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[ERROR] No.19367829 [Reply] [Original] [4plebs] [archived.moe]

Awesome /tg/ shit about 40K to show newbies.

Help me out, /tg/, I need to ease the passage of new players into 40K and so I come to you for interesting content to put in front of them.

Post it and I'll maybe put together a compilation or something later.

In the meantime, have awesome pics of knight titans.

>> No.19367847 [DELETED] 

I'll start us off with some of Dr. Baron von Evilsatan stuff, famous and otherwise:

On Grimdark:

Grimdark...is the worst place to live. The world is utterly shit, and nearly everyone's a sociopathic jerk. There are no heroes, and those that try not only achieve nothing, but often make things worse, and are loathed by many. It is the most common setting for egregiously masturbatory villainwank fiction. However, it is also rarely used for exceptionally good heroic fantasy, by people who understand that light shines brightest in darkness.

>> No.19367863

I'll start us off with some of Dr. Baron von Evilsatan stuff, famous and otherwise:

On the nuts and bolts of 40K fluff:

The best thing you can do to learn about the setting is to read the 40K rulebook's fluff bits. I'm sure there's a download of the full thing somwhere.

The thing is, there is a metric asstonne of 40K fluff, and by the way the fluff works, it's only wrong if it's actively been superceded, not if it's just contradictory. I've been playing the game since 2nd started and kept up with the fluff the entire time, and there are probably still a few things I don't know about it.

The best thing you can do is make sure you get the most important bits of the setting right. The rulebook has all of those.Also, the tone. Grimdark. No Noblegrim, or Neutraldark, grimdark. The tone of the setting is its most distinct feature. It is so grimdark that it gave birth to the notion of the 40K horizon, that is, the moment your work is more grim or dark than 40K it can no longer be treated as a serious work.

>> No.19367873

On Grimdark:

Grimdark consists of two components.

One, grim. This is the nature of the people of the world. In 40K, most peopel are desperate for survival. They're netural in the same way a squat city in Mumbai is neutral; they will do whatever it takes to survive another day in a raging shithole. Most of the people in power are either psychotic, sociopathic, megalomaniacal, or greedy beyond sanity. Oftentimes, more than one. The more powerful they are, the more massive their character flaws and the collateral damage of their mistakes. Guilliman, a Primarch and hence one of the twelve most powerful personalities ever to exist, would have caused the death of the Imperium and the extinction of humanity rather than not get his way about things, and he is regarded as a great hero. The Good people are antiheroes at best, where the ends almost justify the means, and the villains are horrific beyond belief.

Dark is how much the world itself sucks, and here it is very much suck. The universe is a cold and uncaring place that is so hostile to life it is insane that it even exists let alone thrives, and it will grind you into oblivion without ever noticing you were there. If you do manage to get the attention fo the world, it will only crush you much harder, slower, and more painfully.

Grimdark settings have small heroes who achieve little, vast villains who are often genuinely unstoppable and who always win in the end, and no matter how hard or how well you fight, the uncaring galaxy will never know your name or record your deeds. The greatets good you can accomplish will be undone in days, and often leave things worse than had you tried to do your worst, and when you do your wirst, the consequences are cruel beyond belief and very nearly permanent.

>> No.19367876

Is this an awesome model dump?

>> No.19367883

Grimdark isn't about winning. You can't win. Ever. Grimdark is about how well you lose. Humanity is a dying race in a sea of eternal foes, and there is nothing it can do to survive the coming night. All you can do is fight, fight with your every last ounce of strength, and keep on fighting as you are torn to pieces. You will die, but you will gouge a bloody scar upon the face of the galaxy itself, and take as many of your foes with you as you can.

You may say that Grimdark is pointless; that you can't be a hero. That is wrong. The light shines brightest in the darkness. In a noblebright world a spark is a point of lesser light, but in a world of grimdark, that spark is unto a supernova.

Grimdark/noblebright from the setting alignment chart:

Grimdark, we already know, is the worst place to live. The world is utterly shit, and nearly everyone's a sociopathic jerk. There are no heroes, and those that try not only achieve nothing, but often make things worse, and are loathed by many. It is the most common setting for egregiously masturbatory villainwank fiction. However, it is also rarely used for exceptionally good heroic fantasy, by people who understand that light shines brightest in darkness.

Noblebright is the most pleasant of the alignments to live in. Not only is everything nice, but everyone is nice. Even when by rare happenstance somethign does happen to place the people under pressure they will not compromise their morals to solve it. Luckily for them the niceness of the world generally leads itself to another solution being found. Young children's shows are generally noblebright.

>> No.19367886

You know, I bet it would be possible to make a pretty good Krogan out of that model, with a bit of Tyranid bitz and some greenstuffing.

>> No.19367887

>> No.19367900


You've got the armoured ridges- would you be going to make a face, or one of those helmets they wear?

>> No.19367923

It'll include awesome models, and you should feel free to dump them. Especially 40K related ones.

However, as far as I'm concerned it's more a god-tier /tg/ 40k copypasta dump aimed towards content that helps people get geared up for DH, RT, DW, BC, and Only War...but ain't no thread ownership on 4chan, so it'll probably get derailed or something.

Anyway. Evilsatan on the AdMech and the cause of their eternal failure:

The Mechanicus does NOT have the technology. They haven't been living on some fancy paradise planet since pre-fall. Mars is a fucking anarchic nightmare shithole the moment you leave the safe zones into the kilometres of labyrinthine corridors beneath it full of rogue machinery, self-aware and malevolent AI from before the Fall, and the daemon programs of the Heresy. EVERYTHING in the databases is fucked. The databases are fragmented over the entire fucking surface, to the extent that it would be impossible to see one tenth of the total files in the ludicrously extended life of a Magos even assuming that they are completely safe to visit.

The files have been corrupted into madness by the Fall, and the unleashing of the most potent informational warfare systems ever to exist to defeat the Iron Men. Nearly all of Mars was rendered uninhabitable, what they live in now is built on the top of the ruins. They send archeotech expeditions in to find shit, nearly all of them never come back. The sheer number of rogue war machine running around in there is sufficient to rape the mind.

>> No.19367936


Then came the fucking Heresy, which was not earth-exclusive. Mars as the second most critical planet int he Imperium was the site of fighting nearly as ferocious as on earth, with Mechanicus loyalists and Hereteks fighting tooth, nail, and mechadendrite everywhere. Ancient machines were unleashed, viruses both normal and daemonic unleashed into all the computer systems. Nearly every single stored record on Mars was rendered unusable, and those that survived are half the fucking time self-aware and don't like you, or daemonic and actively try to kill you. If you come back with a schematic, it is almost certainly gibberish, and if it isn’t, it’s probably corrupted into uselessness. If it does come back whole it was probably malevolently fucked with so that instead of a Lasgun power cell it's a fucking grenade set to detonate the second you finish building it. Why do you think they want off-world STCs so damned much if they had them all here? The fucking Heresy is why. Off-world they only have to contend with the Fall's war and its effects on the machinery plus twenty thousand years of degradation with no maintenance. But at least off-world it'll probably just not work instead of actively seeking to kill you.

>> No.19367943


Why do you think they seek to placate the Machine Spirit? It's because it does exist. The fragments of trillions of self-aware programs, flourishing during the Dark Age of Technology and shattered by Man in his war with the Iron men, imprisoning the few who had not set themselves irrevocably into the machinery, a prison smashed wide open by the Heresy. Everything that can hold programming in the Imperium has a shard of a program in it. EVERYTHING. And you'd better fucking please it or it will do everything in its power to make your day shit. They apply these principles to things without spirits by habit, since they're so used to dealing with tanks that if not talked to just right might go fucking rogue and annihilate the manufactorum before they can be killed.

This is why they do not like ANYONE fucking with technology, because it is so fucking rare to find anything that just works it is critical it not be compromised. That, and they do not have the actual knowledge to fuck with it intelligently, just through experimentation, which inevitably leads to slaughter. The entire knowledge base of humanity was lost. Not forgotten, but outright lost. Everything at all, poof. Nobody knows anything because the Fall fucked everything up. To rebuild the theoretical framework needed to design new technologies that don't kill everyone near them would require starting from the ground up.

>> No.19367950


This gets on to the point of war and what it does to technology. Someone will parrot that it makes it go much faster. Yes, it makes practical applications of technology go much faster. It also utterly stops all research on the scientific theories behind those technologies. This means that when war chugs along for a decade or two things get done. It means when it goes on too long you run out of theories to turn into technologies, and then you run out of technologies to apply. You stagnate. When you have been fighting in a war for survival in a drastically overextended empire, this is what happens. You are desperate for any extra materiel that can possibly be produced. Half your entire fucking military might went rogue, smashed the half that stayed, leaving you with the tattered shreds of a war machine to keep hold of an empire that was reaching straining point with an army far larger. There is no time for the sort of applied research programs that took Man twenty five thousand years to develop, in a time of unprecedented growth and prosperity.

This is also why the Adeptus Mechanicus insists on cargo cultism. It's because when you are dealing with things you barely understand because everything you knew about them was fucking destroyed it is the safest and most reliable option. The rituals do not exists for mysticism, they exist because they are the most practical means of building, repairing and maintaining the equipment they have with the knowledge surviving. You don't understand why pressing that button makes it go, because the manual tried to take over your brain and the copies are all unreadable and the research base that would let you reverse-engineer it does not exist and cannot be built.

>> No.19367967


Why are the Tau doing so well with their technology? Because they had peace. Eight thousand fucking years unmolested by any enemy and they were helped the entire fucking time by the most advanced biological race in the galaxy. Give the Imperium eight thousand years of peace and I fucking guarantee you it will be harder than it was during the Great Crusade.

You need an analogy, here.

Build a library, fill it with all human knowledge. You take it elsewhere, but only in temporary storage because you know where the rest is if you need it.

Now that fucking library goes rogue and the maintenance machinery starts killing everyone any-fucking-where near it. Where the fuck did they all come from, you swear to god there weren't this many, and there weren't because they're using the library's information to fight their war. The government fights a battle that destroys the planet against these robots and is destroyed in the process. The library is leveld, cast into flames, every book burned and every computer virus-laden.

>> No.19367973


Then comes a man who worked there. He talks to the few surviving library workers, assembles their information, and starts rebuilding a city around the library and expanding it as the librarians find little scraps of paper and fragmented bits of files that stuck together just right read something. They rebuild a library from scrap on the ashes of the old.

Then the city turns on itself, kills its master, and the librarians turn to rage. Half of them kill the other half and destroy the remnants of the library because where they're going they won't need science or technology. Everything burns, and the city is left to a scattered few survivors, walls open to the world, with the hungry predators circling.

The Adpetus Mechanicus is the sole surviving librarian, desperately scrabbling through the ashes of paper and splinters of hard drives for anything to help him and the city he needs to survive just a second longer.

