Echoes of Eternity: A Warhammer 40k Necron Lord Quest
- Thread starter boredblues
- Start date
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- Tags
- warhammer warhammer 40k necron war
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- yorkshire
It'd the Tomb that is waking up
You were about to when these chaos gits came to party. The remaining turn actions will happen when your heroes get a moment of respite from snapping cultists' necks.
Would be poetic is most of those wondering decided to be a problem to the already aweaken necrons outside of our control?
It certanly would make dealing with them somewhat easier.
Edit:
Got an idea on a power move:
Once the enemy forces makes it into the Complex, broad cast the location of throne room. While leaving a singular lychguard - or sufficiently talkative immortal - in there to inform any 'visitor' that Lady of this realm is on field of battle.
Just a casual way of messing with them.
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[INTERLUDE] Through Chaos' eyes
The air within the meditation chamber crackled with raw power, the scent of burning parchment and copper filling the massive, vaulted space. Phantasmal shapes danced, rainbows forming claws and grins reaching out from beyond the veil. Tallows from Warp-Seers and Psy-Fennel seeds burned in braziers shaped as the mouths of the damned, filling the air with fumes that throbbed and writhed.
Izzaroth closed his eyes, and reality split.
He was in an unkempt garden, withered plants cracking beneath his boots. No, not withered. Old, so old that whatever moisture they once held was gone, leaving husks of husks. And yet, they didn't break. If anything, age made them sturdier, thick vines refusing to break under his heels.
A single bud emerged from among the thicket, a deceptively fragile little thing that didn't blossom, not yet. But it would, and the prospect filled him with revulsion just as much as watching it did.
A whisper slithered through his brain, carrying the discordant tune of a thousand voices.
"The dead do not sleep, they do not wait. They are already here. They are always here."
He turned, and the vision shifted. He was adrift in an ocean of black glass. Crystals shaped as trees emerged from the glass, rainbows of hues running beneath transparent skins. But they weren't healthy. Bite marks, thousands of them, marked their pristine beauty, the signs of hidden yet aggressive infestations. If he peered, Izzaroth could make out columns of insects squirming beneath the bark, endlessly moving, endlessly gnawing.
And the voice repeats its drone, mocking and warning and teasing and joking.
"They are already here. They are always here."
The ground gave way and he tumbled into spirals of movements and shapes and colors. One last vision appeared before him: a great hourglass of molten bone and glass. No sand filled it, but skulls, each a grain, each tumbling down to an unseen, funereal beat.
He awoke with a gasp, ashes and blood filling his mouth.
A mortal would have writhed, limbs shooting out as the empyreal energies washed out of his body and impulses ran across nervous centers. Izzaroth breathed out, letting them bleed out of him in controlled waves. His thoughts moved like clockwork, interlocking gears at the rhythmic mantras of focus and relaxation.
The braziers' flames had gone out, leaving the meditation chamber in an unnatural darkness.
Izzaroth switched on his vox as he stood up.
"Tighten formation," he commanded. "They are waiting for us."
"Acknowledged, Master," was the answer. The voice of the witch-hulk steering the vessel across the Empyrean was a dying man's last gasp. Izzaroth thought about the conglomerate of flesh and souls with satisfaction. Centered around a Navigator from the rotting Imperium, it was one of his finest creations.
Walking across the glyph-laden floor, the shadows slithering away from the glowing eye topping his staff, Izzaroth stepped over misshapen corpses, their features twisted and their eyes missing. An indulgent smile appeared on his face as he spotted dear Amandrite. The Acolyte had been so sure of his potential, but few mortals survived the ordeal of assisting a master Sorcerer's scrying with their lifeblood. Those who did became prospects for induction in the warband and the lineage of the Crimson King. Those who didn't were barely worthy of a backward glance.
Might and will were the measure of the Galaxy after all, a lesson he had learned and mastered a long time ago.
The bridge was alive with preparations. The mortal crew, misshapen wretches barely clinging to humanity, moved between consoles where flesh, metal and daemon coexisted in disgusting harmony. Or that's how the slaves of the False Emperor would call it. Izzaroth called it efficient, enlightened even.
