't even really torture, the weirdoes. Sure, on the more transient ships from other raiding bands that tag along it's business as usual, but on the main ships you're lucky to find even a good old fashion stretching rack! Which according to the rumors among the less permanent members of the crew is because they've found a way to feed off things others than suffering and excess, which is frankly just disgusting!
On the other hand, their almost constantly dead eyes would put anyone on edge. They simply go about their duties silently, barely emoting or reacting to anything not related to said duties. Except when they arrive to battle. *shudder* That's when their eyes light up and the laughing and the joking begins. Bets on whether or not they'll finally get to die this battle in a blaze of glory, or if they'll just have to content themselves with collecting a hefty kill tally, the freaks.
"Pilot, are you abandoning your duties to daydream?" The calm yet infinitely freezing question snaps you back into reality, whereupon you immediately begin attempting to save your own hide. "N-n-no, of course not bridge master Tagaras! Heh." You chuckle nervously. "I was merely calculating the most advantageous flight formula to remain in a superior position to the monkeigh ship." The bridge master's red glowing hell pits he had instead of eyes narrowed within the shadows of his helm's eye slits. You sit there silently sweating in pure terror before he speaks. "Very well, ensure that we do not lose that advantage. Elsewise I will be forced to remove your spine with my bare hands." The ultimatum was most definitely not a bluff, as you had seen the man perform the same maneuver on even True Born who did not display enough respect either to himself, his crew, or his master. You also don't think he even has a body anymore, the last time he had removed his helmet all you could see were two whisps of hellish red psychic energy where his eyes should be and nothing else.
Which brings you back to one of the main reasons you are utterly terrified for your life. The Drukhari seated upon a the command throne just up the set of stairs behind Tagaras. Dressed in an deceptively simple looking suit of power armor forged by the greatest artisans in Comorragh money, favors, and mountains of reputation could buy, its quality could never be doubted. But it was almost completely undecorated, save for a facsimile of a monkeigh skull right above his heart on the breastplate, a small inscription across the skull stating "FOR MY BELOVED NEMESIS."
Sporting a rather handsome face that was currently stuck in the dead eyed stare of purposeless boredom most of his subordinates shared. Sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, aristocratic features with a regal tinge. Completely spotless, save for the gaping hole where his right eye should be. This was the Archon of the band of sociopaths, Zachariah Spiteborn (Also known as the War Glutton). A name he had picked up on a whim after having simply forgotten his noble family name once he was done slaughtering the rest of his family.
Everyone knew the stories, millennia ago, back when he had first been born. He was a True Born Druhkari, though one born rather odd by even by your own races standards. He was incredibly obedient, never plotting against family members, only diverting the few plots levied against him. Yet he always seemed perpetually bored, he didn't take pleasure in torturing captives or slaves, nor did he find joy in the opulence his birth had given him. Nothing seemed to rouse his dead eyes, until one day he simply picked up one of his father's old trophies and proceeded to murder his entire extended family with it. Followed by selling anything remotely valuable in the estate and then setting it on fire. A fire that would proceed to spread to incinerate an entire percent of the Dark City.
Following this rampant act of destruction he would proceed to enter into one of the dark shrines to Khaine to become an Incubi, whereupon he bashed in the head of one of stand Incubi at the time with a rock and took his armor. No one dared argue against that, and it would be after three centuries of service that he would go on a killing spree which would result in the extinction of his own shrine as well as nine other major dark shrines to Khaine. On top of a rather sizeable depopulation of the Incubi who resided in the Great Shrine.
Following that he would form his own Kabal, uncaring whether or not his recruits were vat born or naturally spawned he gathered a following of like-minded Drukhari. All of them sharing the same boredom and uncaring attitude towards their races normal proclivities as he did. Using his inherited wealth, the favors gathered from selling his family's possessions, and the already fierce reputation he had made he would go on to finance a rather deadly ship and high quality armaments for all of his followers.
The commonality between all of them being that they could find no excitement outside of life or death combat, preferably where they died horribly killing everyone around them. But there seemed to be no plots of betrayal between their number, only the comradery of those wanting to die in glorious combat. Zachariah having collected a rather sizeable following from his deeds among both True Born and not would proceed to bring his and his crew's thirst for slaughter out on the galaxy. Something he had been doing for at least seven millennia at this point, though he himself had lost track eons ago.