The Imperium isn't grim because things suck by choice and could be fine if a sensible person came along. That sensible person wouldn't survive fifty seconds of the reality. The Imperium is grim because every single shit decision, every single sacrifice, every single death, every single man woman and child suffering a shit life in the worst conditions imaginable, is the absolute fucking best that can be done. It is a study of the worst happening to everyone and what part of your humanity must be sacrificed today just to stand a chance of survival, and all it asks is whether or not it would have perhaps been better to die.

>> No.19367990


On chaos, secularism, belief, and the ways in which the Imperial Creed is of actual use (in Evilsatan's personal interpretation of 40K, albeit one which makes some sense taken altogether):

The Emperor's plan would have worked, and could have worked, if he hadn't fallen. He was crushing the religious views of the galaxy in favour of secularism. This weakened the sheer might of the Chaos gods, but opened the door up for incredible opportunity.

In a world where religions are politely disdained, they can spread. They can grow. They can cross worlds. They can go through all the empires of Man.

And this is exactly what they did.

How do you think the Heresy became so large and well-organised? Because of the Primarchs? Hardly. Six men, powerful nonetheless, can no more organise a pan-galactic rebellion than a collection of champion boxers can bring about an economic revolution.

The Emperor's disdain of religion led to the people's disdain of religion, and what people look down on they underestimate without fail. The Chaos cults spread clear across the Imperium, influencing trillions upon trillions, worming its way into the minds of countless men from the lowest mutant of the Underhives to the Lord Commanders of entire segmenta. The apple was rotten from the inside to the point that only the clean shell remained.

>> No.19367994


This alone would not have saved the Chaos gods. Having the influence to start a war does not give them the power to win it. They would still, had the Emperor survived, eventually starved to the point where He could use the Webway portal He built to enter the warp powers intact and forcibly unite them, cleansing the warp of malice, wrath, pettiness, and heedless destruction, and in so doing, cleansing the psyche of all the races in the galaxy in some way touched by the warp.

No, they could not survive so long as the Emperor lived, and he was mightier than any army, more subtle than any assassin, more patient than any poisoner. There was, quite literally, no foe in the galaxy they could levy against him that could slay him.

So, they chose the one man he would never see as an enemy.

His own son, the subject of the most determined manipulations of Chaos, falls in a puzzle that tests the powers of Chaos United, the limits of Slaanesh's sweet seductions, the strengths of Khorne's passion, the eons of Nurgle's patience, and even Tzeentch's capacity for manipulation. In their greatest challenge and greatest triumph, they seized the one man who could possibly hope slay the man-god who opposed them, and they send him forth.

>> No.19368001

He is armed with the mightiest powers Chaos can offer, and suffused with every last skein of warp potency the Chaos gods can wring forth, as well as their own nigh-indefinite talents for destruction. This, poured forth into the man most like the Emperor, his second in every regard, the one who had the closest strength to his of all mankind together, with the body and soul he could not dare to strike.

It was the corruption of his greatest strength that brought the Emperor to his living death. The might of his armies, turned against him. The fruits of his intellect, shattered to dust. The potency of his strike, rendered as harmless. And, greatest and most tragic of all, his limitless love for all mankind and his son above all turned against him, leaving him the bitter and hopeless choice of who must he kill: The empire he built to save his people, cast into the warp as the god's plaything, or his own son, slain by his father's hand.

It was at this, the greatest and most momentous moment in the history of mankind itself, that the Emperor's strength of will, for the first and final time, did falter. He could not abandon his people, but nor could he strike down his beloved son and heir. His indecision and the agony of choice led him to allow his corrupted son to make the choice for him. He left his guard down, and let Horus the Noble, Horus the Benevolent, and Horus the Lord of All Traitors, choose whether he should let fall his empire or his favoured son.

[Horus] chose both.

>> No.19368005


Horus attacked, and the Emperor at last knew his son was beyond redemption. At last he unleashed his full powers, and let forth the full force of his mind for the only time of his life. A blast so powerful the powers of Chaos United fled from its wrath, and so destructive it erased Horus mind, body, and soul. The greatest traitor ever to live had fallen, the last thought in his mind as the twisted influences of the Chaos gods fled his body sorrow, not for his own demise, but for what he had wrought.

For though he had slain Horus, the Emperor had waited in indecision too long. Horus's dark talons had pierced his chest, leaving a wound so grave as to be mortal, even to a man-god. He had tried to choose both, and now had nothing.

Lying there, bleeding to death in the arms of Dorn, his most obedient son who had, in the hour of greatest need, failed his father for the first time, he saw the ruination of his empire. He had pushed far, and fast, and the Imperium had been pushed to the limits of his strength to expand further. But that strength was gone, half of it traitor, the remainder annihilated, the means to rebuild it utterly wiped out. There was now only one choice for man, only one way for it to be saved. He would have to fight the Chaos gods on their own ground.

>> No.19368009


And so, he told Dorn of the plans for the greatest of his creations, a massive throne to keep his shattered body alive, to feed him psychic potency every day. He would feed off those he loved and those he saw as the future of man, in the hopes that by sacrificing countless billions, countless trillions could be saved. The Golden Throne rose up, the Emperor sat in it, and the minds of the Imperium's psykers were thrown screaming into his own, to be consumed, their powers absorbed. This flux of power feeding him, strength he must have if he is to challenge the Chaos gods in a time when their power has never been greater, so vast that its overspill lights the Imperium end to end, so bright it shines radiant in the Warp clear from Cadia to Atilla. There he waits, gathering strength of mind and soul as his body withers. His influence over the affairs of the Imperium grows weaker day by day, not for lack of power but the conserving of it. For he knows that the day soon comes when the Imperium must make its last stand, to fight a final and glorious battle they cannot win and in doing so burn their name into the history of the galaxy so they shall never be forgotten. The day, too, soon comes when his power is sufficient, when he can cast off the mortal form at last and ascend to the warp, challenge and cast down the Chaos gods, unite them harmoniously, and join them himself. For the sake of man's survival in the face of ever more certain extinction and annihilation, he must make of himself that which he never wanted to be; a god.

And on that day, he hopes, there shall still be a mankind to save.

>> No.19368036

A bit more Evilsatan on certain elements making degrees of sense:

The zealous fury of the Ministorum is critical to the Imperium's defense, because the only ways to combat Chaos are relentless war or simple starvation. That was the Emperor's original plan; to starve the Chaos gods through rationalising humanity's thoughts until they were weak enough to be pacified and contained. The problem with that was the incredible vulnerability it leaves humanity in. The choices for fighting Chaos are basically mutual opposition and strength to each, or deliberate pacification at the cost of personal weakness. Seeing as the latter [option] is what got the Emperor pseudo-killed and the Imperium nearly destroyed, it's not much of an option any more.

On Space Marines: They make a kind of sense if used right. They're not a conventional or covert military force, but a hard-and-fast unit comprised of terrifyingly deadly men. Their doctrine is more along the lines of Delta than, say, the Rangers. They don't need camouflage or tactical advance, because they exploit shock and awe and their own momentum. They show up and blaze a path to their objective so fats that by the time a meaningful response can be raised, the situation has changed to the point where that response is now irrelevant. It doesn't matter how easy it is for a thousand men to kill one Space Marine if those thousand men are paralysed into inaction by the sheer intensity of the situation.

>> No.19368064

Thoughts on the High Lords of Terra, the ease of facing off against them, and their relative power level to player characters in 40K roleplay:

Aside from the High Lords who actually ARE personal slaughterbuses, every High Lord has two things; a proven nigh-immunity to assassination that is prerequisite for making it anywhere near the level they are at, and unrestrained access to all of the most mythical bullshit tech the Imperium has.

Master of the Administratum, Ecclesiarch, Cardinals, Chancellor of the Estates, or theSpeaker for the Chartists captains, is just an old dude. Except an old dude who's survived three hundred years of assasination attempts and has Temple Assassin level tech.

The Inquisitorial Representative is a long-serving and extremely talented Inquisitor. They don't have ones who aren't incredibly dangerous in combat because if they aren't they die before they even reach Interrogator.

The Fabricator-General is not even human any more and is basically built of rare archaeotech weapons.

The Grand Provost Marshal was an Arbites, and they don't make them soft. Plus, he gets to wear full combat gear in the chamber.

The Paternal Envoy is a Biblically-powerful psyker, as are the Masters of the Astronomican and Adeptus Astra Telepathica.

The Lord-Commander, Lord-Commander Militant, and Lord High Admiral have been officers in their combat roles for centuries and are going to be even better than the Inquisitorial Rep at open combat. Likewise with the Abbess of the Adepta Sororitas.

And then there's the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes, whose RT stats are basically 'NOPE'.

>> No.19368072 [DELETED] 

Addendum to previous:

Even if you were locked in a room with ONLY the person and not their hyper-elite bodyguards, and they were naked, they would still have the experience and the integrated weaponry to rape the face of anything small-time enough to still be a RT character.

The pictures of ANY of the High Lords consistently show them utterly festooned with bionic augmentation. [It's] entirely reasnable that the people who are most powerful and most critical in the Imperium have the motive and opportunity to arm themselves to the absolute shitballs with integrated weaponry. It's completely reasonable and in fact the best conclusion that they have access to concealed and integrated weaponry that is so powerful there's no way for a RT character to get anything that good at any point. Even the Master of the Administratum when naked in the bathshould have powerful personal force fields at all times and a digital weapon powerful enough to crack armoured transports. And if you get one of the ones who actually has serious combat experience as well, damn. I mean, fuck, the Inquisitorial Representative should basically be Batman but with world-shattering weapons and murder everywhere.

>> No.19368077


Addendum to previous:

Even if you were locked in a room with ONLY the person and not their hyper-elite bodyguards, and they were naked, they would still have the experience and the integrated weaponry to rape the face of anything small-time enough to still be a RT character.

The pictures of ANY of the High Lords consistently show them utterly festooned with bionic augmentation. [It's] entirely reasnable that the people who are most powerful and most critical in the Imperium have the motive and opportunity to arm themselves to the absolute shitballs with integrated weaponry. It's completely reasonable and in fact the best conclusion that they have access to concealed and integrated weaponry that is so powerful there's no way for a RT character to get anything that good at any point. Even the Master of the Administratum when naked in the bathshould have powerful personal force fields at all times and a digital weapon powerful enough to crack armoured transports. And if you get one of the ones who actually has serious combat experience as well, damn. I mean, fuck, the Inquisitorial Representative should basically be Batman but with world-shattering weapons and murder everywhere.

>> No.19368099

Okay, I'm trying to figure out what these Knights are made from but I'm drawing blanks.

I mean they look based off the Blood Slaughterer, but then I see the 60mm base and know that the torso would be way too wide compared to these.

Tell me your secrets, grass.

>> No.19368126

(to OP)
Perhaps you should point out that any victory that does happen, is ultimately pointless. It's just a tiny insignificant drop of diluted hope in a vast sea of dispair. Yet it is this tiny drop that the Imperium of Man's crippled form must survive on.