At the center of the bridge, the witch-hulk's leading element stared forward, third-eye streaming a channel of multi-hued light into the craving maw of a daemon-engine. The mutant's normal eyes had been carved out and the sockets sewn shut. Wounds opened and closed all over his carrion skin, like he was covered in blinking eyes. The Daemon, mouth made of a mix between metal and bloody, skinless flesh, gurgled in appreciation at the mortal's agony. It took the payment and, controlled by the spells carved in its false-skin, steered the ship with more speed and precision than any slave of the rotting Imperium could hope for.
"We're combat-ready, Master," Azem told him, the lesser Sorcerer as eager to please as a puppy.
Izzaroth smiled indulgently, scanning the Scarab Occult Terminators arrayed on the bridge's sides like rows of hulking statues carved in sapphire and gold. Each hulking warrior appeared to his second sight as a flickering light trapped in swirling ash. He could perceive their thoughts, but they were disjointed, barely stitched together things with no awareness, or endless repetition of the same words, over and over.
Acolytes, bone fingers of seers and mages swaying on their tunics of skin and silk, marched back and forth in front of the warriors, mumbling incantations that had their features ripple and twitch. Lesser Sorcerers watched, ready to lash out to any who let pain and discomfort make him hesitate in the words.
Izzaroth gave his smile a disappointed lilt, enjoying the way Azem's eagerness wilted before it. "I warned that the Marakh-shape would be more appropriate to our enemies." He raised a hand, halting his protests. "Don't fret. I must not have been clear enough."
He watched him, and they both knew that wasn't the case. Izzaroth couldn't be mistaken. It was one of the lessons he had drilled into his apprentice since he took him as a baby from an Iron Warrior's vessel. And of course, he never warned about anything, but it was good for his apprentices to always second-guess themselves.
Azem would stew in guilt and self-loathing and that would both keep him in his place and have him redouble his efforts to please. He was getting close to the point when the study of Sorcery would push him to leave behind any paternal affection he had for his master, like it had happened to the many apprentices Izzaroth had raised along his three centuries of life. Have the whelp sacrificing his life for his Master before that would be an optimum way to fulfill his investment in time, effort and wisdom. As an offering to a Daemon maybe.
Now in a good humour, Izzaroth left his apprentice behind and strode to the central vox station. The Daemon trapped inside the console writhed, but he ignored him, activating the contact.
"A moment of your time, Lord," he murmured, voice smooth as silk.
From the other end, a low growl was heard, as if the vox had opened in the lair of some gigantic beast. It made the Daemon whine in fear.
"Speak, sorcerer." The voice was barely intelligible, mutations having long taken away any humanity from it. The base, visceral disgust in it couldn't be more plain though.
Izzaroth smirked. "Lord" Turglug was a Champion of Nurgle, the leader of the only warband more powerful than his and the very nominal commander of their little coalition. They were the only ones dedicated to one patron. The rest of the rabble, Space Marines included, venerated Chaos as a pantheon, in the very pointless, very ignorant ways of the unenlighted.
Izzaroth almost purred with pleasure. The Nurglite fool loathed having to work with him, but both his seers and experience had shown him that he needed Izzaroth. Only the Sorcerer's visions could lead him to the prize they both craved. After that, it would be blades and blood, but Izzaroth counted on Turglug being long returned to the worms he so loved by then. Or about to.
But not yet, not yet. The true schemer was a master of patience, and Izzaroth was a true schemer. Like a child, Turglug had to be placated, coddled, complimented, and pushed to his purpose. As vexing as it was, Izzaroth had to admit that in a conflict, the brute would emerge victorious. But it mattered little. Brains trumped brawn, and the mind would swing the club.
"I have returned from my meditations, Lord," he said, affecting a humble tone. "It is as you, in your wisdom, suspected. The Dead Ones await us."
A wet snort, like whip hitting blubber, echoed from the vox. "I didn't need you meddling with the Wheel to know the obvious, sorcerer. The loss of your warband confirmed that they are awake, and the system has only one way in. Of course they would be waiting for us." A bubbling wheeze, tinted with tired awe. "Grandfather showed me as much."