His gaze sliding onto you being the shock to get you back to focusing on the your stations readings, and the information you were receiving from the psionic broadcasting orb embedded into the center of the bridge. A massive ball of crystal that was formerly a collection of thousands of Eldari soul stones, then all shattered together before being fused into the orb, it projected both likely forecasts as to how a battle may go with constant updates as time progressed, information as to how a combatant may lose and how to prevent it, and if tuned properly live observation of combatants as the battle proceeds.
A small glimpse of something catches the Archon's eye causing him to sit up from his disinterested slump and speak. "Bridge runners, calibrate the orb back to the sight it was just previously viewing, followed by rewinding the forecast." The cold yet quiet command does not brook hesitation nor disobedience. You and your colleagues immediately inputting commands on your consoles, the orb's vision flashing back to the sight of a rather massive Astartes monkeigh butchering part of one of the hanger on Wyche Cults of the raid group in reverses. The sight of the carnage being reversed to its beginning, whereupon the Marine proceeded to butcher eleven Wyches and their leading Hekatrix in a matter of seconds with nothing but a piece of bulk head and whatever weapons he could commandeer off the dead.
This sight seems to spark a mixture of excitement and some other emotion you dare not think about in the Archon's eyes. A maddened grin slowly creeping across his face as he mutters to himself in the barbaric monkeigh tongue High Gothic. "Is this the Mobius Strip the prophetess spoke of? The endless creation of death and blood that will end with our loving embrace into oblivion?"
The Archon rises from his seat in a leap, standing completely straight before his throne. He proceeds to give his bridge master an order. "Tagaras, have the ship set engines to full and head straight toward the Imperial ship, also have my Deathbound ready themselves and proceed to our boarding pod bay where I will meet them." The entire command spoken in a lightly happy tone, a genuine smile on the man's face as he exited through the bridges exit portal.
Targaras nods, whisps of red smoke forming trails from the movement. "It will be done my lord." He speaks before turning towards you and your compatriots. "You heard the Archon! Follow his commands you wretches!" The threatening tone cowing all but one slave. "But Master, if we do that we will come into the monkeigh's gun range and the ship does not have the armor to"-SPLURTHC!
His begging is cut short when a knife his splits his head in two, the top portion falling off to leave the bottom jaw and his tongue flopping in the air followed by the thump of his body. "I will not tolerate disobedience among you slaves, now, OBEY YOUR MASTERS ORDERS!" This demonstration being enough motivation for your group to jump onto accomplishing the bridge master's commands along with yourself.
As you punch in commands and begin directing engineering crews to fully activate the engines you can't help but wonder whether you'll die someday for failure or if you'll survive to become like your superiors. You'd honestly prefer the first option, She Who Thirsts be damned.
They don't even really torture, the weirdoes. Sure, on the more transient ships from other raiding bands that tag along it's business as usual, but on the main ships you're lucky to find even a good old fashion stretching rack! Which according to the rumors among the less permanent members of the crew is because they've found a way to feed off things others than suffering and excess, which is frankly just disgusting!
On the other hand, their almost constantly dead eyes would put anyone on edge. They simply go about their duties silently, barely emoting or reacting to anything not related to said duties. Except when they arrive to battle. *shudder* That's when their eyes light up and the laughing and the joking begins. Bets on whether or not they'll finally get to die this battle in a blaze of glory, or if they'll just have to content themselves with collecting a hefty kill tally, the freaks.
"Pilot, are you abandoning your duties to daydream?" The calm yet infinitely freezing question snaps you back into reality, whereupon you immediately begin attempting to save your own hide. "N-n-no, of course not bridge master Tagaras! Heh." You chuckle nervously. "I was merely calculating the most advantageous flight formula to remain in a superior position to the monkeigh ship." The bridge master's red glowing hell pits he had instead of eyes narrowed within the shadows of his helm's eye slits. You sit there silently sweating in pure terror before he speaks. "Very well, ensure that we do not lose that advantage. Elsewise I will be forced to remove your spine with my bare hands." The ultimatum was most definitely not a bluff, as you had seen the man perform the same maneuver on even True Born who did not display enough respect either to himself, his crew, or his master. You also don't think he even has a body anymore, the last time he had removed his helmet all you could see were two whisps of hellish red psychic energy where his eyes should be and nothing else.
