Say @ThunderOwl do we now own favors to the Guard regiments and Inquisitors we asked for aid?
Loyalty is its own Reward (A Traitor Legion Chapter Master Quest)
- Thread starter ThunderOwl
- Start date
Interesting planet, I'm actually working on another mining world that also mines primarily promethium, although their are a lot of differences between the two with my planet also having expanded from just mining to ship building and repair
Know this is a good side story it's always nice to see the space wolves going from dead serious to belly laughing at the drop hat, and I like how you added in a reference to the blood claws. Also could you add a title to this?
Cool planet, I really like the inspiration you've given it. Canonized
Nice Omake. The fakeout at the beginning is entertaining and I do like how you have written Ulrik, with both his annoyance at the Mist Shrike. Canonized and the Deathwatch rolls in turn 14 have a small bonus.
Depends on how the campaign goes.
- Location
- USA
This could use a bit of clarification.
Is Ulrik expecting here that Artorius get so good he completely outmatched his senior? Not just matching him to net a roughly even win-loss ratio but surpassing him utterly? Or is the Wolf saying that he is holding back to a degree that the Shrike should be winning every time?
I kinda want ti get into a drinking contest with them at some point
That sounds fun
Adrian XXIV
Average User, from Poland
- Location
- Poland
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Interesting question:
Who would win a drinking game, Leman Russ or Mortarion (if he wasn't so anti-social)?
Who would win a drinking game, Leman Russ or Mortarion (if he wasn't so anti-social)?
Russ out drank the emperor I don't think Morty stands a chance
Noroboro
Consistency is key and I’m consistently tired :)
- Location
- Canada
Oh man, they'd win so easily. Their ale actually gets them drunk while our vodka is strong for a human but nothing for a space marine.
We shp7ld improve our vodka then
Noroboro
Consistency is key and I’m consistently tired :)
- Location
- Canada
I have a funny idea in mind for a future story with Artorius and Ulrik, where he mixes Fenrisian ale in with Artorius' Gorionik and gets Artorius drunk.
But we should make our drinks stronger. Maybe they'll be something on Luctus that makes it stronger.
Noroboro
Consistency is key and I’m consistently tired :)
- Location
- Canada
Oh so this is more of a highlight of Ulrik's mindset during his tenure in the Deathwatch. When it comes to combatting Xeno threats, the Deathwatch has to face difficult odds and come out on top. So Ulrik holds nothing back when he was facing Artorius because he demands the best from Artorius, as the Deathwatch only takes the finest marines from each chapter. Ulrik knows Artorius won't immediately best him due to the age gap and experience gap but he expects him to reach his level of skill sooner than later, or else Artorius' vigil in the watch will be short lived and the Imperium could suffer from it.
Ulrik wants Artorius to do better, and he's going to do it in a very blunt, tough love kind of way.
MasterDrakus
DEUS SOL
- Location
- Minas Gerais, Brazil
Tbh I would go with Mortarion, I bet he took a lot of alcohol but not for recreational purposes like Russ, simply because it IS a poison and he had the tism fixation for taking all poisons till primarch immunity
- Location
- USA
This much I can understand, but that would mean winning roughly half of their spars. Not defeating Ulrik every single time.
Equaling the elder marine in skill should mean winning as often as he loses.
A Literal Mist Shrike
- Location
- Russia
I was trying to capture some sleep before my shift at work tomorrow (today already) but instead I've got another vision about space Marine Miron from "Prayer from a son" omake.
Miron was trying to reach the rest of his company. He was dragging his wounded and unconscious sergeant for what felt like hours but chrono in his armor insisted was just a couple of minutes. Landscape, changing and mutating before his very eyes as a consequence of vile sorcery, certainly wasn't halping.
It would have been easier for his body without the burn of mutation he stillfelt in his flesh. And it would have been much easier process for his soul if he could remember his sergeants name. Or his captain'. Or any of his brothers. The vile sorcerer took much rom him, it seems. He wasn't even used of he remember his own name correctly.
The moment of inner anguish and distraction cost him. There was another heretic running at the suffering duo really really fast, murmuring and roaring omitting about Datk Gods. Miron wasn't listening. He tried to gently get to sergant to lie down, at the same time getting out his own knife and sergeant' bolt-pistol, qhich he picked previously, because Miron lost his own bolter. Another shame to the burning pile inside his tarnished soul.