Izzaroth sneered at being reminded of the loss of some of his brothers. And anyway, as if the phlegm-filled, milky-eyes ways of the Plague God could compete with the thousand-year-old ways of divination of the sons of Magnus. But he kept it to himself.
"But of course, Lord," he cooed, mellifluous. "It was just another confirmation of your wisdom. Yet, this unworthy servant must remind you that our mandate as servants of the Gods calls for us to not disregard any tool at our disposal, no matter how… distasteful."
Turglug grumbled, the sound like a clogged industrial harvester. "Necrons," he grunted. "Their age and lack of change would make them pleasing to Grandfather, if they didn't refuse to embrace death so stubbornly." The Champion sounded conflicted between being outraged and disappointed. "The Flylord will rejoice and welcome them into His Manse. A good wash in the Cauldron will set them straight."
For once, Izzaroth agreed with the fool. The Architect of Fate rejected the staleness of the Dead Ones, even as He rejoiced in their manifold intrigues. One merit overshadowed by a larger demerit, twice repeated. Izzaroth greedily hoarded the knowledge. In the esoteric lore of the Feathered Ones, numbers had power.
"So shall they be," he offered. "The Gods will pile untold rewards upon those who can prune this errant branch of Fate." For once, he wasn't lying. Someone, or something in the Dead Archipelago had angered, or would anger, the Gods, an obstacle to Their designs that would have to be removed. Great prizes awaited the champion with the guile and might to do so, and Izzaroth aimed to be that champion.
The sheer, mind-blasting certainty of the vision he had received about it still made his brain ache, the manifold threads of destiny roiling and converging around that detestable flower. It burned bright still, never dimmed; it had pushed him to leave his demesne in the Gap and endure years of fruitless searching in the company of simpletons. Tools, he reminded himself. Many could have picked up the call, but in the end they were all fodder for his fire.
"Before being enemies, our patrons are Brothers," he cooed. "Remembering it is wise, my lord, as it was wise to embark on this holy crusade, as it will be wise to destroy our prize."
"Not destroy," Turglug growled. "Capture. The Grandfather doesn't tolerate lack of mercy, and doesn't abide wastefulness. The Flower will adorn His Garden. To be admired, preserved, loved." The sad longing in Turglug made him sneer. Useless Nurglite sentimentality. "But that's for tomorrow. What do your visions say about this ambush, meddler?"
Talking strategy with a fool was a special taste of suffering, but Izzaroth endured it for the sake of his destiny. By the time the communication cut off, vox-messages were being sent and the fleet was rearranging itself in a new position. Whatever form the Necron ambush took, they would be ready to face it.
Taking his seat on the command throne, Izzaroth took in the sight. The bridge was humming with preparations for realspace return, the air alive with the gurgling and moaning of shackled helmsmen and tortured navigators, the scurrying and mewling of mutants and the growling and hissing of bound Daemons. Thrall Sorcerers chanted, their voices interspersed by shrill screaming when a Sorcerer lashed out to punish imprecisions. Rubric Marines were the only silent among the ruckus, standing tall and still like the dead.
Izzaroth smiled with self-satisfaction. It was his realm of control and enlightement, and with the thousands of mutants, renegades, acolytes and warriors making up the crew of the Fate's Design, it made for a mighty pawn in the Great Mutator's schemes.
And that wasn't all. Alongside the Heavy Cruiser he led, three Light Cruisers and five Escorts of the armada belonged to his warband, Izzaroth's Chosen. And while Turglug drowned in his God's sentimentality, all fixed on the good conclusion of their present endeavor, he was already thinking on the future. Preachers and Daemons had been sent to seed themselves in the other warbands, with cabals, covens and factions enslaved to his will already forming among the weak-willed. Why, the original Blood Hounds, a pathetic band of wretches, had long been subsumed. By the time all was said and done, he counted to have the whole fleet under his thumb, its guns aimed at the slaves of the Plague God.
As for their present endeavor, he didn't doubt their success. A number barely shy of one thousand Marines stood under their, for now, command, with more than one hundred times that number in cultists supporting it, not to speak of the full complement of heavy support, mundane and daemonic, waiting to be unleashed at his command. Whole systems burned before such a force, planets quaked before it. Augmented with his foresight and the might of his patron, what hope these little machines had? He would see them drown in daemon-flesh and the fires of Change and snatch the prize promised to him from the Flower's burning flesh.