Which brings you back to one of the main reasons you are utterly terrified for your life. The Drukhari seated upon a the command throne just up the set of stairs behind Tagaras. Dressed in an deceptively simple looking suit of power armor forged by the greatest artisans in Comorragh money, favors, and mountains of reputation could buy, its quality could never be doubted. But it was almost completely undecorated, save for a facsimile of a monkeigh skull right above his heart on the breastplate, a small inscription across the skull stating "FOR MY BELOVED NEMESIS."
Sporting a rather handsome face that was currently stuck in the dead eyed stare of purposeless boredom most of his subordinates shared. Sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, aristocratic features with a regal tinge. Completely spotless, save for the gaping hole where his right eye should be. This was the Archon of the band of sociopaths, Zachariah Spiteborn (Also known as the War Glutton). A name he had picked up on a whim after having simply forgotten his noble family name once he was done slaughtering the rest of his family.
Everyone knew the stories, millennia ago, back when he had first been born. He was a True Born Druhkari, though one born rather odd by even by your own races standards. He was incredibly obedient, never plotting against family members, only diverting the few plots levied against him. Yet he always seemed perpetually bored, he didn't take pleasure in torturing captives or slaves, nor did he find joy in the opulence his birth had given him. Nothing seemed to rouse his dead eyes, until one day he simply picked up one of his father's old trophies and proceeded to murder his entire extended family with it. Followed by selling anything remotely valuable in the estate and then setting it on fire. A fire that would proceed to spread to incinerate an entire percent of the Dark City.
Following this rampant act of destruction he would proceed to enter into one of the dark shrines to Khaine to become an Incubi, whereupon he bashed in the head of one of stand Incubi at the time with a rock and took his armor. No one dared argue against that, and it would be after three centuries of service that he would go on a killing spree which would result in the extinction of his own shrine as well as nine other major dark shrines to Khaine. On top of a rather sizeable depopulation of the Incubi who resided in the Great Shrine.
Following that he would form his own Kabal, uncaring whether or not his recruits were vat born or naturally spawned he gathered a following of like-minded Drukhari. All of them sharing the same boredom and uncaring attitude towards their races normal proclivities as he did. Using his inherited wealth, the favors gathered from selling his family's possessions, and the already fierce reputation he had made he would go on to finance a rather deadly ship and high quality armaments for all of his followers.
The commonality between all of them being that they could find no excitement outside of life or death combat, preferably where they died horribly killing everyone around them. But there seemed to be no plots of betrayal between their number, only the comradery of those wanting to die in glorious combat. Zachariah having collected a rather sizeable following from his deeds among both True Born and not would proceed to bring his and his crew's thirst for slaughter out on the galaxy. Something he had been doing for at least seven millennia at this point, though he himself had lost track eons ago.
His gaze sliding onto you being the shock to get you back to focusing on the your stations readings, and the information you were receiving from the psionic broadcasting orb embedded into the center of the bridge. A massive ball of crystal that was formerly a collection of thousands of Eldari soul stones, then all shattered together before being fused into the orb, it projected both likely forecasts as to how a battle may go with constant updates as time progressed, information as to how a combatant may lose and how to prevent it, and if tuned properly live observation of combatants as the battle proceeds.
A small glimpse of something catches the Archon's eye causing him to sit up from his disinterested slump and speak. "Bridge runners, calibrate the orb back to the sight it was just previously viewing, followed by rewinding the forecast." The cold yet quiet command does not brook hesitation nor disobedience. You and your colleagues immediately inputting commands on your consoles, the orb's vision flashing back to the sight of a rather massive Astartes monkeigh butchering part of one of the hanger on Wyche Cults of the raid group in reverses. The sight of the carnage being reversed to its beginning, whereupon the Marine proceeded to butcher eleven Wyches and their leading Hekatrix in a matter of seconds with nothing but a piece of bulk head and whatever weapons he could commandeer off the dead.