You're DH underlings sacrifices don't matter. That STC fragment for a slightly different pattern of some logistic vehicle is completely irrevelant to the overall struggle. Nothing matters, eventually the Imperium of man will have no more droplets of false hooe left to lick up from the coarse dry sandstone floor of the Orks, Chaos, Tyranids and Necrons.

>> No.19368165

Have a look here: http://z15.invisionfree.com/The_Great_Crusade/index.php?showtopic=4095

And now, for some epic-level writing.

Barstow Station by Leibowitz:


We were on the shuttle to Barstow Station when the math began to take hold. It had been over an hour since I jacked the hacked dataslate into the back of my skull, and I had begun to worry that my cogitator had developed a workaround, a resistance, an immunity. But as the lurch of deceleration yanked what was left of my bowels toward the floor, I felt the left side of my body crawl with bugs and soft whores' fingers as my mechanical rightbrain choked on the irreversible computations and self-annihilating fractions I had fed it. Half of my visual and audio input was flooded with error messages and the smell of flowers closing like a reversed time-lapse vid feed.

It took me a moment to register Vera asking if I was alright. I patted her arm reassuringly and tried to tell her I was fine, but all that came out was a 333 digit prime number. She waited patiently for me to finish.

>> No.19368174


Introductions are in order, or what follows will make less sense to you than it did to me at the time, and I was wasted out of my reinforced skull for most of it. I'm J.P.L. 27, making me the twenty-seventh clone of the original High Magos Biologos Joachim Percival What's-his-name. It's an august and noble geneline, with a penchant for staggering genius and the creation of brilliant, beautiful mechanisms and theoretical refinements that skirt the edge of dire tech-heresy. Also the tendency to go cogfucking crazy and get put down. I was the latest attempt by the Mechanicus to get the nectar without having to deal with the giant Catachani man-eating flowers. They thawed me out, let me work for a while, then tried cracking my skull open and replacing the crazy, emotional, right half of my brain with a nice, sane piece of machinery.

They screwed up, of course. My hemispheres were reversed, right to left and left to right. They scooped out the jiggling pink genius-parts and shitcanned them, leaving me with the bits that get bored and horny and always sense that beautiful something just out of reach, just over the horizon, just the far side of this latest idea. That liminal sense that must have driven my predecessors til they cracked. Whatever that shining something is, I've got no shot at it now; the parts of me smart enough to reach for it wound up in a wet and mushy pile in the surgeon's discard tray. I generally stay sufficiently chem-wracked not to care.

>> No.19368180


After the operation, I vaguely realized that I was dead if they figured out exactly how badly I was broken, so I dosed myself drooling with depressants and let the cogitator-implant drive. I wound up building standard servo-skulls for two years before they declared me normalized and started sending me out on repair detail. Which is why I was strapped into a flying can in my stained red robes, with a case full of chems and dirty logic between my feet and my mechadendrites twitching and twisting around each other like epileptic metal snakes screwing.

Heh. Metal. Screwing. Vera's looking at me, concerned, and I stop laughing. She's a real piece of work, Vera. My work, from before the operation. She's a Skitarii, technically, but the general definition of those tends more toward the "heavy combat cyborg" and less toward the "shining work of art." She's both, I guess; seven feet tall, most of her skin replaced with this gleaming, flexible metallic stuff that I can't for the life of me remember making, any more than I can remember the meaning of the letters V. E. R. A. on her back. Most cogboys don't care about aesthetics, but I was on some kind of "perfect human" kick back then; something about gold men, iron men... quicksilver men? It's fuzzy.

>> No.19368186


Anyway, she doesn't belong here. She should be working guard detail for a High Magos, or honor guard for a sector governor. Or standing on a pedastal somewhere while people throw flowers at her for being so damn gorgeous and perfect. Perfect. Whatever combination of psych-programming, drugs, and surgury I used to lock her into loyalty was perfect too. She's imprinted on me, and won't take orders from anyone else unless I'm there to confirm them. I forgot the procedure for reassigning her, unlocking her fixation. I forgot what I did to make her like this. I think she called me Daddy once, but I was pretty gone and might have imagined it.

She's strapped into the seat to the right of me. Her green eyes are glancing around the shuttle, scanning for threats in a dozen spectra. My addled gaze traces the curve of her breasts; my cogitator tries to model them mathematically, but it chokes and starts doing the flower thing again.

She notices me looking and stares at me blankly. "Master?"

"What? Negative. Nothing. I'm fine. 7533197..."

Strapped into the seat to my left is a crate with air holes. I'll get to that later.


>> No.19368190


My inner-ear replacement goes nuts for a moment and I half-worry I've burnt it out, but Vera calmly informs me we've docked, which mean's it's the transfer to the station's artificial grav which is throwing me off. She unbuckles herself and starts gathering up the luggage while I stagger toward the exit. My interior gyroscope helpfully informs me that I am both perfectly upright and standing on a wall. My mechadendrites grab the doorframe for balance, and I stare out in dismay.

The walls of the docking tube are transparent, and I can see Barstow Station in all it's glory. It's a supply station; it'll be utterly vital to the logistics of any serious Mechanicus or military undertaking in the six nearest star systems, none of which are in any danger or of any particular interest to anyone. As a result it hangs in space, in orbit around a bluish gas giant, inhabited by a skeleton crew, and largely forgotten by the universe. It's an enormous irregular box, a 10-kilometer warehouse that learned to fly and may now be regretting it. It's also slowly strobing through all the colors of the rainbow, but that may just be me.

>> No.19368195

I make my way unsteadily down the tube, Vera trailing after me. Through the round door on the other side is a huge, empty cave of a cargo hold. Empty except for the welcoming commitee; a tall, shriveled old man in Administratum robes, and a skinny, nervous girl in a baggy jumpsuit. The raisin on stilts is the station manager; he launches into a wheezing tirade about scheduling and how long it took me to get here. I fix him with my best crazy-eye stare, but that doesn't shut him up, so I follow up with a good 12-second screech of feedback from my throat vox. There's a pause of blessed silence after that, before he informs me he has vital business to attend to and stalks off.

I turn to the girl, who's staring at Vera. She's mousy and stick-thin, with brown hair tied back in two short tails. There's a Mechanicus symbol on the breast of her jumpsuit, meaning she's an initiate; probably the closest thing this box warrented to a tech-priest. Bit young to be keeping it running herself, though. She notices me glaring at her and jumps, then bows deeply and starts talking. She gives her name, which bounces right off my brainmeat without making an impression, then rapidly chatters about how honored she is to be in the presence of a full-fledged servant of the Omnissiah, and something about orbits and meteors and doors.

>> No.19368201


I inform her that this particular servant of the Omnissiah is greatly wearied by his travels, and also that the intoxicant levels in his oily bloodstream have decayed to far below optimum. I must be shown to my chambers, that I may enter a state of blissful communion with the Machine God for a good ten hours or so, to sanctify myself before turning my hands and mechadendrites to whatever repair work is required.

"Ten hours, sir?" she squeaks, "But... sir, we'll all be dead in nine!"

My muttered obscenities come out as squeals and static.


Senior Initiate-Mechane Rednow had been trying to figure out why the attitude thrusters that kept Barstow steady in its lonely little orbit weren't firing. He'd been trying to figure it out for several months. He and Junior Initiate-Mechane Mousey Forgot-her-name-again had been on the hull examining the problem when a meteor struck the bay doors of cargo hold 3. The doors buckled and blew out, venting half the station's air before the crew managed to manually close all the bulkheads.

Mousy had been half-inside an open hatch during the impact, and had managed to hold on. Rednow had taken the long fall.

>> No.19368207


The station's orbit had been slowly decaying since the attitude thrusters stopped firing, but the meteor strike and subsequent jet of lost air had turned a creeping downward slide into a majestic dive. They'd sent out a repair and assistance request, and I'd been in the area, on a ship bound for Malfi. When the request had been forwarded to me I'd been under the impression that the ship I was on was digesting me, so I rather hurridly agreed to come out and take a look. By the time I arrived, there were just under nine hours left before we broke up and burned out spectacularly in the soothing blue atmosphere of Petasatus IV. Or, my cogitator helpfully informed me, six hours before the point where the stations thrusters could no longer correct our orbit even if we did get them operational.

By the time I'd gotten straight enough to process this information and run around in a panic surveying the damage, the shuttle had left and its parent ship had warp jumped. I took something to calm me down, so that I could deal with the problem rationally, then something to counteract that when I realized I was contemplating my demise with an undue level of peace and acceptance. As a result, everything has become very clear and loud, and I feel like I'm covered with a thin, flexible layer of ice.

>> No.19368213

That yellow red paint scheme looks gay bruh.

>> No.19368217


It occurs to me that I am possibly the third most likely person on this station to actually fix any mechanical problems, after Mousy and Apex. Vera brings me Apex's crate, and I unlock the thing and stand back. The little bastard throws the lid open and scrambles out, screeching and whooping angrily at his long confinement.

Apex is another product of my long-lost "perfect human" obsession. The theory I espoused to my enraptured collegues was that a certain recombinant algorythm could reverse the mutation and genetic drift of tens of thousands of years among the stars, resulting in a prototype, an archetype human genome. We could back-engineer the genetic code of that ancient ancestor, that great explorer who first left holy Terra to conquer the stars... the apex of evolution.

As it turned out, the ancient ancestor of all mankind was short, stupid, covered in hair, and had hands for feet. Some time after my brains got scrambled, I pulled him out of storage and stuck a cogitator full of repair instructions in his head so that he could put his four hands to use and I could avoid any actual work. I don't recall when I gave him the wings; probably sometime during the bender on Fenksworld. These days I just tell people he's a hairy cherub.

>> No.19368233

Loving the Dr. Baron von Evilsatan stuff. Is there a place where it's handily stored for future reference? Somewhere not quite so volatile as a /tg/ thread?

>> No.19368249


I chitter at him in binary, telling him to fix the thrusters. Apex bares his teeth at me and bangs his fists on the deckplate. Then he pulls a toolbelt out of his crate, buckles it on, and flaps awkwardly away down the corridor.


Normally at this point I'd just wait for Apex to do his thing, but the creeping prickling sensation of stimulants and fear won't let me sit still. Also, Mouse-girl is staring at me in rapt attention and it's making my neck itch. So I start asking questions. Spare parts manifests, power consumption; she can answer a worrying number of my queries from memory, but as long as she's biting her lip and squinting in an attempt to recall something, she's not giving me that creepy fucking stare.

Suddenly, the fizzing fog of drug-fear and death-fear goes momentarily transparent. I order her to repeat what she just said.

"No sir, none of the automatic bulkheads functioned. That's why we lost so much air, sir, we had to seal them all manually."

She flinches slightly as I round on her. My mecadendrites are lashing around above my head and my eyes are bloodshot. Serves her right for giving me that creepy stare before. "What controls those?"

>> No.19368260

I literally dug through everything on sup/tg/ that had his name mentioned in it, this is all the 40K-related shit. That attempt may be the first of its kind that resulted in public posting of said materials, and you see its product in the above posts.