Izzaroth laughed, the sound making everyone on the bridge flinch as if hit. Oh yes, he thought, the Great Mutator's will could be fickle, but it was also inevitable, and the same was for those who followed and obeyed Him. And so it was that the very stars would fall and rise upon the palms of the Chosen, among which number Izzaroth felt to belong without a doubt.
Izzaroth closed his eyes, and reality split.
He was in an unkempt garden, withered plants cracking beneath his boots. No, not withered. Old, so old that whatever moisture they once held was gone, leaving husks of husks. And yet, they didn't break. If anything, age made them sturdier, thick vines refusing to break under his heels.
A single bud emerged from among the thicket, a deceptively fragile little thing that didn't blossom, not yet. But it would, and the prospect filled him with revulsion just as much as watching it did.
A whisper slithered through his brain, carrying the discordant tune of a thousand voices.
"The dead do not sleep, they do not wait. They are already here. They are always here."
He turned, and the vision shifted. He was adrift in an ocean of black glass. Crystals shaped as trees emerged from the glass, rainbows of hues running beneath transparent skins. But they weren't healthy. Bite marks, thousands of them, marked their pristine beauty, the signs of hidden yet aggressive infestations. If he peered, Izzaroth could make out columns of insects squirming beneath the bark, endlessly moving, endlessly gnawing.
And the voice repeats its drone, mocking and warning and teasing and joking.
"They are already here. They are always here."
The ground gave way and he tumbled into spirals of movements and shapes and colors. One last vision appeared before him: a great hourglass of molten bone and glass. No sand filled it, but skulls, each a grain, each tumbling down to an unseen, funereal beat.
He awoke with a gasp, ashes and blood filling his mouth.
A mortal would have writhed, limbs shooting out as the empyreal energies washed out of his body and impulses ran across nervous centers. Izzaroth breathed out, letting them bleed out of him in controlled waves. His thoughts moved like clockwork, interlocking gears at the rhythmic mantras of focus and relaxation.
The braziers' flames had gone out, leaving the meditation chamber in an unnatural darkness.
Izzaroth switched on his vox as he stood up.
"Tighten formation," he commanded. "They are waiting for us."
"Acknowledged, Master," was the answer. The voice of the witch-hulk steering the vessel across the Empyrean was a dying man's last gasp. Izzaroth thought about the conglomerate of flesh and souls with satisfaction. Centered around a Navigator from the rotting Imperium, it was one of his finest creations.
Walking across the glyph-laden floor, the shadows slithering away from the glowing eye topping his staff, Izzaroth stepped over misshapen corpses, their features twisted and their eyes missing. An indulgent smile appeared on his face as he spotted dear Amandrite. The Acolyte had been so sure of his potential, but few mortals survived the ordeal of assisting a master Sorcerer's scrying with their lifeblood. Those who did became prospects for induction in the warband and the lineage of the Crimson King. Those who didn't were barely worthy of a backward glance.
Might and will were the measure of the Galaxy after all, a lesson he had learned and mastered a long time ago.
The bridge was alive with preparations. The mortal crew, misshapen wretches barely clinging to humanity, moved between consoles where flesh, metal and daemon coexisted in disgusting harmony. Or that's how the slaves of the False Emperor would call it. Izzaroth called it efficient, enlightened even.
At the center of the bridge, the witch-hulk's leading element stared forward, third-eye streaming a channel of multi-hued light into the craving maw of a daemon-engine. The mutant's normal eyes had been carved out and the sockets sewn shut. Wounds opened and closed all over his carrion skin, like he was covered in blinking eyes. The Daemon, mouth made of a mix between metal and bloody, skinless flesh, gurgled in appreciation at the mortal's agony. It took the payment and, controlled by the spells carved in its false-skin, steered the ship with more speed and precision than any slave of the rotting Imperium could hope for.
"We're combat-ready, Master," Azem told him, the lesser Sorcerer as eager to please as a puppy.
