suffer my presence

Holding Up A Titan

The primarch of the Word Bearers had fallen. His armour, once red and engraved with scripture, was an ashen husk of charred plate. Cracked and weeping skin showed around the patchwork spread of bleeding burns. Not a patch of skin was left untouched. He didn’t rise from his knees. He didn’t lift his head. He did nothing at all. ‘He’s dead.’ Ellas spoke softly. ‘Fire again.’ Delantyr breathed the words. ‘Fire again.’ ‘You bled the core,’ Kei replied. ‘We’re plasma-starved.’ ‘Fire the suppressing tracers. Three bursts.’ Ardentor’s anti-infantry bolters spat their tracer fire at the prone primarch. The first burst chewed glass, spraying fragments everywhere. The second two punched home in the scorched armour, blasting the fallen Emperor’s son onto his back – a vessel of cooked, punctured meat. ‘We just killed a primarch.’ Kei swallowed. ‘We just killed a primarch.’ Delantyr’s grin showed almost every tooth he had. ‘Crush him. Leave them nothing to bury.’ Ardentor walked. Its backwards-jointed legs hammered down on the steaming, downsloping glass, breaking it underfoot as it staggered down into the crater. When it reached the primarch’s body, Ellas raised the right claw-foot, and steered both control levers to slam the limb back down. The Warhound shook, unbalanced with one leg in the air. Great gears in the war machine’s knee and hip protested with rough, mechanical coughs. ‘Get the leg down,’ Delantyr ordered. ‘Finish it.’ Ellas gave the control levers another wrenching shove. ‘Something’s obstructing us.’ Kei lifted his targeting visor again, looking out of the Warhound’s left eye-windshield. He took a slow breath, and glanced back at his princeps. ‘My princeps? The World Eaters in the ruins… They’re cheering.’ The bleeding demigod had torn his way through the ground, giving voice to his resurrection with a bellow nothing short of ursine. Gore sheeted him, painting him in dark, rich red wetness. He threw his axes away, ruined and never to be wielded again, and breathed freedom into his lungs. It smelled of melted glass and felt like sunburn. ‘Lorgar.’ He spat blood as he said the name, rising to his feet at last. The Word Bearer lifted a scalded hand, not for aid, but in warning. Angron had no time to lift his mutilated brother, sprawled at his feet. The sun went dark, as dark as night falling in an instant. He turned, raising his arms, and took a god-machine’s weight on his shoulders. Every muscle in his body locked tighter than the iron trying to crush him. Drool stringed through his metal teeth, skinned knuckles white as he defied the will of a Titan. He gave a bear’s roar as the foot lowered another half-metre. Sinews crackled in his shoulders. His broken boots skidded back on the patch of unglassed rock; something cracked in his spine, something else cracked in his left knee. The compression of his bones sounded like twigs breaking underfoot, which was a vivid burst of imagination he didn’t appreciate. But he could hear his men cheering. He could hear them howling as they killed, and crying his name. He blinked to clear away his sweat’s greasy sting, and dug his boots into the ground. With a smile slitting across his broken-angel face, he shifted his slipping, blood-slick grip on the Titan’s clawed foot, and started pushing back. ‘Lorgar.’ Angron spoke in something that wasn’t quite a growl and wasn’t quite a laugh. ‘Get up. I can’t hold this forever.' ~Betrayer, by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

"Sneaky midnight reel that nobody will see, just so instagram doesn't Exterminatus on me, but makes me happy because it contains some pretty #toxic men I have been drawing.

Gotta archive them somehow.

we're looking to create an AI policy, and when we were talking about this, my boss (older millennial) was genuinely shocked to hear that younger people do not (seem) to view AI positively (a la the recent commencement speakers being booed)

please rb for larger sample size!

Question 1/3

Thank you for helping with this data collection. Please rb for as big a sample as possible!

VacHammer40k

Also known as, 'let's pack these lunatics into a bus and send them on summer vacation on modern day setting.'

So here is what we are working with: Bus? Check. Lunatics? Check. Absolute chaos to come? Check.

Now some in depth screenshots, because this is a lot. I drew 19 people. I deserve some credit solely for that. Some of these quotes are inspired directly by the amazing post I linked above.