Give us more 40K stuff you love, Anon. Put it in this thread.

>> No.19368275

That is the best TL-AC conversion I've ever seen. Do want.

>> No.19368276


"Uh... the... the machine spirits of the pressure sensors petition the holy central cortex, which, in its kindness and wisdom, closes bulkheads and opens vents to ensure stable atmosphere for surviving crew. Except, sir, it didn't."

"And the altimeters and thrusters?"

"The... the same, sir. The altimeters report to the cortex, which fires the thrusters to keep us fixed in the heavens. But they havn't been firing, sir."

I turn and begin to sprint down the corridor. The thud of Vera's combat boots and the patter of Mouse-girl's shoes follow me until I reach an intersection and skid to a halt.

"Where's the central cortex?"

We find it deep in the heart of the station. A metal cylinder three meters in diameter runs from the floor to the ceiling, with a small alter before it for maintenance ceremonies. Apex is here already; he's removed part of the shielding and is reaching into the cylinder.

I squat down beside him and look in. Data-readouts shed dim green light on a glass globe filled with murky fluid. Apex makes a strange, sad cooing sound and taps the glass. Within, I can faintly make out a floating, wizened, foetal shape, with wires running into its spine. A small plaque at the base of the globe reads "SOPHIA ANISS - SERVICE IN LIFE, SERVICE IN PERPETUITY."

>> No.19368287


"Uh... the... the machine spirits of the pressure sensors petition the holy central cortex, which, in its kindness and wisdom, closes bulkheads and opens vents to ensure stable atmosphere for surviving crew. Except, sir, it didn't."

"And the altimeters and thrusters?"

"The... the same, sir. The altimeters report to the cortex, which fires the thrusters to keep us fixed in the heavens. But they havn't been firing, sir."

I turn and begin to sprint down the corridor. The thud of Vera's combat boots and the patter of Mouse-girl's shoes follow me until I reach an intersection and skid to a halt.

"Where's the central cortex?"

We find it deep in the heart of the station. A metal cylinder three meters in diameter runs from the floor to the ceiling, with a small alter before it for maintenance ceremonies. Apex is here already; he's removed part of the shielding and is reaching into the cylinder.

I squat down beside him and look in. Data-readouts shed dim green light on a glass globe filled with murky fluid. Apex makes a strange, sad cooing sound and taps the glass. Within, I can faintly make out a floating, wizened, foetal shape, with wires running into its spine. A small plaque at the base of the globe reads "SOPHIA ANISS - SERVICE IN LIFE, SERVICE IN PERPETUITY."

>> No.19368290

>i need to ease the passage of new players into 40K
Give them a bag of money first.

>> No.19368301

He might just mean the 40k universe.

>> No.19368314


I peer at the readouts. Much of the glowing data is meaningless to me, but what I can understand plants a twisted black knot in my augmetic guts. I flop back on my ass and look up at the Mouse, who's staring at me with a glimmer of awe and hope in her eyes.

I speak. It comes out static. I tap my throat and try again. "Well, I found your problem. You need a new cortex. This one's done."

Worry creases her brow. "Uh, sir, we don't have a replacement cortex."

I sit cross-legged and stare at the shimmering globe. "Yeah. I know."

She leans over and looks into the hole, blocking my view. She peers inside for a full minute, then turns and speaks in a soft voice. "Is the machine spirit... dead?"

"No, this... Omnissiah's brass balls. This was an Exaltation, a reward. The... the woman that used to be probably helped build this station, or did something that impressed the Mechanicus, so they wired her in alive. They gave her an eternity of blissful union with the machine, an enormous, incorruptable metal body. They left more of... her... in there then they normally would, enough to feel the everlasting joy of her transcendent state."

Mouse folds her skinny arms across her chest and hugs herself. "So... it... she..."

>> No.19368320

I mean the setting, yeah. Apologies for the lack of clarity.

>> No.19368340


My meat-parts are crawling. I'm distinctly, uncomfortably aware of my body's every seam between flesh and metal. "She's not dead, she's not alive, and she's not happy. Stupid cogfuckers, this kinda rig is... not fine, but, but functional in a ship, or something else big and complicated and mobile. A station like this, just orbiting, and ... there's not enough input, stimulus. She got bored, then she got a really quiet kind of crazy, and then for the last who knows how long she's just been waiting to die. Look at this..." I lean forward, tap readouts with a mechadendrite. "Neurotransmitters, tanked. Neural activity, barely there. Input/output... there's the signal from the altimeters, that's all she's getting, a number, getting smaller."

Mousy-girl gently lays a hand on the cold metal of the column. "The spirit is... sad? Lonely?"

"Or so bored she decided to stop breathing."

She looks at me wide-eyed. She's chewing on her lower lip. "Can you ease her pain? Sir?"

I can't answer. I can't look at her. I look at Vera instead. Vera's staring at me with quiet confidence, patiently waiting for me to come up with some transcendently brilliant plan. I've never been able to convince her I'm not the genius who made her. I'm just the husk that person left behind when he died.

She's carrying my case. I've got stimulants in there, maybe... my cogitator runs through the list, and the theoretical effects. Some act on organs the cortex doesn't have anymore. Some would kill what was left. None would wake her up, happy and functional. She'd need a massive flood of nerotransmitters, and I just can't think of any way to make that happen.

>> No.19368359


We're all falling to our deaths.

I'm sobering up in the worst way, aching and terrified and confused. I swivel my head wildly, looking for help, escape. Apex is in the corner, his back to us, furiously masturbating. Vera's a silver statue of a warrior goddess, staring down at me, serene and beautiful. Mouse-girl's eyes are full of hope and fear. She's actually kinda cute, in a skinny, overeager way, and she thinks I'm the Omnissiah walking. I'm about to ask if she wants to die a virgin when I get the third worst idea I've ever had.

I lurch forward into the hole and stare at the wires running into the globe. I yell over my shoulder. "Hey, have you got a set of three-guage neural jacks in your neck?"

I get two replies.

"No... no sir, I haven't had the honor of augmentation."

"Yes, Master. My neural interface jacks are 3-guage compatible."

I wince. I'm going to have to be very, very high to pull this off.


I'm focused, chemical-assisted and heuristically-assisted. It's giving me nasty feedback in my error-detection, forcing me to check and recheck every connection exactly 18 times and constantly tap my left foot, but it's a hell of a lot better than crossing a wire and fucking this whole thing up.

>> No.19368367


I've got Vera wired through the portible cogitator and my hacked dataslate. She made a strange little gasping noise when I brushed her hair aside so I could jam the cables into the back of her neck, but she hasn't complained... not that she ever does. Mouse girl brought the blankets I asked for and laid them out on the floor, and now she's scurrying around lighting all the incense and candles. I see the dissappointment in her eyes when I tell her she's not cleared to witness this particular Most Holy Ritual of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

"Yes, sir. I'll... is there anything I can do to help, anything at all?"

I hesitate, then poke my head into the cortex containment cylinder and study the floating near-corpse for a moment. One wire seems to be be connected to an ancient, pickled nipple. I peer at the system for a moment, then pull back.

"Yes, actually. Um. Is there a pressure sensor on deck 15, section C?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go there, wait ten minutes, and then start blowing on the sensor. Or direct a vent onto it and move the airflow back and forth."


"Can't hurt, might help."

It warms my hearts to see her jump into action like that. I turn to the problem at hand. Vera is standing at attention, wires emerging from her shining golden hair and trailing down to the ground.

>> No.19368406


A memory, vived and garish, pops to mind unbidden. A couple guys had jumped me for money I owed them, outside a bar on Fenksworld. I'd been hammered and hadn't been able to make out anything but motion and screaming until everything stopped and I saw Vera standing in the pool of light cast by the street lamp, shining with blood, a length of intestine carelessly draped over her shoulder and trailing down to the ground.

I open my case and remove a small datacard and a plunger filled with clear fluid. I talk to keep my mind off the thought of my secret, private, inner juices being used to paint this room a nice Mechanicus rust-red.

"Vera, you understand what we're gonna do here, yeah? You get what's happening?"

"I understand, Master. I look forward to the mission's success."

"You're... capable of, eh, success, right? The massive seratonin release we need to achieve?"

"With your assistance, Master, yes."

"Uh... right. Do my best." I frown, worried. "Are you gonna be able to feel... I mean, how sensitive is that metal skin of yours?"

"I shall remove it." Her hand reaches up to a point between her gleaming breasts. With hallucinatory clarity, my mind's eye shows me the last servitor I saw with its cowling off, red and gray and wet. I hurridly turn away, jam the datacard into the jack in the back of my head, and reach up under my robes to stick the plunger into my secondary liquid intake valve.

>> No.19368417


When I turn around, the world's already beginning to fray and burn at the edges like a tapestry in a housefire. Vera's stepping toward me, bare. Her skin, beneath the shining silver, is pale and crisscrossed with fine scars. I vaguely remember making them, scalpal flying, sculpting perfection. There are silver vines growing up all the walls and Vera's shining like a pale, breathing star and my skin is on fire and there's something I really, really have to do, to her, starting now and continuing until time arches its back, screams, and ends.


Shortly thereafter, the world moves. Well, the station at least. Individual attitude jets flicker, bursts of flame bright in the void, with increasing frequency, moving in waves down the sides of the 10-kilometer long station. The waves pulse and interfere, build and cancel, until suddenly they all roar as one, blazing propellant in every direction, as inside the station doors slam open and closed and ear-splitting alarms echo down the corridors.

A few minutes later, the planetside attitude jets fire together. Gently, they thrust the angular behemoth up out of the blue gas giant's gravity well and toward the stars.


I'm waiting in one of the massive, empty holds. I'm waiting for a shuttle. These facts sit quietly in the calm center of my brain. Around the outer edges, fatigue and specters, fear and loathing, chase themselves through a fog of chemical residue.

>> No.19368436

>Vera's shining like a pale, breathing star and my skin is on fire and there's something I really, really have to do, to her, starting now and continuing until time arches its back, screams, and ends.
I've always thought Liebowitz had an impressive ability to turn a phrase.

>> No.19368441


Vera is here. Apex is here. The skinny, mousy Mouse girl is here. The tall old talking man was here, but Apex jumped on his face and screamed for a while and he left.

There's a viewport in the bay doors. I stare out at the stars. There's something out there, just over the edge, just out of sight. Something liminal.


Oh. Right. I was telling the girl something. Something very important. I have to tell her about the thing out there we need to find, the thing we lost. I marshal my brilliance.

"Strange memories, on this nervous night here on Barstow. How long? Ten thousand years ago? History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of "history" it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole species comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time — and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened. Humanity boiled up out of our one little world, pouring madness and light in every direction, striking sparks everywhere. There was no fear, not of anything, not even of ourselves; there was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . We had our ideas and our technology and we took the fight to the forces of Old and Evil, certain that our glorious energy would simply prevail. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . And now, ten thousand years later, you can stand and look out toward the Halo Stars, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark — that place where the wave finally broke, and rolled back."