Izzaroth smiled indulgently, scanning the Scarab Occult Terminators arrayed on the bridge's sides like rows of hulking statues carved in sapphire and gold. Each hulking warrior appeared to his second sight as a flickering light trapped in swirling ash. He could perceive their thoughts, but they were disjointed, barely stitched together things with no awareness, or endless repetition of the same words, over and over.
Acolytes, bone fingers of seers and mages swaying on their tunics of skin and silk, marched back and forth in front of the warriors, mumbling incantations that had their features ripple and twitch. Lesser Sorcerers watched, ready to lash out to any who let pain and discomfort make him hesitate in the words.
Izzaroth gave his smile a disappointed lilt, enjoying the way Azem's eagerness wilted before it. "I warned that the Marakh-shape would be more appropriate to our enemies." He raised a hand, halting his protests. "Don't fret. I must not have been clear enough."
He watched him, and they both knew that wasn't the case. Izzaroth couldn't be mistaken. It was one of the lessons he had drilled into his apprentice since he took him as a baby from an Iron Warrior's vessel. And of course, he never warned about anything, but it was good for his apprentices to always second-guess themselves.
Azem would stew in guilt and self-loathing and that would both keep him in his place and have him redouble his efforts to please. He was getting close to the point when the study of Sorcery would push him to leave behind any paternal affection he had for his master, like it had happened to the many apprentices Izzaroth had raised along his three centuries of life. Have the whelp sacrificing his life for his Master before that would be an optimum way to fulfill his investment in time, effort and wisdom. As an offering to a Daemon maybe.
Now in a good humour, Izzaroth left his apprentice behind and strode to the central vox station. The Daemon trapped inside the console writhed, but he ignored him, activating the contact.
"A moment of your time, Lord," he murmured, voice smooth as silk.
From the other end, a low growl was heard, as if the vox had opened in the lair of some gigantic beast. It made the Daemon whine in fear.
"Speak, sorcerer." The voice was barely intelligible, mutations having long taken away any humanity from it. The base, visceral disgust in it couldn't be more plain though.
Izzaroth smirked. "Lord" Turglug was a Champion of Nurgle, the leader of the only warband more powerful than his and the very nominal commander of their little coalition. They were the only ones dedicated to one patron. The rest of the rabble, Space Marines included, venerated Chaos as a pantheon, in the very pointless, very ignorant ways of the unenlighted.
Izzaroth almost purred with pleasure. The Nurglite fool loathed having to work with him, but both his seers and experience had shown him that he needed Izzaroth. Only the Sorcerer's visions could lead him to the prize they both craved. After that, it would be blades and blood, but Izzaroth counted on Turglug being long returned to the worms he so loved by then. Or about to.
But not yet, not yet. The true schemer was a master of patience, and Izzaroth was a true schemer. Like a child, Turglug had to be placated, coddled, complimented, and pushed to his purpose. As vexing as it was, Izzaroth had to admit that in a conflict, the brute would emerge victorious. But it mattered little. Brains trumped brawn, and the mind would swing the club.
"I have returned from my meditations, Lord," he said, affecting a humble tone. "It is as you, in your wisdom, suspected. The Dead Ones await us."
A wet snort, like whip hitting blubber, echoed from the vox. "I didn't need you meddling with the Wheel to know the obvious, sorcerer. The loss of your warband confirmed that they are awake, and the system has only one way in. Of course they would be waiting for us." A bubbling wheeze, tinted with tired awe. "Grandfather showed me as much."
Izzaroth sneered at being reminded of the loss of some of his brothers. And anyway, as if the phlegm-filled, milky-eyes ways of the Plague God could compete with the thousand-year-old ways of divination of the sons of Magnus. But he kept it to himself.
"But of course, Lord," he cooed, mellifluous. "It was just another confirmation of your wisdom. Yet, this unworthy servant must remind you that our mandate as servants of the Gods calls for us to not disregard any tool at our disposal, no matter how… distasteful."
Turglug grumbled, the sound like a clogged industrial harvester. "Necrons," he grunted. "Their age and lack of change would make them pleasing to Grandfather, if they didn't refuse to embrace death so stubbornly." The Champion sounded conflicted between being outraged and disappointed. "The Flylord will rejoice and welcome them into His Manse. A good wash in the Cauldron will set them straight."
