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Ork Painboy Wazgrom Bonestompah

The ork stumbled out of the Painboy’s makeshift surgery rubbing his freshly attached arm, blood still leaking from the stitches. Wazgrom Bonestompah looked on, satisfied with his work. “Dat dar iz some lovely work i fink”, he thought to himself. “Oi ya lazy little git, get back ta work!” Wazgrom kicked the gretchin at his feet who yelped and scampered away, picking up bloodied tools up off the floor hurriedly. 

The orks had been camped here for several weeks and were starting to get rowdy with inactivity. Several fights had broken out with today being the worst of the injuries. Wazgrom had reattached several limbs, a head and in one instance had to fit a kustom claw to one of the Nobs. Needless to say once he came to he was right back into the fight with his new toy.

Wazgrom thought back to the last time he had this much trouble with the boyz. He remembered the time several years ago when Da Big Boss came in hollering about his arm, smashing heads of his boyz that couldn’t find it anywhere. He had finally given up in a rage and came to the Painboy for assistance.

It took several boys to hold him down with leather straps whilst Wazgrom attached a right proper Klaw with down right nasty flamer attached. The teef flowed that night, and Wazgrom became rich overnight the Boss was so happy with it.

The noise of fighting grew louder and one of the gretchin jumped up on Wazgrom’s back holding a needle sticker in anticipation. Wazgrom looked up at his trusty Kustom Klaw, stretching out each digit making sure everything was working before the boyz turned up. One of the knifes was a bit stiff. “Might haf ta get da Mekboy ta hav a peek later”, he thought.

Ork Painboy

Suffer Not The Xenos To Live

The rain splattered against his battleplate, the drops running down his bare head and cheeks. He watched as the blood of his slain xenos enemies mixed in with the mud, the fluid draining out of lifeless, twisted bodies.

“It had been so easy”, he thought as the energy fields crackled on his lightning claws, blood and fragments of flesh sluicing off the blades. Like wheat before the scythe, the Eldar had fallen one by one, the pitiful bunch. 

He knew they didn’t stand a chance, having fought their kind before. These were lowly guardians, their weapons no match for Astartes battleplate. Three jagged slices out of his leg armor were all the evidence of resistance from the weak xenos. 

He looked down at one of the Eldar, his torso severed from his legs and wondered why he and his brothers had even been called to this world. Surely the Imperial Guard could have dealt with this pitiful excuse for an invasion.

Suddenly a strained voice, barely audible above the deluge reached the warriors ears. “You have doomed this world”, the dying Eldar snarled. The warrior walked over to the prone xenos, a sneer of hate across his face. “The only thing doomed is your wretched race”. Before the xenos could reply, the warrior stamped on the Guardian’s face, crushing it’s skull. He shook off his talons of the filth and blood and made his way back to his brothers.

Suffer Not The Xenos To Live

Ecclesiarchy Confessor Adric Rhyne

Starting out his career as a humble preacher in Hive Decius, Confessor Adric Rhyne tended to his flock with great zeal. It was in the solar year 756.M41 that an outbreak of the deviant Confederation of Light, a heretical sect of the Imperial Cult broke out of hiding in the lower Hive. His faith threatened, Confessor Rhyne whipped up the populous into a great frenzy to help eradicate the infidels. He was successful in his shaping of the citizens into an effective fighting force and subsequent eradication of the Confederation. The eye of the upper echelons in the planets Ecclesiarchy saw fit to promote Adric to Confessor.

Notable exploits include exposing a decadent chaos cult of Slaanesh within the nobility of the Hive. Stopping the summoning of a cursed daemon of the warp by a deranged low level psycher. Breaking the back of numerous heretical uprisings through out the hive and maintaining the flock in the lower hives.

For several years he stood as a high-ranking noble’s adviser, but was cast out of the role after exposing a minor transgression of a powerful relative of his master.

In his crusade against the forces of chaos, the Confessor bit off more than he could chew and ran into a formidable cult of Khorne. Lucky to escape with is life, his desperate fight for survival meant the loss of his hand to a fanatic’s sword. His lesson learned he decided never to enter a den of evil alone. Training his most trusted followers, he bought them each a suit of protective armor and dubbed them the Crusaders of the Veiled Word. His hand now gone and replaced by a crude mechanism meant his fighting prowess was severely diminished. It seemed to the Confessor that divine intervention was bending his stiff back and showing him the way of brotherhood.

Confessor Rhyne has carried on his role as an enforcer of the Imperial Cult, preferring the surrounds of the lower hive to the spires of its rulers. With him he carries a holy book of the Imperial Cult and his ever-present icons of purity. He denounces the enemies of the Imperium as the Crusaders of the Veiled Word hack them to pieces in the name of the Ecclesiarchy and the Emperor.