This sight seems to spark a mixture of excitement and some other emotion you dare not think about in the Archon's eyes. A maddened grin slowly creeping across his face as he mutters to himself in the barbaric monkeigh tongue High Gothic. "Is this the Mobius Strip the prophetess spoke of? The endless creation of death and blood that will end with our loving embrace into oblivion?"
The Archon rises from his seat in a leap, standing completely straight before his throne. He proceeds to give his bridge master an order. "Tagaras, have the ship set engines to full and head straight toward the Imperial ship, also have my Deathbound ready themselves and proceed to our boarding pod bay where I will meet them." The entire command spoken in a lightly happy tone, a genuine smile on the man's face as he exited through the bridges exit portal.
Targaras nods, whisps of red smoke forming trails from the movement. "It will be done my lord." He speaks before turning towards you and your compatriots. "You heard the Archon! Follow his commands you wretches!" The threatening tone cowing all but one slave. "But Master, if we do that we will come into the monkeigh's gun range and the ship does not have the armor to"-SPLURTHC!
His begging is cut short when a knife his splits his head in two, the top portion falling off to leave the bottom jaw and his tongue flopping in the air followed by the thump of his body. "I will not tolerate disobedience among you slaves, now, OBEY YOUR MASTERS ORDERS!" This demonstration being enough motivation for your group to jump onto accomplishing the bridge master's commands along with yourself.
As you punch in commands and begin directing engineering crews to fully activate the engines you can't help but wonder whether you'll die someday for failure or if you'll survive to become like your superiors. You'd honestly prefer the first option, She Who Thirsts be damned.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
Ohh, they were Wyches...yeah that makes it actually impressive, those bitches are no joke in close combat.
- Location
- Anatolia
SNRRK!
Hey you are the one who gave us one of the most dangerous space marines to ever live. Also the loot is also nice. Eldar tech here we come. Funny enough the dark Eldar are great at antipysker tech.
- Location
- Reno Nv
So, if we beat him in combat, will we be able to get a Bazerker bro?
These is not the Academia Nut quest where we are going to be friends with someone who evilness has to be measured in Nazis.
- Location
- Anatolia
Deca-Hitlers, but what's atrocities between friends.
- Location
- Reno Nv
But he would be amazing to help throw at any and all worlds that need a great Terror tactics, or who need to be super slaughtered ASAP.
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ChiefTurtle117
The Sigillite
- Location
- Holy Terra
What would we do with an Eldar ship?
Screwing around with Xenos tech doesn't sound like a good idea when we're more reliant than the typical Legion on the Mechanicus maintaining our stuff.
Already have the Night Lords, Raven Guard and Space Wolves for those. Don't need a shitty Knife Ear Xeno for those.
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Eldar ships have better warp drive, stealth tech, weapons and dark Eldar ships have antipsyker holding cells. If none of that is worth wild for the tech marines we could trade it to a ArchMagos for loot.
ChiefTurtle117
The Sigillite
- Location
- Holy Terra
Those are all Xeno tech. Unless you have a uber radical Tech Priest on the line, they're likely to be just destroyed.
- Location
- Titan
It is Thousand Sons tradition to acquire gracious gifts from all peoples of the galaxy. Maybe we can convince Magnus to straight up name the legion Blood Ravens.
We are in 30 k the Admech still studies xenotech. The Dogma of 40k or 33 k has not set in yet.
ChiefTurtle117
The Sigillite
- Location
- Holy Terra
The Legion currently doesn't have an official name or insignia, calling it the Blood Ravens and getting Raven motifs isn't impossible. Nor the habitual thievery.
Like where? Xenos stuff is literally an abomination to them. Unless you're talking an extreme radical, studying Xenos tech is still something the Mechanicus doesn't condone
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Mars any forge world we find. In the Horus Heresy novels it talks about Admech priests doing research and angry that the treaty of mars limits or outright forbids certain research. Right now the Admech is divide and has not coalesce into what we know about 40k.
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ChiefTurtle117
The Sigillite
- Location
- Holy Terra
That's Human tech and advancement, not seeing anything about wanting to study Xenos stuff.
Ave Anathema
Ave Imperator
- Location
- Jacksonville Illinois
Especially one who likely helped MUrderfuck The Warp Whore into Existence
and we dont need the ashole alive to study their shit since they arent tyranids(Bio tech)
Can we eat their brain?
- Location
- Lowton