For once, Izzaroth agreed with the fool. The Architect of Fate rejected the staleness of the Dead Ones, even as He rejoiced in their manifold intrigues. One merit overshadowed by a larger demerit, twice repeated. Izzaroth greedily hoarded the knowledge. In the esoteric lore of the Feathered Ones, numbers had power.
"So shall they be," he offered. "The Gods will pile untold rewards upon those who can prune this errant branch of Fate." For once, he wasn't lying. Someone, or something in the Dead Archipelago had angered, or would anger, the Gods, an obstacle to Their designs that would have to be removed. Great prizes awaited the champion with the guile and might to do so, and Izzaroth aimed to be that champion.
The sheer, mind-blasting certainty of the vision he had received about it still made his brain ache, the manifold threads of destiny roiling and converging around that detestable flower. It burned bright still, never dimmed; it had pushed him to leave his demesne in the Gap and endure years of fruitless searching in the company of simpletons. Tools, he reminded himself. Many could have picked up the call, but in the end they were all fodder for his fire.
"Before being enemies, our patrons are Brothers," he cooed. "Remembering it is wise, my lord, as it was wise to embark on this holy crusade, as it will be wise to destroy our prize."
"Not destroy," Turglug growled. "Capture. The Grandfather doesn't tolerate lack of mercy, and doesn't abide wastefulness. The Flower will adorn His Garden. To be admired, preserved, loved." The sad longing in Turglug made him sneer. Useless Nurglite sentimentality. "But that's for tomorrow. What do your visions say about this ambush, meddler?"
Talking strategy with a fool was a special taste of suffering, but Izzaroth endured it for the sake of his destiny. By the time the communication cut off, vox-messages were being sent and the fleet was rearranging itself in a new position. Whatever form the Necron ambush took, they would be ready to face it.
Taking his seat on the command throne, Izzaroth took in the sight. The bridge was humming with preparations for realspace return, the air alive with the gurgling and moaning of shackled helmsmen and tortured navigators, the scurrying and mewling of mutants and the growling and hissing of bound Daemons. Thrall Sorcerers chanted, their voices interspersed by shrill screaming when a Sorcerer lashed out to punish imprecisions. Rubric Marines were the only silent among the ruckus, standing tall and still like the dead.
Izzaroth smiled with self-satisfaction. It was his realm of control and enlightement, and with the thousands of mutants, renegades, acolytes and warriors making up the crew of the Fate's Design, it made for a mighty pawn in the Great Mutator's schemes.
And that wasn't all. Alongside the Heavy Cruiser he led, three Light Cruisers and five Escorts of the armada belonged to his warband, Izzaroth's Chosen. And while Turglug drowned in his God's sentimentality, all fixed on the good conclusion of their present endeavor, he was already thinking on the future. Preachers and Daemons had been sent to seed themselves in the other warbands, with cabals, covens and factions enslaved to his will already forming among the weak-willed. Why, the original Blood Hounds, a pathetic band of wretches, had long been subsumed. By the time all was said and done, he counted to have the whole fleet under his thumb, its guns aimed at the slaves of the Plague God.
As for their present endeavor, he didn't doubt their success. A number barely shy of one thousand Marines stood under their, for now, command, with more than one hundred times that number in cultists supporting it, not to speak of the full complement of heavy support, mundane and daemonic, waiting to be unleashed at his command. Whole systems burned before such a force, planets quaked before it. Augmented with his foresight and the might of his patron, what hope these little machines had? He would see them drown in daemon-flesh and the fires of Change and snatch the prize promised to him from the Flower's burning flesh.
Izzaroth laughed, the sound making everyone on the bridge flinch as if hit. Oh yes, he thought, the Great Mutator's will could be fickle, but it was also inevitable, and the same was for those who followed and obeyed Him. And so it was that the very stars would fall and rise upon the palms of the Chosen, among which number Izzaroth felt to belong without a doubt.
Alectai
Speaks Words of Wisdom... On occasion
It's always super fucking annoying when Gods decide to micromanage and take away all of your advantages.