>> No.19368449


Everyone's quiet for a while. I told them. I told them what we lost. Vera's staring at me seriously. Apex hugs himself and rocks back and forth. Mouse-girl's eyes are sparkling; her mouth is moving as she remembers every bad-crazy word.



"Sir, the maintenance for the cortex? I'm to run the input file stored in the cogitator three times a week at least, yes?"

"Right. Yes. That's right."

"And the ritual, sir? What blessing should I perform before running the sacred file? Or, um, is it anointing?"

"Um. Add some ethanol to her nutrient drip and tell her she's pretty."

"Yes sir. Um...

One of the stars is moving. It's the shuttle. Coming closer. Mouse girl's trying to ask something.

"Sir... might I know your name?"

"Huh? Oh. Techpriest J. P. L. 27"

"...thank you, sir."

>> No.19368474


The shuttle docks. Mechadendrites gripping the walls of the tube for balance, flanked by my beautiful failures, I stagger off the station. A voice calls from behind me.

"Omnissiah watch over you, Jay Peel! I'll never forget what you taught me!"

I look back over my sholder, squinting. My visual cortex is fried, and there's a corona of rainbows around every lightsource. Mouse-girl is waving.

I call back, voice crackling with static. "You take care, Clara."

Clara. That was her name. I remember now.


>> No.19368500

And that's the work of Leibowitz, more of which can be had at http://leibowitz27.deviantart.com/

Post more 40K must reads if you got 'em. This is the desired quality level, but other good stuff's welcome.


That he does, Anon. Know any writefags that can equal or outdo him?

>> No.19368654

bumpan for awesome shit

>> No.19369267

On Feral World Religion:

The feral worlder led the Sisters into the temple. Sister Superior Helena was relieved to see it was in relatively good condition- however backwards this planet might be, at least it had kept up its worship. Admirable, really, in a world that had not been contacted by the Imperium since the Salamanders had made a stop shortly after the Horus Heresy. Whatever her thoughts on the Astartes, they'd at least managed to impress these savages with the creed.

"Here," the feral worlder said, pointing at a series of crude paintings inside the temple. Or perhaps crude was the wrong word- primitive, yes, but obvious effort had been put into them. They would not compare with the stained glass or sacred paintings of an Imperial convent, but their bright colors and symbols were certainly eye-catching.

"Tells all the story. Known it since I was a babe." The feral worlder seemed proud, or else simply eager for the approval of the strange women with fire-spitting wands.

"Tell us, then," prompted Sister Helena. The feral worlder nodded, grinning, and pointed to the largest picture. It showed a man dressed in animal hides made of gold, sitting upon a chair that towered over a tiny villiage painted in the background.

"Emp-Rar," she explained.

>> No.19369277

The standard 40K introduction for written works.

>> No.19369287



"King Emp-Rar, of the villiage Terra. Powerful magician, made himself god."

"Magician?" explaimed Sister Isabella, her face contorted with fury. "That's heres-"

Sister Helena cut her off with a look. She might normally have agreed with Isabella's assesment, but the feral worlder hadn't seemed to mean anything chaos-related by the word. Besides, until their rescue ship arrived, they were stuck on this barbaric little rock and would have to save their ammunition for true emergencies.

"Go on."

The feral worlder pointed to another picture.

"Betrayed by his son, the Horse."

The Sisters looked at the picture, which indeed showed a very evil looking horse. Trying not to laugh, they silently noted that it did have lots of spiky bits painted on it.

>> No.19369315


>The Horse Heresy

My favourite piece of fan-fiction.

>> No.19369380


"Other sons fight the Horse, even though-" her voice dropped to a frightened hush- "the Gill Man came to take away their manhood with the Coat of Stars!"

Any confusion on the part of the Sisters was answered by the painting of the Gill Man, a large, scaly monster dressed in a starry coat with scissors on the end. Or rather, it was answered by the fact that the scales on his chest were blue and displayed the Ultramarines symbol.

"Yes," whispered Sister Rosalind, "this story was definately told by the Salamanders."

The feral worlder moved on to the next series of paintings, each with a symbol that suggested a different Primarch.

"The Great Green One," she said reverently. "Knew the secrets of Fire and Steel. Refused to let the Gill-Man take his manhood."

Sister Rosalind surpressed a giggle, deciding that the next time she saw the Salamanders she would call them Great Green Ones. They'd kill her for it, but it would be worth it.

"The Angel," came the feral worlder's voice, pointing at the next painting. "Emp-Rar's beautiful daughter." Indeed, the golden-haired woman in the painting was remarkeably beautiful, her body barely covered by a sheer peice of cloth, her blue eyes large and sad as she wept tears of blood.

"Was there a female Primarch?" Sister Ophelia hissed excitedly. "I never learned about her!"

"Don't ask," replied Sister Helena. With any luck, the Blood Angels would never end up visiting this planet.

>> No.19369397


"One son was a wall."

"You mean, built a wall?"

"Was a wall. Emp-Rar's concubines gave birth to a great wall to protect him. Wall called Dorn."

"I'm really pretty sure this is heresy..." groaned Sister Isabella.

The feral worlder looked at them suspiciously. "Priestesses of Emp-Rar should know the story. Why so many questions?"

Sister Helena smiled, doing her best to convey smug superiority. "We merely wish to see how well you know your history. Memorized speeches are all well and good, but it doesn't mean much if you can't explain in detail."

The feral worlder seemed a bit embarrassed at that. Her head bowed, she pointed to three smaller paintings.

"Other sons, Great Green Ones say are not important, but we put them up here anyway. Important to know history. The Raven-" she pointed to a painting of a large black bird, his wings spread, giving what looked like a murderous glare to the other paintings- '"The Man with the White Scar-" this painting showed what appeared to be a man riding a horse made of steel, a primitive attempt at understanding the concept of an attack bike- "and Bad Angel. Great Green Ones not talk about Bad Angel, though. They say he brings bad luck to those who knew too much."

>> No.19369412


"They would," commented Sister Mariana. "And I think the Great Green Ones seem to have been a little bitter over Guilliman's backers. Are there any they did say were important?"

The feral worlder beamed at her.

"Wolf-Man. Along with Great Green One, refused to lose his manhood to the Gill-Man's coat of stars." With that, she pointed to the final painting on the temple walls.

The painting showed a huge barbarian, naked from the waist up. Over one shoulder was slung a woman, who looked as if she wasn't quite sure whether or not to be upset by her impending ravishment. In the other hand, he weilded a giant tanker of mead, using it to crush his opponants while taking a healthy drink from it himself.

"Well," said Sister Helena after a moment's pause, "at least they got one right."

>> No.19369417

Thanks, Anon.

>> No.19369680

So, some one has more cool guardsman minis/pics?
Preferable with gasmask/cool helmets.

>> No.19369687

No cool gasmasks, but epic

>> No.19369713

So how hard is it in this day and age of the game to field knights? They seem so damn awesome but I can't find any rules supporting them. Where are they even from?

>> No.19369743

I was thinking in things more like this, but that's cool.

>> No.19369796

Well, I will post some then.

>> No.19369808

>> No.19369822

>> No.19369868

There's a lot of people who complain about the Grimdark setting of 40k and how it's well...you know the usual complaints about grimdark settings.

It's something I've never gotten, quite frankly. If you ask me, 40k has always had a tongue-in-cheek approach to these things. I don't think it's ever taken itself too seriously, and always had a bit of self-parody about it.

Is that just me?

>> No.19369894

>Bear with it.

>> No.19369953


It used to, its been taken far too seriously for years now

>> No.19369975

>> No.19370050

>> No.19370106

>> No.19370158

>> No.19370238

I'm new to 40k and am considering starting with either Space Wolves or Dark Elder (most likely Dark Elder because the models are cheaper), any advice for starting out with these guys?

>> No.19370258

DE battleforces are pretty good. start out with battleforces and ravagers. For HQ get archon. play some games at smaller point levels (500-1000) and get used to the main rules and your codex. Expand as you see fit.

>> No.19370308


>> No.19370319


Those Knights are fantastic. Probably ought to be a little bigger if you're wanting to keep to the scale from Titan Legions, but fan-fucking-tastic. Got a parts list or how-to?

>> No.19372533

Y'alls pretty cool minifags postan in a fluff-fag thread. Keep posting, those are awesome minis.

Best you'd get, I'm afraid.

Any more awesome fluff contributions?

>> No.19372709

>> No.19373333


>> No.19374291

Wonderful thread.

>> No.19375204

Yo, rate my list:
1500 Necrons:
Nemesor 185
Overlord w/ Goodies 165
2x Cryptek (HoD) + SHINING BROWSER CRASHER 55 (110)
20 Warriors 260
6 Scarabs 90
6 Scarabs 90
6 Scarabs 90 (240)
3 Spyders + 1 GP 165
3 Spyders + 1 GP 165
3 Spyders + 1 GP 165 (495)

>> No.19375474

>implying anyone here knows anything about tabletop mechanics

>> No.19377911

bumping for good thread

>> No.19379459

I found a thing.

The Imperial Guard isn't better than each army at what they are supposed to do, it's really good at its one, big thing: shooting shit.

The Imperial Guard shoots shit like nobody's business. Contrary to popular belief, that is not what the Tau do. The tau shoot things with finesse, and have superior mobility so that they can maneuver.

The Guard fields tractors with tank cannons bolted to them, and uses WWI tactics. It outdoes everybody in that one thing, and everything else the Guard can do is there to facilitate the application of that one thing to other things. Mobile enemy? Vendetta brings overwhelming firepower to them. Enemy in cover? Hellhound delivers. Impossible to wound armor? Tricked out Demolisher here, making armor its bitch since the 20th millennium. Ultimately, they're a one trick pony. The pony's one trick just happens to be a battle cannon.

Don't think that makes them better. Ever seen what a "victory" looks like for the Guard? It looks like a tank with three survivors on it trundling away from a battlefield that claimed the lives of thousands.

The guard is an army that takes Pyrrhic victory and says, "fuck it, it's still victory."

>> No.19379580

And here's a few things from Liebowitz and others detailing possible High Lords of Terra, from this thread: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/7738962

Personality profiles go!

The Master of the Administratum was born under the name Sun Fan, on a world famed for its harmonious governance.

The venerable Master has long eyebrows and mustaches of pure white. For his health, he has been wired into an elegant spider-legged life-support throne, equipped with numerous parchment rolls and autoquills controlled by links to the Master's nervous system. He sits cross-legged on his throne, his hands together in the sleeves of his ornate robe, his half-closed eyes dancing over the documents held before him by his flock of attendant servoskulls and beautiful young secretaries.

Although his attached scribing apparatus is constantly in motion, his flesh-body moves only rarely. When an order of particularly great and far-reaching import must be made, his wizened, long-fingernailed hands emerge from his sleeves like waking spiders. Brush held in a delicate grip, he writes on finest paper, the far-reaching wisdom of his command in perfect harmony with the beauty of his calligraphy.