He tried to block the laughing enemy's obvioisly tainted chainsword with the knofe, but at the last moment burning in hisnflesh intensified and he was seized by a spasm. A tingle runned through his mutating body and locked Miron in place. He watched helplessly, unmoving as the enemy's chainsword went through his knife and then his shoulder. How the Chaos spacemarine arm, which was holding that chainsword entered his chest without stopping, without even shadow of resistance. The heretics own momentum carried the enemy through Miron' body, but it was like he strikes just a cloud of mist.
The tingle left his body. Miron turned around in one smooth motion and regained balance with a stomp. He marveled for a moment - His knife, his armor, his body was unharmed by the enemy's savage strike. And now he could see where the tingle has gone.
A green spark of psychic energy was running around the Chaos marine armor, creating arks of electricity, spasms and paralysis in his tainted body. and whispers which wanted to enter your mind, screaming about the Ravenlord's Vengeance.
Miron instinctively knew what to touch that green lighting, even with melee strike is to invite paralysis back to his body. He also knew with uncanny certainty what the first shot will end this strange effect. He desperately hoped what the two bolts in the bolt pistol will be enough to do the job, he was painfully aware of the difference between himself and the centuries old opponent. But he swear what he WILL make this shots count.
A/N inspired by the book from Horus Heresy series the first one about Lion sons where the main character is secretly psyker and can stop time and phase through opponents. Miron can not stop time, but he leaves the opponent paralyzed with psychic discharge. Brought by the option in the new Rogue trader video game to make your character psyker by going through psychic Awakening and I bet that mutating after what happened in the previous Omake can lead to such effect. The last source of inspiration come sfrom old Chaos Legion game where one of the high-end abilities is to phase through your opponent demon and stun then in the process.
P.S. The new Secret level episode 5 contributed to the tone and impulse to write for this vision/Omake I am sure
Miron was trying to reach the rest of his company. He was dragging his wounded and unconscious sergeant for what felt like hours but chrono in his armor insisted was just a couple of minutes. Landscape, changing and mutating before his very eyes as a consequence of vile sorcery, certainly wasn't halping.
It would have been easier for his body without the burn of mutation he stillfelt in his flesh. And it would have been much easier process for his soul if he could remember his sergeants name. Or his captain'. Or any of his brothers. The vile sorcerer took much rom him, it seems. He wasn't even used of he remember his own name correctly.
The moment of inner anguish and distraction cost him. There was another heretic running at the suffering duo really really fast, murmuring and roaring omitting about Datk Gods. Miron wasn't listening. He tried to gently get to sergant to lie down, at the same time getting out his own knife and sergeant' bolt-pistol, qhich he picked previously, because Miron lost his own bolter. Another shame to the burning pile inside his tarnished soul.
He tried to block the laughing enemy's obvioisly tainted chainsword with the knofe, but at the last moment burning in hisnflesh intensified and he was seized by a spasm. A tingle runned through his mutating body and locked Miron in place. He watched helplessly, unmoving as the enemy's chainsword went through his knife and then his shoulder. How the Chaos spacemarine arm, which was holding that chainsword entered his chest without stopping, without even shadow of resistance. The heretics own momentum carried the enemy through Miron' body, but it was like he strikes just a cloud of mist.
The tingle left his body. Miron turned around in one smooth motion and regained balance with a stomp. He marveled for a moment - His knife, his armor, his body was unharmed by the enemy's savage strike. And now he could see where the tingle has gone.
A green spark of psychic energy was running around the Chaos marine armor, creating arks of electricity, spasms and paralysis in his tainted body. and whispers which wanted to enter your mind, screaming about the Ravenlord's Vengeance.
Miron instinctively knew what to touch that green lighting, even with melee strike is to invite paralysis back to his body. He also knew with uncanny certainty what the first shot will end this strange effect. He desperately hoped what the two bolts in the bolt pistol will be enough to do the job, he was painfully aware of the difference between himself and the centuries old opponent. But he swear what he WILL make this shots count.
A/N inspired by the book from Horus Heresy series the first one about Lion sons where the main character is secretly psyker and can stop time and phase through opponents. Miron can not stop time, but he leaves the opponent paralyzed with psychic discharge. Brought by the option in the new Rogue trader video game to make your character psyker by going through psychic Awakening and I bet that mutating after what happened in the previous Omake can lead to such effect. The last source of inspiration come sfrom old Chaos Legion game where one of the high-end abilities is to phase through your opponent demon and stun then in the process.