"You can't ambush them because the Chaos Gods just tell them where the ambush is" is irritating. What's next, Magnus chestbursting into reality to kill us?
"You can't ambush them because the Chaos Gods just tell them where the ambush is" is irritating. What's next, Magnus chestbursting into reality to kill us?
The Chaos Marines unearned arrogance is always grating. They barely survived a civil war they started over hurt feelings and a bunch of man-children having a tantrum and that was with direct meddling by those idiots. They would barely count as foot soldiers in the war in heaven. Bottom rung quality, and the only reason they have a chance at all is because this tomb is barely woken up. They are bugs thinking they can kill a half-awake titan before it can swat them.
- Location
- Anchorage, Alaska
aye, but this means we have the means to really put the hurt to chaos for this, they basically all but signed their death warrent now.
lets close the eye of terror and the other warp storms...shall we?
lets close the eye of terror and the other warp storms...shall we?
Kairos123
Insomniac Extraordinaire
Do they actually know what necrons are? That's a lot of arrogance for someone in gauss flaying range.
Did you expect the ambush, that they already suspected because it is the only way into the system, to be surprising? Completely unsuspected? It's a stretch to read that and think all our advantages are taken away.
- Location
- Someplace Somewhere
Even knowing about the minefield only slightly decreases its effectiveness as it's still the only way into the system.
Fuck this guy. Lets tear him in half and sew him and his nurglite boyfriend together until they learn to play nice.
- Location
- Anchorage, Alaska
that's chaos stuff boy, best you can do is render them irrelevant, as well as telling them the absolute truth in a way they can't handle, throw away, or close their ears and minds to.
render them a complete non-threat and out of existence knowing that what they have done and such.
Oh those fools. Necrons fought the eldar who were double boosted by 2 propthecy goddesses. Those who survived War in Heaven shall give them a grimm reminder
Honestly I kinda want to steal the rubrics for study and potential experimentation with the relief matrix. The chaos lords can absolutely die a gruesome death and burn in hell for all I care. Bur the rubrics interest me.
- Location
- Someplace Somewhere
Oh dear god I just realized we are in the 36th millennium we might well be the first necrons waking up which means that no other human faction has had to deal with an awakened tomb world… oh boy will they be in for a fight for their lives.
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By the way sould we inform Beta about the incooming atack? Just in case; and mabe on a Crit she'll arrive with reinforcements
No, from the sound of it she'd need half a crusade fleet and at least four chapters of space marines.
That's Warhammer 40k for you. The Chaos Gods cheat. Always.
Now that's a good way to encourage good behavior.
Only if you want her to be torn in half by a Chaos Terminator.
Lileath and Morai-heg at least had style, unlike Tzeentch
birdmaster01
Big Tech's Strongest Soldier
I don't think GW is here so the Chaos Gods are bound by the random chance(whimsy of SV's internal timekeeper) that binds everyone else in this quest
As annoyin as it is , its only make beating their ass more satysfying.
Still possible for overeager forces to pull ahead, and lover their chances. They expect a foce to contest a system. We respond with what to them appear as handfull of ships. Any survivors would call it arrogance on our end.
Also, either Tau nor Tyranids are a thing.
This.... fits... as much as its pisses me off.
On the side note. How hillarious would it be if we started developing Deamonvore fungycite?
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Grandfather is a ladies' man.
Now that would be proper improper.
- Location
- barking
grandfather is a incel that needs to be killed in fire
- Location
- yorkshire
congrats on 100k words @boredblues why does nurgle want Xorathis
Well, first and foremost: Clout. Having a Necron soul would be a major trophy. Secondly Xorathis is probably one of the most dangerous and potentially disruptive individuals active in the galaxy right now. It's about 6-7 thousand years before the metaplot is scheduled to pick up, and even with fifty year turns that means we have a lot of lead time, and the fact that we're a Necron who makes improvements means we would be a significant threat even then, with a major head start we could easily become a dominant galactic power in our own right. Since we're not hellbent on making shit worse for everyone Nurgle wants to make sure we don't start doing anything crazy like actually improve shit on a meaningful level.
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