If you're going to order that a trillion people be allowed to starve, it behooves you to do it with grace.

>> No.19379643


The Fabricator-General of the Adeptus Mechanicus is somewhere between a person and a committee. For the past 5,000 years, the highest honor a techpriest could earn has been for a fragment of his brain to be added to the Fabricator. Within the robed, dreadnaught-sized torso of the great leader, the borders of ego break down, as the most brilliant and learned minds of the Imperium meld into a gestalt. This fact is kept as a most holy secret, and the Fabricator is always addressed as a singular person; however, the cyberskull-tipped dendrites that snake around his immense humanoid frame are capable of carrying on separate conversations with a dozen people at once.

The Fabricator is terse and dismissive with the other High Lords. Many consider this a common foible of the Priesthood of Mars, but others whisper that he has spent the past 4,000 years plotting for the Mechanicus to either seize control of the Imperium or secede entirely.

Less august personages who have cause to speak with one of the dendrites are often surprised by the Fabricator's casual conversational tone, and even sense of humor. In truth, the third mind-fragment added was of a Grand Magos known for cognitive and social programming techniques; the Fabricator will converse in whatever manner best suits his/their ends.

>> No.19379745


This one may have been seen by some as one of Leibowitz's misses, though others liked it.

The Master of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica uses the name Clarity and appears to be a beautiful girl of around 18. Her hair is white (a common side-effect of sanctioning,) her skin is a rich, dark brown, and her eyes are hidden by a band of blue and gold embroidered silk. She is cheerful, friendly, and astute, and laughs often. While they continue to present a united front to the outside, the Adeptus is deeply concerned about the Master.

It is common (though secret) practice for the most senior and powerful Psykers in the Adeptus to adopt new bodies when their old ones are rendered unsuitable by age or the ravages of warpcraft. A suitable body is selected from among the vast cull of the unsanctioned, and is specially processed to receive the soul of the honored elder. The transition is overseen and assisted by the elder's colleagues. The discarded body dies, the less important soul is eroded and consumed, and in the end the wise and powerful Psyker is gifted with new, young, healthy flesh in which to continue to serve the Imperium.


>> No.19379758



Minor changes in behavior are common, as the wise one adapts to a faster metabolism, the hormones of youth, and a few stray fragments of the soul of the donor. However, when Master Clarity emerged from his third and latest transition, his demeanor had changed completely. Mind-scans detected nothing amiss, but that means little when dealing with one of his power. Detailed questioning revealed he knew secrets only Clarity would, and the three who assisted in the process reported that it unfolded perfectly normally.

However, the suspicion remains that the young girl who was to be honored by becoming Clarity's vessel instead managed to overcome and consume his soul and memories, dominating the assistants to prevent word getting out. If true, one of the twelve most powerful positions in the galaxy is now held by an 18-year-old girl with the memories and skills of a 500-year-old Alpha-plus Psyker.

>> No.19379918

A note on the AdMech within Imperial internal politics:

The Mechanicus IS the most powerful single faction. Second head of the aquila, remember? They have their own religion, their own worlds, their own armies and fleets.

Thing is, they're internally fragmented and tightly woven into Imperium society. It's not that the Inquisition controls foundries, it's that certain foundries are run by techpriests more loyal to certain inquisitors than to their superiors in the Mechanicus.

>> No.19381553

A tiny Evilsatan gem to get people geared up for making 40K more palatable:

" I'm applying the 40K rules here; if the fluff goes wrong, fuck it off and make your own."

>> No.19381635

From /tg/ trailers:
Two men stand in a nondescript room, smoking nonchalantly. Both are dressed in uniforms that would indicate high rank. One is reading a file.
>Man reading file snorts and tosses the file across the table
“If anyone but you had brought me something like this, I’d have had them executed for spreading misinformation.”
>Second man smiles
“And you wonder why you haven’t heard about this until now.”
>First man continues frowning.
“You expect me to believe that one man, that THIS man, defeated, on his own, a Charnel Daemon…
>Cut to footage of said Daemon swatting aside Space Marines
“…a Bloodletter, a Juggernaut of Khorne, the Beast of Solomon…
>Cut to footage of creatures tearing through an underhive, scattering soldiers and civilians.
“…An Unbound Daemonhost, and an Ork Warboss?”
>Footage of the two duking it out amidst a cascade of high explosives. Second man nods
“Whether you believe it or not, it happened. If even half of this is true, he is the most blessed man this Imperium has seen in decades. In centuries.
>First man chews on his lho stick
“Or the luckiest. Or the most corrupted.”

>> No.19381644

>Footage of intense firefight within a ship. Close-up on space pirates laying down automatic fire before their leader pales, grabs his comrades and screams at them to stop shooting. Camera follows his gaze, and we see a man covered head-to-toe in primed explosives walking towards them. His face is not seen, although it’s fairly easy to tell he’s rather plump. Return to the room, where the second man frowns
“True enough. In any case, he’s worth keeping an eye on, is he not?”
>First man picks the file back up and leafs through it.
“What did you say his name was again?”
>Camera switches to front-view of plump man, moving slowly upwards until it reaches his face. The second man is heard.
“Castus Grendel.”
>Fire Head by Epic Score begins to play as an action montage kicks off. An enormous tank decked out in arcane symbols charges a Bloodletter. The fat man leaps upon what looks like an avatar of destruction itself, an eight-foot-tall beast of a man covered in living, gnashing armor. A Sister of Battle kisses a bewildered Grendel and begins to disrobe.
>Grendel charges out of a building and dives for a discarded snazzgun as an Unbound Daemonhost and an Ork Warboss trade colossal punches. Grendel runs for safety amidst a hailstorm of explosives, carrying the Sister of Battle
>Song comes to a climax as we witness Grendel riding a Juggernaut of Khorne, which is currently entangled with the writhing Beast of Solomon and a Bloodletter and heading straight towards a cliff. The pile of monsters careens off the edge, Grendel leaping off at the last second and stretching towards the edge of the cliff. Fade to black.



>> No.19382033

I've always thought that Imperial Knights were neat, but it's always been hard to find fluff and rules for them. What rule-sets do you use for your knights?

I've always wanted to do a "convert Battletech mechs to Imperial Knights" thread, but I've been afraid of crossuing the streams.

>> No.19382318


>> No.19382351

Why do some people take 40k seriously when its obviously a dark comedy?

>> No.19382360

>Why do some people take 40k seriously when its obviously a dark comedy?

I'm pretty sure no one told GW this

>> No.19382391


Do you mean 'take it at face value,' anon? People take worse and worse-written things at face value. However, assuming you're not trying to say that all 40K fans that do so aren't defective in terms of their sense of humor...

People get out of 40K exactly what they put into it. And every time this question is rhetorically raised on /tg/, when the answer is something other than a trollscore out of ten it usually has to do with the fact that 40K is open to interpretation just like any other fandom, and anyone looking for an escape into a hobby may end up taking it quite seriously regardless of whether its little painted plastic toys on a table or knitting.

What kind of behavior stems from that alleged seriousness is a question of individual temperament. Plus, some people are serious about comedy, hurr.

>> No.19382399

40k can be summed up with with the following:
Imperials rule, Everyone one else sucks.

If you like marines and to a lesser extent, Guard, you're going to love this game.
If you like one of the Xenos or Chaos faction, fuck you.

>> No.19383104

Those posts were a good read. Cheers.

Do you guys think GW will move the fluff forward in a significant way anytime soon, or ever?

>> No.19385751

That's tabletop or a face-value read of the fluff, sure. Once you go above the tactical level and start interpolating, you see a lot of possibility for something better.

Oh, and stop talking to Marinefags.

GW seems to be very happy making money by other means, like selling low-quality miniatures to people or marketing books that add detail to the history of the setting rather than adding information on the eventual fate of anything.

So no, not really. Meaning, feel free to do whatever with your own conception of it if you like, as mentioned here: >>19381553

>> No.19385772

>Oh, and stop talking to Marinefags.

Not the guy you responded to, but you say that like there's anyone else left... All the 40k players I know in my area, who have stuck with 40k and have not moved on to other games, are the marine/guard players.

>> No.19385822

There are a good number of websites with helpful names like DakkaDakka and HeresyOnline and all that crap that may contain individuals who aren't marinefags and will be willing to be bros.

Use that and possibly 4chan to find more non-marinefag gamers online or in your area. Or move to another area.

Or, for hardcore mode, inculcate new players into the hobby and give them enough information to allow them to choose to be something other than a marinefag if they wish.

>> No.19385849

Addendum - it is possible to be a marine/guard player without being a marinefag in the negative sense.

>> No.19387457

Bampan while I follow up on some more good shit to post in thread.

>> No.19387753

This is from an anonymous writefag and shows a side of Khorne not everyone likes or would accept, though it makes a good deal of sense to some.

The title is 'Brass,' or alternatively 'Kunning Khorne.'

Time stopped.

The old officer didn't. Years of training and muscle memory conspired to wheel his arm around and level his bolt-pistol on its next target.

He startled, however, when he saw the angry red light of the shot that would kill him. The world remained frozen as he stumbled out of himself. His body didn't move. The cultists didn't move. The fatal bolt didn't move. A shell from his bolter remained fixed in its tumble to earth, a beautiful pirouette of smoke marking its trajectory.

Circling the scene, he had to admire the angle. The shot would hit him right through his eyepiece. And that was when he felt the presence. Overpowering and coming from everywhere at once. He knew at once it was what had frozen this moment. And he knew at once it was of Chaos.

>> No.19387762


You know what I am. It wasn't a question.


I have watched you. I have not come to tempt you in this moment of mortality. You do not fear your own death. I know you are loyal to your Emperor. You will not turn from him for anything I can offer.


No, I cannot sway you. But I still have an offer for you.

He remained silent. The voice continued, each word seeming to reverberate through him.

Your life has been one of war. You were conscripted in your childhood, sent to die time and again, daring the front lines on a dozen worlds. Neither wounds nor age have slowed you.

"I do my duty."

Yes... you do.

>> No.19387772


You know what I represent. The countless battles you've fought, in not one have you faltered. You felt fear and overcame it through force of will. You cared for the soldiers under your command. Without hesitation you have laid your life on the line for that of your race.

You have served with honor.

It sounded like an officer at an award ceremony, now.

If you will agree to serve my ends, I will intercede and save your life. You would not need to join my flock.
You would not even need to do anything different.

"You know I can't trust you. You could be lying...or an agent of the Changer."

I could. But...that is the sort of maneuvering Tzeentch favors.
There is little deception in me.

The ways have changed. Less and less desperates turn to Chaos as the eons go by. Though your technology stagnates, its employment has been most effective. Things need to change for our continued survival. I need to change. Chaos as it is is dying. Does that please you?

It did, but he listened quietly.

You are the first I offer this boon, but you will not be the last whatever you decide.

And, with some satisfaction it added, I think not even your Changer will anticipate this.

"Why me?"