P.S. The new Secret level episode 5 contributed to the tone and impulse to write for this vision/Omake I am sure
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Noroboro
Consistency is key and I’m consistently tired :)
- Location
- Canada
Okay ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I'm not exactly focusing on specifics, I just wrote this because I wanted to.
Hey I got a question, members of the Mist Shrikes are encouraged to have hobbies outside of killing people during their off time right? Like writing and art and stuff. I ask cause I want to give my Braicamian OC a hobby of making and painting miniatures of those he fights and those they fight alongside. So, for example, models of Milae PDF, his fellow Battle Brothers, or Genestealers cultists.
That true or am I remembering a different thread?
That true or am I remembering a different thread?
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Part of the culture traits of the Mist Shrikes are an interest in writing, both novels and plays, with mystery themes. Also, due to the other trait about customizing armor, there is a noticeable amount of serfs that are painters and engravers, so it wouldn't be weird if a marine took interest in it.
The Sentimental Brother
The Sentimental Brother
This was a very delicate task, Amery Albon of the Mist Shrikes chapter knew, one wrong move and his work would be irreparably ruined, at least in his eyes. His father didn't raise him to accept mediocrity and he didn't believe his chapter would like that sort of attitude spreading.
He very carefully held his paintbrush in one hand and miniature in the other. Ever so carefully he brought the brush to the figure and began to add the final details to his work. There, he added the last drop of colour to the figurine, they now shon a perfect ebony. Amery smiled at his work and placed it down carefully next to the others.
This was a hobby he had developed over the last few years, he had picked it up from some of the chapter serfs, due to his chapters custom of decorating their armour a great many skilled engravers and painters had cropped up among their serfs. He had seen their work and found that on a whim he felt like trying his hand at something similar. Now years later, he can safely say that he is… adequate. Not a master but enough to where he can be somewhat content.
Now, he could take the models he saw in his head and make them into a reality, crafting them from the appropriate materials before painting them to give them life. He had quite the collection by his reckoning, Luctusian Stalkers, Milaean PDF, Genestealer Cultists, miniatures representing his fellow brothers and a few Braicamian Knights and Men-At-Arms accompanied by a trio of nobles, one man and two boys.
He wondered if they were doing alright.
His most recent creations typically represented the mortal men of the guard, the Batanian PDF, Mučedník Guard, Spartos Artillary, Brudnell Guard, Seibouc Royals and Carolean Guard. Yet the one he had just finished was different, it was a tall, inhumanly thin figure, with multiple arms and no face bearing a blade in each hand. A Čemnota Swordmaster carved and painted with such care to detail that it captured the repulsiveness of that xenos race magnificently.
The memory brought a smile to his face.
Batan was… interesting he supposed.
An entire planet dedicated to agriculture. Every inch of arable land save for that reserved for a few small cities and towns thoroughly cultivated to an extent he had scarcely thought possible, he compared it to his memories of Braicam and that primitive world once again fell short. He couldn't imagine the sheer amount of produce grown and developed each year to feed the hungry mouths of the Imperium.
That being said, it wasn't exactly shocking that they were unable to drive the xenos invaders from the planet.
The Čemnota were a vile species. A misborn, heretical, xenos race which had previously gone unnoticed due to the treason of a rogue trader house. Slowly building their strength over generations and suckling off the teat of the Imperium until they could show their true colours and strike at mankind. So they did, they struck at mankind, now they were all going to die for it.
Every last one.
Their pathetic raiding parties had been driven from the majority of their targeted worlds, except for Batan, where the local PDF and reinforcing guard regiments had requested that they come to aid in the destruction of the invaders. Naturally, they answered the call.
The xenos died like struggling animals.
It was glorious little conflict, bloody and violent, fought for the defence of mankind. He brought home his first true trophies following that conflict, a pair of Čemnota warriors skulls which he felt fit best dangling from his hip, he had to make sure when they clashed again the Xenos knew what fate awaited them. For he knew the Čemnota were fated for annihilation and that his company was fated to do the deed. The Emperor would not deny him this he knew.
He was right of course.
When he first landed upon the xenos's home world it felt like something out of the great crusade, here he was a soldier of the Emperor, come to bring death to the enemies of mankind. Alongside the forces of the guard he and his brothers were tasked with bringing the capital of the xenos to its knees and wiping their heretical race out completely and utterly.