So now what else you can expect from VacHammer40k? Stupid mementos and photos of these fools I will draw and post over the summer. I don't have exact schedule planned, but I will try to draw few drawings each week to show how their vacation is going and in what shenanigns these dudes got themselves into (and man, do I have ideas!)

All this bullshit will be posted under VacHammer40k tag, until I will make some proper post with links (maaaybe?)

🪱⚜️💀Yo John S. Human Person the 100% human guy Not 6 Million Brain Eating Aliens in a trenchcoat wants more daisys.

Also YEAH maybe more simple comic style is Also good for some Things, saves me from drawing WORMS—

Imma be out for some days, peace✌🏾

Giving them a new pot isn't enough anymore, go cook for them! Asshole!

And what a blow it would be. The nigh-insensate guardsmen hadn’t been good for much intel, whatever chemical weapons had been used on them had reduced them to catatonic, babbling fools. But what had been managed to glean from them was that a Daemon Primarch had been amongst the enemy forces that had taken the fortress. And so the strike team was mobilized as quickly as possible, before the capricious creature moved on.

No guards were posted, or if they had been, they’d long drifted away to the revelry that could be heard within. A lucky break. It was easy to slip in a side door unnoticed. Silencers on bolt pistols and CQC takedowns of already distracted enemies kept the team’s passage through the halls quiet and unnoticed.

Until.

They had swept into a darkened, quiet room. The soft hum of machinery was the only indication it was in use. Several cooking ranges, walk-in cold storage, and pantries indicated a kitchen of sorts. It was mostly untouched by the fortress’s new occupants, though a wine cabinet had clearly been plundered recently. The strike team leader indicated in battle-sign to take stock of equipment and ammo during this brief reprieve.

And then they heard it. A creak of floorboards, a squeak of hinges as a door opened. They froze. There was no time to find cover. An unnatural hush fell over the room, as if the machines themselves feared the approach of this new presence. Moonlight streaming through a window glinted unnaturally off a pair of eyes too large, too far off the ground, to be human.

He shouldn’t have been there. He was supposed to be dead.

Konrad Curze.

The Night Haunter.

An earthy, herbal scent followed him, and his gaze seemed to bore into the very souls of the frozen intruders. Surely this was the end. Surely this ghost would leap across the room and destroy them in an explosion of gore. He stared. They stood.

And then… He turned away. His back hunched and gait shuffling in a room too short for him, he made his way to one of the cold storage chambers and opened it, reaching in to extract…

A bottle of milk. Twisted the cap off. Drank half of it. Put it back.

And then he simply turned and made to leave.

He paused one last time at the door, though, and turned his head to look over his shoulder at the strike team, a terrible, sharp-toothed smile stretching over his face.

First claw boys, really really rough sketches! 🦇 (Close-ups under the cut!)

Big old cat with bed hair

Like imagine you escape your nightmarish home planet via a highly romanticized job that provides for all of your needs, but you're stuck with a gene-father who's

-basically 9ft Self-Righteous Richard Ramirez

-extremely mentally ill and growing worse by the minute

-filled with nothing but seething contempt for you and your brothers (partly justified as you guys are the fucking worst)

But you're indoctrinated with a combination of Imperium propaganda and trauma bonding to constantly seek your abusive fathers validation, so you carry out his fucked shit on command and become universally reviled for it, including by said father.

Then your father decides to destroy your planet and secede from the Imperium, which you have to go along with. What are you gonna do? Stop your nightmare dad?

Now you and your god awful found family are truly isolated; your only options for companionship are various horrific weirdo Chaos Marines and whichever creepy unstable assholes you got stuck with in your company. Well, also your dad, who is still very much a 9ft tall mentally ill guy who despises you.

Then an already bad situation shits the bed further when you lose the civil war, your dad decides to do suicide by cop and your legion fractures into a hundred scattered companies.

You're pretty much just a goth pirate now, which sounds dope in theory, but absolutely isn't in practice.

Everyone hates you, you're stuck with the fallout of your dead dad's decisions, you can't revert back to normie life due to being a homeless transhuman freak fugitive, you can't ditch these losers to switch to a new legion because the Loyalists will execute you on sight and joining up with Chaos means being enslaved by demons.

You have no plan, no purpose, no central leadership, your people/culture are an endangered species; it's just you and five shithead creeps floating through space until someone finally manages to chop your head off with a power sword.