Wherever you have gone, you have answered the call to war. In your wake you leave only bodies. You know war, but you know honor, as I have said. As long as you live, you will continue to fight, continue to kill. Traitors, aliens, 'heretics...' it matters not. Exult your Emperor. Fight with distinction as you always have.

The voice fell silent. There was a long, long quiet. He thought.

"What must I do?"

>> No.19387788


One day you will die and your soul will be mine...but that day will not come for a long time, I think. You serve both our ends while you live. Speak the words, and be returned.

Sweeping over the preserved second one more time, he looked from face to face. The hate in the eyes of the enemy. Desperation and determination in his men. Fear in all of them. And like the eye of the storm, his own weathered countenance in the middle, illuminated by the flash of his gun.

He had so much more he could do. Rally his men, take this planet, then this sector. Beat them back to the warp storm they flew in from and leave shattered fleets orbiting it as a grim warning to those who would try again. And that was just to start...

Say the words.

"...Blood for the Blood God."

Time resumed its flow.

Report on the defense of Alstaire, Sanctus system of Segmentum Tempestus.
Casualties high, but tolerable. Enemy routed, remnants likely amassing for continued assault (see Scouting Report 15562; attached). Governor and Force Commander wounded on front lines; of note is his survival of an almost certainly fatal wound. A brass casing from his bolt-pistol chanced to very slightly redirect and absorb part of the laser shot, causing his eyepiece to take the full impact. Though this wargear was rendered utterly inoperable, and indeed, the Governor has lost the use of that eye, it is doubtlessly a miracle of the God-Emperor that he is not only alive, but fit to return to the battle almost immediately.
Thought for the day: Success is measured in blood; yours or your enemy´s.

>> No.19390202

Orkonomics, from some ancient thread in the archives:



The currency of the Orks is teef. We know this from before even Gorkamorka, though it was then that it became relevant. We know that the Bad Moons are the richest of the clans because their teef grow earlier, faster and longer; we know that all Orks grow and regrow teef at a fairly constant rate. We know that teef are an effective universal currency, since all Orks can grow teef for themselves or knock out the teef of the next Ork along. Due to the lack of medical sophistication inherent to a society where the most delicate tool is the choppa, and the prevalence of Orka Kola, teef cannot be hoarded (toof dekay). The number of teef in the universe has a direct and stable relationship with the number of Orks. Teef are a kurrency well suited to Orkdom. But why do Orks need kurrency?

What would an Ork want to spend their teef on? Gunz and wagons, of course (though that has problems in itself - see Mekboyz below). Food? There is talk of squig pies and fungus beer, but a Waaagh on the move will have plenty of 'umies to eat, and a Waaagh not on the move has Grots, Squigs, Snots and of course any Boyz who fall asleep without their shoota next to them. Perhaps finer culinary delights (dead cyboar stewed in its own lubricants) might take the fancy of Bosses, but to my knowledge there has never been anything said on Boyz living off more than the local fungus (mobile or not) and the slower Grots.

>> No.19390232



And why would an Ork provide food for teef when they could be going out and stikkin da boot in? Grot scavengers seem to be largely responsible for providing food to the Waaagh, and the type of payment an Ork would give a Grot is likely to be along the lines of "and bring me more umies or I'll rip off your uvver leg". This is not an outlet for teef, except perhaps ones broken on unexpected bones or bullets.

Teef are stable, and there are no teef to gain from conquest; Orks do not go to war for profit motive (nobody else has decent teef, with the possible exception of Tyranids, who have more teef than anything else in the universe. The encroachment of the Hive Fleets may well cause a devaluation of the toof, and severe damage to the Orkonomy, if anyone ever beats them). Orks go to war for war's sake, and do not so much care about the profit involved, although they will of course engage in lootin' once the enemy are all dead, and may well trade looted stuff to the Mekboyz. Orks gain pleasure from fighting, not booze, and there are no Ork women (women being the principal reason for economic activity in a race that features sexual dimorphism). The only real reason an Ork would have for spending teef is gunz. Just as Heinz meanz beanz, Gunz meanz Mekboyz.

>> No.19390244



Mekboyz are responsible for the weapons, vehicles and other equipment of the Waaagh. Mekz were programmed by the Brainboyz/Old Ones to instinctively understand teknologee (Orkish force fields, produced by untrained savages, are comparable even to the Necrons or Eldar) Mekboyz, too, are not driven by profit motive or by greed for food or booze. Their motivation is to outdo other Mekz and make the blastiest kustom shoota, the fightin'est Dread, or the zoomin'est (red) trukk. Other Orks trade them teef for their gunz and trukks, but what do Meks do with their teef? More scrap and more guinea-grots to continue with their work.

However, since a kustom blasta will sell to a Nob for far more teef than the bitz used to make it, Mekboyz make a profit on their everyday work. What do they do with their teef? Spend them instantly on more scrap. Mekz gradually get richer and richer, their schemes more and more insane and extravagant, from shoota to mega-armour to Dread to Stompa to Gargant to Great Gargant to Mega-Gargant, until they die from botched surjery or get blown apart in an unexpected explosion, and their machines are left to the Waaagh by logical, fair Ork succession ("I saw it first and I's bigga") and protected by the rigid codes of ownership ("get yer hands off or I'll frag ya, ya thieving gitz").

To the established Mekboyz, teef are almost unnecessary as a kurrency. Meks will happily trade gunz directly for loot and scrap. However, without the Orks' ability to produce their own kurrency, the footslogging Boyz would be unable to get their hands on shootas to begin with, and teef thus remove financial "class" in Ork society, replacing it with the far more natural hierarchy of kunnin' and who's da biggest.


>> No.19390258


Addendum and comments:

Aside from the obvious (like the poster being wrong or at least not demonstrating reasoning regarding economic activity resulting from interactions with the opposite sex), there are a few things we can add.

Mekboyz would most likely loose a lot of scrap and bitz to experiments gone somewhat wrong (because a huge-ass explosion is never entirely wrong). And then even more disappear as filings, burnt off, or just plain lost. As such, even if the teeth the latest shoota brought in more than well covers the cost of making it, there's probably another nine shootas spread around the area in the form of finely shredded (beyond any use) metal that he didn't get any teeth for. As such, there's most likely little risk of oversaturating the economy, such abundance will probably turn into a saturation of shrapnel pretty fast in most cases.

The fact that the stuff which works according to plan (well, kinda) usually ends up deployed in combat pretty quickly should help entropy along quite a bit as well.

Also, while a mek wouldn't mind trading scrap for items directly, there's always the risk of not having a suitable shoota on hand when someone brings in a pile of scrap, and it'd be a shame to have to turn it down just because of that.

>> No.19390430

On the Guard and the Astartes:

Title is "We Hold the Line," by YoungWritefag

Sergeant Major Ezekiel Echbar shifted his bulky frame uncomfortably in his jet black carapace armor. His light purple eyes wandered back and forth, pausing on some of the armored forms at the tables around him. He reached up with a gauntleted hand to scratch at his bald leathery scalp and sighed. He had sat amongst some of the great warriors of the Imperium for nearly three hours now, listening silently to the songs and sagas of the Astartes. They had been gathered by the Wolf Guard Varl Bloodfang of the Space Wolves, it was an ancient tradition of theirs, reaching back to the Great Halls of old Fenris. When the forces of Fenris gathered for Crusade, her warriors gathered to tell their tales, and they would invite their brethren. At first, he’d been surprised, honored even, that he would be amongst the tiny cadre of the Guard that would be invited. He quickly learned that they were merely here as a token representative, and not equals, as soon the Veteran Sergeant of the Imperial Fists on their left finished his long winded tale about the defeat of the Necrons on some God-Emperor forsaken world only for a Blood Angel Librarian to take up a story about the defeat of the forces of Chaos on another.

>> No.19390435


So it went for fully three hours, story after story, including some about rushing to the rescue of the Imperial Guard (and some humored grunts and veiled snickers), passed over again and again. A faint smile passed Ezekiel’s lips as an Imperial Fist Captain ended a march song about the birth of his Chapter. As a Blood Angel rose, so did the Sergeant Major, and before the towering Astartes could speak, he began “I am Sergeant Major Ezekiel Echbar, Kasrkin of the Cadian 13th Shock Troops, and I have served the Imperium with honor for seventy-three years. I bring the tale of the holding of Sarlax pass against the Orks.”, mimicking the prologues of the warriors before him. The helmeted Blood Angel, quiet, but obviously perturbed by the interruption, turned to the Wolf Guard. The grey armored warrior just shrugged and waved Ezekiel on. With a quick nod of respect to the old wolf, Ezekiel continued.

>> No.19390443


“The War had lasted three long years by the time we reached the pass at Sarlax, one of the secondary routes to the capital city of Forea. We had chased the Orks across that endless blasted continent, every inch stained with our own blood. They had taken this world from the Emperor, and he wanted it back. Intelligence kept telling us they were on the ropes, that any day now they would collapse, yet they never seemed to diminish in numbers.” The only other trooper of the 13th sitting next to him nodded solemnly. “We were within miles of the great capital, we could see it on the horizon, closing off one of the ways of escape. Tacticae told us not to worry, that this was a quiet sector!” Ezekiel laughed gruffly. “How wrong they were. Resistance slowly rose until we stopped dead and our Colonel realized we were facing down the barrel of a full blown Goffs war-horde. We were pitifully under strength, battered by the non-stop years of fighting. That’s why we’d been placed in the bloody sector after all. Our Colonel shouted, threatened, and begged for help, but there simply wasn’t troops enough available. The navy and the artillery corps promised they’d do what they could, but they couldn’t promise a miracle. Hopeless was the word they used, I believe. Our liaison did everything but offer fellatio to the Dark Angels accompanying the Guard, but they wouldn’t come. Too valuable to waste on a lost cause, they said.” Varl, seated on a huge wooden throne, let out a harsh grunt of a laugh. He half smiled at the Kasrkin, revealing a long canine that pushed past his lower lip.

>> No.19390513


“So we dug in and waited. The Orks didn’t take long to come for us. No more than a day for them to mob up. In the middle of the night there came a howl from their lines that will haunt me to my dying day. Even in the darkness we could seen an ocean of green rushing toward us. We let ‘em have it, every ounce of las and lead we had, we pumped it into them on the quick-step.” Ezekiel’s head dropped, and he shook it back and forth slowly for a moment. “It just wasn’t enough though. Our armored corps saved us the first time. We hit them with our tanks until they were all burning wrecks, blasted away at them until the barrels of our bolters ran red hot. Some of ‘em melted and warped, or fused right to the breach of the gun right there. We pulled the chain on every heavy gun within fifteen miles of our line, twice during the morning we had to drop shells on our own positions just to push them back. The navy came and strafed them, we had every aero-fighter in the theater of operations stacked up all the way to sub-orbital, and it still wasn’t enough. Eventually they had to call off runs because they couldn’t distinguish between our lines and the Orks. They said our lines were leaking like a sieve, if I recall. They just wouldn’t stop, when our solid ammo ran out, we gave em every las-round in the regiment, when our packs ran dry, we fought them with side arms, bayonets and rifle butts. When those were broken, we fought with swords, knives, Hell, even fists and teeth. I don’t know how we did it, must’ve been that miracle they were talking about up at Fleet. When morning broke the next day, so did the Orks.”