The Čemnota fought like mad, they knew their annihilation was swiftly approaching and rallied against the fate which the Emperor had written for them, they pulled out every trick they had. Warriors launched ambushes from every shadow and held fast in every stronghold and choke point. Teleporting elites armed with blades striking as one, xenos psykers bringing the might of the warp against them, warriors bringing weapons of comparable power to their own and each and all fighting for the very existence of their race. They fought amidst the broken ruins of their vile civilisation, amidst accursed shrines adorned in blasphemous symbols and bizarre palaces with architecture which seemed to warp the longer one stares. Ancient cities and temples, monuments to their millennia old civilisation, the very mother world of their race. This was what his enemies were fighting for and they gave it their all.
It was all for nought, and it was glorious.
The Čemnota Xenocide was completed in short order and their entire misbegotten race would be relegated to the historical record.
The memory of what had occurred brought a smile to his face, as he starred at his creations, he had modelled his miniatures on the Čemnota to the best of his ability. Trying to capture the essence of the race, for they were gone now, gone forever never to return. Their civilisation wiped clean from the galaxy just as the Emperor had ordained. Soon enough the mortals who fought them would die, the attacks they launched would fade into myth, in years he and all the brothers who fought them would die and their campaign forgotten. Their worlds would be colonised by the great masses of mankind, their worlds would become our worlds and any lingering remnants or traces their civilisation would be eradicated, on a galactic scale soon nobody would even remember they existed, and the galaxy was all the better for it.
The xenocide of the Čemnota was not just a duty, it was a genuine pleasure, it was simply satisfying. It felt like it was what he was born to do, what he was made to do, what the Emperor had destined him for. Xenocide, the conquest of worlds for the advancement of Humanity, the defence of mankind against the xenos menaces which threatened them, a weapon forged by the Emperor to exact his will. The Čemnota were nothing important he knew, an upstart race with delusions of grandeur who brought the masters of the galaxy down upon them, but they and those like them were what he was made to fight. Something from the outer dark which sought to ravage the domains of man. They were what he was made to fight, what all his brothers and cousins were made to fight, it brought him satisfaction to see them destroyed.
So, as perhaps a small token to this soon to be forgotten race, he made his figures of them. Tried to capture them in all their vile glory. For soon this would be the only remnant that they ever existed, like so many other races whose annihilation was so absolute even their names have been forgotten. He would remember them, these models would remember the battles he had fought against them, along with the regiments which had bled alongside him and his comrades in arms. He did not wish to forget them, he did not wish for either his allies or his foes to be forgotten.
He was sentimental like that he supposed.
This was a very delicate task, Amery Albon of the Mist Shrikes chapter knew, one wrong move and his work would be irreparably ruined, at least in his eyes. His father didn't raise him to accept mediocrity and he didn't believe his chapter would like that sort of attitude spreading.
He very carefully held his paintbrush in one hand and miniature in the other. Ever so carefully he brought the brush to the figure and began to add the final details to his work. There, he added the last drop of colour to the figurine, they now shon a perfect ebony. Amery smiled at his work and placed it down carefully next to the others.
This was a hobby he had developed over the last few years, he had picked it up from some of the chapter serfs, due to his chapters custom of decorating their armour a great many skilled engravers and painters had cropped up among their serfs. He had seen their work and found that on a whim he felt like trying his hand at something similar. Now years later, he can safely say that he is… adequate. Not a master but enough to where he can be somewhat content.
Now, he could take the models he saw in his head and make them into a reality, crafting them from the appropriate materials before painting them to give them life. He had quite the collection by his reckoning, Luctusian Stalkers, Milaean PDF, Genestealer Cultists, miniatures representing his fellow brothers and a few Braicamian Knights and Men-At-Arms accompanied by a trio of nobles, one man and two boys.
He wondered if they were doing alright.
His most recent creations typically represented the mortal men of the guard, the Batanian PDF, Mučedník Guard, Spartos Artillary, Brudnell Guard, Seibouc Royals and Carolean Guard. Yet the one he had just finished was different, it was a tall, inhumanly thin figure, with multiple arms and no face bearing a blade in each hand. A Čemnota Swordmaster carved and painted with such care to detail that it captured the repulsiveness of that xenos race magnificently.
The memory brought a smile to his face.
Batan was… interesting he supposed.
An entire planet dedicated to agriculture. Every inch of arable land save for that reserved for a few small cities and towns thoroughly cultivated to an extent he had scarcely thought possible, he compared it to his memories of Braicam and that primitive world once again fell short. He couldn't imagine the sheer amount of produce grown and developed each year to feed the hungry mouths of the Imperium.