Confessor Adric Rhyne

The First Angel

The angel of the First looked on at what his brothers had wrought. Desolation as far as his genetically enhanced eyes could see. A wisp of smoke drifted lazily across his vision. It’s meandering tendrils a stark contrast to the swift violence that was carried out just hours before. The angel turned his head to watch a building crumble under it’s own weight, it’s structure riddled with battle wounds. Dust splayed out from the devastation as the rockcrete grinded against itself in its descent.

He and his brothers had laid waste to this forsaken planet in the name of the Emperor. Their duty had been performed with precision and an unwavering determination. The cursed enemy were defiant to the end, those known as The Brethren of the Golden Strain. Tainted by the insidious xenos genestealers.

There was no hope for this planet. Once its defense systems fired on the angel’s vessel the planet’s fate was sealed. No mercy was expected and certainly not given. Control of the defense systems meant all levels of the planet had been corrupted by the xenos plague. Therefore all had to be purged. An attempt to preserve industry and infrastructure would be made but the priority was eradication of the cancer that infested this planet.

Eventually the angels had made their way to the governor’s palace to execute those in power. Twisted abominations had met them. Hulking monsters with crude weapons. All had been slain. The governor himself, riddled with mutations was executed without ceremony, despite his pleading and protests. At the last he cursed the Emperor and the angels. He was cut short as the angel stomped on his head, spraying brain matter and skull fragments across the rich carpet.

And so the angel stood and contemplated as explosions rained down from above, destroying the last of the buildings. None would be left living here. In the centuries to come this place would be rebuilt to become a productive member of the Imperium once more.

Warhammer 40k The First Angel

The Choking Wastes of Avoxos

The unceasing wind howled around the nameless warrior but he remained still as a statue. His outward appearance a deception as he scanned the horizon vigilantly for any threat that was foolish enough to show itself. It was his duty and he did not waver from it, for that way lay death.

They came to this planet 13 days ago after a distress beacon was picked up via the ship’s Astropath. The raving, disjointed messages made no sense but came with a Magenta level encryption and so the war host saw fit to investigate.

They arrived to nothing and no one. The planet appeared deserted, but signs of life persisted. A half drunk caff here, a cache of food here, but no people could be found. That was until the first night when the horde attacked. Mindless men, women and children interwoven with shadows. Their staggering charge no less dangerous for its slowness. The Librarian said they were tainted by the warp. Tainted or not, they died like any other enemy with bolt and blade. The morning came and the horde retreated to the wastes, shrouded by shadow and dust.

The warriors came upon the monoliths in the middle of the wastes and it was there they found the source of the madness. Shifting shadows drew out from the monoliths, twisting and striking. A claw here, a hand wielding a knife there. To look on them was madness, as several serfs found out. Like the horde, they were systematically terminated by the warriors in battle plate.

Full of dark energy, the monoliths towered over the war host. Each day brought changes to the seemingly immobile stone. A movement of hand here, a change of face there. Today one held a stone man wrapped in chains, a soundless scream frozen on his lips. Where yesterday they had faces of maidens, today they held menacing skulls.

But worse than the shadows were the unceasing whispers. Even the stalwart chosen of the Emperor were taken by them if they did not remain forever vigilant. The nameless warrior did not mourn his lost brothers, for they succumbed to weakness and that way lay destruction. And so his unwavering faith protected him and still he watched and waited for the night when they would come again.

warhammer 40k

Crusader

The Battlecruiser had been screaming through the warp for 9 weeks, eager to reach its destination. Just as eager, the battle brothers of the Black Templars inside it were preparing for war. Fervent prayers to the Emperor echoed out through the corridors, contrasting with the ring of steel as warrior sparred against warrior.

Brother Dietrich of the Crusader Squad Demies stalked through the corridors of the Battlecruiser lost in thought. He and his fellow Initiates had just attended the daily sermon of their company chaplain after which Brother Dietrich felt the need to walk the halls. Soon the sounds of his brothers died away and without realizing it, he had made his way to areas of the bowels of the ship where his brothers rarely tread. The warrior passed terrified serfs, caught by surprise by the towering Initiate. Many of them cowered in the corners as the warrior passed, some whimpering, some whispering prayers to the Emperor, some just stared in awe. The soldier paid them no mind, they being beneath his notice.

Thoughts raced through his mind. It had been several months since The Barbarossa Crusade had been fought, and he and his brothers were hungry for meting out the justice of the Holy Emperor. The Cruxis Crusade was just outside of their grasp, the physics of space and time delaying the slaying of witch and hated xenos.

He closed another air lock and stopped, resting the butt of his battle axe on a storage container. The cramped corridor felt oppressive to his colossal bulk. The incense from his censers rose to his nose, calming him and silencing the turmoil of his mind.

Just then klaxon alarms rose and the overhead lights turned a sharp red. Brother Dietrich raised his head, a fervent smile across his face. His power fist clenched involuntarily. At last, he thought. The Black Templars were going to war.

Black Templars Crusader
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