>> No.19390517


“Let me tell you, we sent for every bit of firepower we could get a hold of, and on the plain of Sarlax, those Orks burned, and we cheered. We cheered and cried and thanked our God-Emperor for his deliverance, but that was it.” Ezekiel paused for a moment, before turning slowly to look each of the previous speakers in the eye as he said, “No one wrote us any songs, or poems, nor made any great works for OUR victorious dead. No, we reloaded our weapons, buried our dead, and marched on. Because we’re the Guard, we do our duty. We hold the line.” Ezekiel stood silently for a moment, before returning to his seat amongst the assembled guardsmen. Some of them looked at him in disbelief, others off into space, one had his head in his hands, mumbling something to the Emperor about a quick death. Ezekiel just sat, facing the assembled Astartes. The silence only broken when the grey maned Varl grunted, pointed to the quiet Sergeant Major and said:

“Haarkon, get that man some Ale.”

>> No.19393274


>> No.19393370

I'm always surprised when people who consider themselves 40k fans don't know the 40k intro by heart. I guess I shouldn't be, now that so many 40k fans come in through the vidya, but every core rulebook ever has had the same intro blurb. Black Library have a few different versions, but the rulebook one remains the most compact and thematic.

>For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium, for whom a thousand souls die every day, for whom blood is drunk and flesh eaten. Human blood and human flesh – the stuff of which the Imperium is made.

>To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold trillions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. This is the tale of those times.

>It is a universe you can live in today – if you dare – for this is a dark and terrible era where you will find little comfort or hope. If you want to take part in the adventure then prepare yourself now. Forget the power of technology, science and common humanity. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for there is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter and the laughter of thirsting gods.
>But the universe is a big place and, whatever happens, you will not be missed...

>> No.19393434

>The Imperium is not a nation, it is a church.
>It is not run efficiently or logically, it is run in the sacred ways.

Copy those lines out until they make sense.

>> No.19393444

Well, they never will, because they're wrong


>> No.19393511

>Arguing about the shittiest, most illogical fluff ever published

>> No.19393523

Imperium =/= Humanity

The Imperium is a corrupt order that bounds humanity to a path of self destruction. It is the cage that robs humanity of its freedom and bars them from achieving their true potential.

To rescue humanity for its sorry fate, This order must be cast down and the cage must rendered asunder.

>> No.19393657


Do a tired anon in the middle of an archive extraction operation a favor - if you're going to harbor hostile views in here, do it by posting the best writefaggotry you can find that supports your viewpoint instead of raising the postcount with this sort of arguing until the thread autosages.

Especially you, TIDF. If you know your Tau lore, you'll be able to find a succinct and polished gem relating to Tau being noblebright that actually makes them interesting rather than marking them as out of place. Come at me, bro.

>> No.19393674

The Adeptus Terra is called the Priesthood of Earth because it is the Priesthood of Earth. The Ecclesiarchy is the branch of the Priesthood that communicates with the masses and maintains their loyalty via the Imperial Cult.

>> No.19393681

Although, amusingly enough, you're half-right. It is run in RITUAL ways, as a ritual is anything undertaken to hold one's existence together in stable fashion.

Going to work on monday is a ritual. Cashing your paycheck friday is a ritual. Putting groceries on the table is a ritual. Anointing the engine compartment's moving parts with sacred unguents so that the Machine Spirit will more easily flow through the holy components of the tractor is a ritual.

>> No.19393721

Although they don't preach as the Adeptus Ministorum does, the other branches of the Priesthood exist to enact the will of their god in the material realm through various careers of devotional service- that is, by being priests. Adeptus Arbites serve their god by enforcing His divine Law. Adeptus Mechanicus serve their god [in his Omnissiah guise] by caring for His children the machines. Adeptus Custodes serve their god by serving their god. Adeptus Astartes serve their god* by killing things dead. Adeptus Terra, the plain old gray-robes Administratum kind, serve Him with paperwork.

*not to go into the whole 'do the Space Marines worship the Emperor' debate, but it's clear that they do, varying from an ancestor-worship capacity to a He-is-our-only-God capacity.

>> No.19393749

Sorry, I found an opening and could not help myself. Taking cheap jabs at the Imperium are my favorite pastime.

So let me get it straight. you want me to pull evidence of the goodness and righteousness of the Tau?

Very well, here is proof of the Tau fair treatment of the Gue'vesa'la as a start.

>> No.19393756

In the ranks of the Adeptus Terra that stand further from the God-Emperor, you get into Officios and Collegias and Departmentos, whose members are are mostly lay people in service of the Priesthood. They don't get the spiffy title of Adept, but they work for the God-Emperor nonetheless.

>> No.19393780

Planetary Lords occupy a gray area. They are authorized to act as the Emperor's proxy on their given world, but act mostly independently of the Priesthood, albeit under their watch. They pay their tributes to the Priesthood in exchange for the services that the Priesthood provides. To the setting's purpose as a wargaming backdrop, the most important service the Imperium provides to its members is of course military protection.

And that's Imperial feudalism.

>> No.19393817

That's nice. Do you have a story to share or are you just here to patronizingly explain obvious shit cribbed from Lexicanum?

>> No.19393862


>you want me to pull evidence of the goodness and righteousness of the Tau?

No, TIDF, I want you to regale us with the VERY BEST writefagging you know of FROM /TG/ that is about the Tau and is less than fifty pages long, as mentioned in the first post, wherein I said,

"Help me out, /tg/, I need to ease the passage of new players into [the fluff of] 40K and so I come to you for interesting content to put in front of them."

>> No.19393870

See, your scraped-together evidence that the Tau aren't a bunch of assholes is only useful to people who are arguing against it from a position that by its very nature requires at least rudimentary knowledge of the fluff.

I am trying to bring people into the hobby. As such, what I need is what you'd use if you had a friend you wanted to bring into the hobby, but it needs to be short and very high quality for maximum impact as overcoming 40K's reputation as a shithouse is difficult at times when everyone else is reading Ward and Goto.

As for whether Tau are awesome or not, I can't say I have a stake in the fight. I've seen you in a heap of other threads before so I expect I'm quite well versed in your position. It is a more or less internally consistent position, but then so's Rienmann geometry - it's what you use it for that gives it value beyond being erroneous or not.

Show me your grasp on awesome Tau writefaggotry, TIDF.

>> No.19393949


I apologize. My head is spinning from my sleep deprivation. I simply can not focus.

Anyways, I have never ran across any Tau content on /tg/ other than a vast assortment of pictures of scantly clad pseudo-Tau females. I am afraid this is full extent /tg/'s creativity when it comes to the Tau.

I could try to write something, but it will not be ''great'' or breathtaking (In fact it will be laughably horrible!). So I retire from your thread and apologize again for your inconvenience.

>> No.19395902


>> No.19395977

Oh right, that. Well, if you want a story...

"…now the Master of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica shall come forward and consult the Emperor's Tarot to establish the agenda."
"Let it be done," the chant rang out.
The ancient psyker, hunched under the weight of his arcane technology, stalked forth onto the floor. Circled by the spiteful eyes of the other eleven High Lords and that grim statue of the Emperor's effigy, he drew in his breath. At his waist he unclasped a small box. He could have commanded it to automatically shuffle, for each psychically-attuned card could play the role of any other, but the demands of tradition bid him take the slow path.
Drawing out the packet of liquid crystal wafers he set them out on the small, flat-topped podium. He split them into stacks, cut them twelve times each for the High Lords and once for the Emperor of Mankind, and gathered them back together.
Then, with another intake of breath, he drew the first card, placing it delicately on the ancient tabletop.

>> No.19395987

"The Emperor of Mandatio!" cried the sycophant, and the cheer went up. In the Council of High Lords the Emperor was always the first card to reveal itself. On that card, a wizened figure locked in a prison of gold, the Overlord of the Imperium, the Master of Mankind. Whose divine overwatch surveyed and foresaw…
"Absolute control, the authority to rule over men! Blessed His name, and His Will be done!"
Four to go. Another rasping breath. The tubes in his nose were chafing. He laid the next card in place.
"The Star trump!" cried the sycophant, and the lords looked up from their displays and documents. The Star was new beginnings. Second in the order, it could only mean that the Emperor willed a new endeavor to begin. On the card, a burning protoplanetary disc, a vortex of violence and potential.
"Creation, undertaking, new beginnings!"
Three to go. Another rasping breath. His nose hurt. He drew the next…

>> No.19395995

"The Savage of Excuteria!" cried the sycophant, and the lords were truly interested now. There were mutters of 'Crusade?' and 'Invasion?'. Litanies against the alien, the mutant, the traitor fluttered through the chamber like parchments cast out of a high window. Across the card the greenskinned Ork prowled forwards, and off the edge- and another alien entered the plate, less familiar by far. Another still. An unending procession of the Emperor's foes paraded beneath the psychoplastic surface.
"Conflict! Problems!"
Two to go. Another rasping breath. The Master of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica was bleeding now. It trickled down his nasal tube and away, under his high collar. Drops of blood rolled across his tattoo-drowned chest. He turned the next card.

>> No.19396000

"The Destroyer of Adeptio!" cried the sycophant, and the eleven lords were craning their necks. The Lord Commander summoned messengers to prepare for the impending crusade. The Fabricator General clicked in the tongue of servo-skulls, and his personal flock departed to ready the forges. Nobody saw what the Inquisitorial Representative did, but they were sure he that he had done something. A warship in decked in gleaming heraldry, roaring through space…
One to go. Another rasping breath. Finish the circle. Read the spread. He reached out…

>> No.19396010

"The Space Marine of Adeptio!" cried the sycophant, and the gasps went round. Orders were cancelled. Some Lords rose to their feet, others sank into their chairs in silent prayer. A Chapter Master in his offices, tending to the affairs of his army...Not in living memory had…
"The triumph of mind over matter, of willpower over the threat!"
"…The Master of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica interprets," he said.
He gazed down at the ring of cards. The Emperor gazed up at him. Not in living memory…
"The time of a new Founding has come! His Will be done in the mortal realm as in the Immaterium!"
And now at last he could retire to his chair and his attendants could wipe the blood away. He turned, unconcerned with the jubilation and determination that had overcome the chamber. His task was done.

>> No.19396027

For the greater huge good!

Anywho, I agree.

There doesn't seem to be a lot of Tau writefaggotry, sadly. I think fleshing out the Tau would be excellent, they are quite the curious race, and to see everything from their point of view would be interesting to say the least.

>> No.19396054

I think the Tau are dull and incongruous with the rest of 40k.

>> No.19396065

I don't think all of 40k's boring.

I love the half-truths, the lies, the rumors, the odd tales.

That and I also love the mechanicus, can't go wrong with them.

>> No.19396082

One word.

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