That being said, it wasn't exactly shocking that they were unable to drive the xenos invaders from the planet.
The Čemnota were a vile species. A misborn, heretical, xenos race which had previously gone unnoticed due to the treason of a rogue trader house. Slowly building their strength over generations and suckling off the teat of the Imperium until they could show their true colours and strike at mankind. So they did, they struck at mankind, now they were all going to die for it.
Every last one.
Their pathetic raiding parties had been driven from the majority of their targeted worlds, except for Batan, where the local PDF and reinforcing guard regiments had requested that they come to aid in the destruction of the invaders. Naturally, they answered the call.
The xenos died like struggling animals.
It was glorious little conflict, bloody and violent, fought for the defence of mankind. He brought home his first true trophies following that conflict, a pair of Čemnota warriors skulls which he felt fit best dangling from his hip, he had to make sure when they clashed again the Xenos knew what fate awaited them. For he knew the Čemnota were fated for annihilation and that his company was fated to do the deed. The Emperor would not deny him this he knew.
He was right of course.
When he first landed upon the xenos's home world it felt like something out of the great crusade, here he was a soldier of the Emperor, come to bring death to the enemies of mankind. Alongside the forces of the guard he and his brothers were tasked with bringing the capital of the xenos to its knees and wiping their heretical race out completely and utterly.
The Čemnota fought like mad, they knew their annihilation was swiftly approaching and rallied against the fate which the Emperor had written for them, they pulled out every trick they had. Warriors launched ambushes from every shadow and held fast in every stronghold and choke point. Teleporting elites armed with blades striking as one, xenos psykers bringing the might of the warp against them, warriors bringing weapons of comparable power to their own and each and all fighting for the very existence of their race. They fought amidst the broken ruins of their vile civilisation, amidst accursed shrines adorned in blasphemous symbols and bizarre palaces with architecture which seemed to warp the longer one stares. Ancient cities and temples, monuments to their millennia old civilisation, the very mother world of their race. This was what his enemies were fighting for and they gave it their all.
It was all for nought, and it was glorious.
The Čemnota Xenocide was completed in short order and their entire misbegotten race would be relegated to the historical record.
The memory of what had occurred brought a smile to his face, as he starred at his creations, he had modelled his miniatures on the Čemnota to the best of his ability. Trying to capture the essence of the race, for they were gone now, gone forever never to return. Their civilisation wiped clean from the galaxy just as the Emperor had ordained. Soon enough the mortals who fought them would die, the attacks they launched would fade into myth, in years he and all the brothers who fought them would die and their campaign forgotten. Their worlds would be colonised by the great masses of mankind, their worlds would become our worlds and any lingering remnants or traces their civilisation would be eradicated, on a galactic scale soon nobody would even remember they existed, and the galaxy was all the better for it.
The xenocide of the Čemnota was not just a duty, it was a genuine pleasure, it was simply satisfying. It felt like it was what he was born to do, what he was made to do, what the Emperor had destined him for. Xenocide, the conquest of worlds for the advancement of Humanity, the defence of mankind against the xenos menaces which threatened them, a weapon forged by the Emperor to exact his will. The Čemnota were nothing important he knew, an upstart race with delusions of grandeur who brought the masters of the galaxy down upon them, but they and those like them were what he was made to fight. Something from the outer dark which sought to ravage the domains of man. They were what he was made to fight, what all his brothers and cousins were made to fight, it brought him satisfaction to see them destroyed.
So, as perhaps a small token to this soon to be forgotten race, he made his figures of them. Tried to capture them in all their vile glory. For soon this would be the only remnant that they ever existed, like so many other races whose annihilation was so absolute even their names have been forgotten. He would remember them, these models would remember the battles he had fought against them, along with the regiments which had bled alongside him and his comrades in arms. He did not wish to forget them, he did not wish for either his allies or his foes to be forgotten.
He was sentimental like that he supposed.
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Adrian XXIV
Average User, from Poland
- Location
- Poland
- Pronouns
- He/Him
As a person who "invented" Čemnota, I was reading your latest omake with a smile.
Good job.
Good job.
How many centuries before they start painting their minis and giving them stat blocks for tabletop combat for annual bragging rites? I'd bet at least three.
Ngl I bet Mist Shrikes make some of the best dioramas.