You know it's a damn shame and crime there's so little written about Vulkan both novel AND fanfiction...that said while I cant storm into GW or The Black Library and demand justice for him I CAN write a story set during the Second Imperium where he gets the love he deserves
irritating as fuck when people get mad at Black people existing in premodern historical fiction/fantasy media. like first of all, you're racist. and second of all, you are acting as though Black people didn't exist in premodern Europe which is simply false. especially when we're talking about the Mediterranean, like what the fuck do you people think is along the southern half of the Mediterranean Ocean?? everyone's on boats, there are GOING to be interactions with Black people in Northern Africa, and there are GOING to be Black people in Mediterranean Europe. stop being stupid. your imagined homogeneous white European past is not historical reality, get over it you massive losers
Another fandom paradox: you might get something that’s practically porn featuring the characters from a canonical story, but there’s still no content for the ship.
Reasons? Who knows… (I know, actually, but I won’t say)
Dante and Tu’Shan have an amazing, sensual story. (I’d want to devour that man too; I get you, Dante.)
It’s hard to even list all the kinks they cover. One of the youngest masters and one of the oldest. A refined Dante with a thirst for blood inside him, and the huge soft Tu’Shan, who’s willing to obey. Ugh, too hard (me)
I just remembered that there's a whole series of jokes about this on Old Earth` (I mean weapon naming)
+
Lumak laughed, shouldering a depowered Medusan zweihander.
‘You should name that blade,’ said Nuros.
‘It has a name,’ Lumak replied. ‘Sword.’
‘No. A better name. A war-name.’
‘How did you even know I was hefting it?’
Nuros stood a few paces ahead of the two Iron Hands captains. His grin
broadened, a dragon’s smile.
‘I heard it scrape your guard. The metal is thrice by thrice folded. It’s an
alloy, hand-worked, a smith’s work. Well forged. All of that together
with the inscription carved into the blade provokes a particular resonance when struck just so.’
‘Are you showing off, Nuros?’ asked Meduson.
The Salamander held up his thumb and forefinger, pinched a half-inch
apart. ‘Only a little. What about Cleave?’ he asked Lumak.
The Avernii paused a beat to consider it. ‘Rather blunt, isn’t it?’
‘Precisely the opposite.’
+
‘What about Bloodtooth?’ he said across the vox, taking his leave of the
bridge and signalling the warriors in his retinue to follow. More awaited
him in the launch bays. Pyroclasts. Last of a dying breed, he thought.
‘Is something wrong with just “sword”?’ Lumak’s voice replied from
another ship, the Gorgon’s Will, several hundred kilometres away in the
Warleader’s fleet.
Nuros scowled, running along one of the spinal corridors that led down
to the launch bays. At least the Saurod was a relatively straightforward
ship, he reflected, as the first salvoes from the Sons of Horus cruiser
smacked against the hull. ‘No art, you Medusans. No poetry. Too
prosaic, my iron-hided brother. I shall suggest another.’
+
Vanquish, that’s a good name,’ he said, barrelling through the last
ventral corridor, hunched against the close confines of the ship.
Emerging through a blast door, the space opened out at once into a
frenetic launch bay. Sirens blared, warning of the imminence of attack
and of repeated damage sustained. Announcements crackled over the
vox-casters, broken and indistinct.
‘A tad presumptuous, perhaps,’ conceded Nuros, ‘but all the best names are. Hyperbole, that is what you need to reach for, Lumak.’
The Avernii captain grunted with disdain, and severed the link.
‘Do I hear reluctant agreement?’ the Salamander asked
+
Nuros glanced over Lumak’s shoulder.
‘Is that sword of yours still going to be unremembered?’ he asked.
Lumak scowled. ‘This again… I yearn for death,’ he said, turning and setting foot on the ramp, ‘if it means an end to your ceaseless nagging.’
Nuros followed close behind. He stooped into the tight confines of the
troop hold, lowering a grav-harness across his shoulders and chest. As
the engines trembled, a low rumble presaging a much louder roar, he
turned his head slightly, just enough so Lumak could see the many
honour scars branded into the side of his face.
‘What about Wrath? Wrath is a good name.’
+
-Tell me…’ he rasped with profound difficulty, spitting up dark red
flecks with every breath. ‘Have you named… your sword?’
‘I name it Firedrake,’ Lumak said, with more conviction and
vehemence than he had felt in a long time. ‘In honour of the fallen, and for a bond of brotherhood that runs deeper than blood or Legion.’
Nuros smiled, then was dead.
Gahh, I've been too busy recently! Hoping in a few months I'll have some more time for my own projects.
Until then; I painted this portrait of Sir Morien a while ago. He was yet another badass of the Round Table, half-brother to Sir Percival, and could deflect spears and arrows with his sword in the middle of combat, like a frickin' medieval jedi.
I've seen a lot of wonderful art from these beautiful people: @hayum30k @sashaholler-ml . I decided to draw Vulkan and Roboute for my Au. However, I haven't finished painting Robout yet. Let it be a little surprise. I'll update the post later.
Blah blah `autistic child who doesnt know this and that about human things`.
Sinew of War, Darius Hinks. --->
I was five and my father had taken me hunting. I knew why. Even then I could read people as easily as I read the military treatises in Deucalis Library. My father had seen me watching his generals and magistrates. He saw how I despised them. The greatest statesmen of the greatest city were idiots, blind to the most important resource on the planet - their own, needlessly oppressed people. They were fools and tyrants and, even aged five, I wanted to tear down the whole, hide-bound edifice. My father felt the same, I knew he did. But my place in Macragge was precarious and he was too wise to risk my life on a point of principle. So he took me away, to a place we both loved, to the cold, beautiful foothills of the Crown Mountains where we could breath clean air and ease our fury by scrambling over rocks and scree. Away from the Senate, my father dropped the pretence that I was a normal child and we hunted together as equals. He laughed, as he always did, at the sight of my unfettered strength, proud of his strange little son. But then, when I saw him fall, grimacing at a gash on his arm, a dreadful truth hit me.
We were not equals. We never could be. My father was not like me. The man who taught me about life was not destined to live. The flash of crimson on his tunic stalled my breath. One day, Konor Guilliman would die. He would leave me behind. Leave me with the fools and the tyrants. In that moment I became the child I usually only pretended to be. Tears filled my eyes and I placed my hand over his wound, wishing it away. He laughed, shaking his head - not in mockery, but reassurance. He took out a coin and handed it to me. His face was minted on one side and Consul Gallan's was minted on the other. He closed my hand over it, squeezing it tight.
"Feel its strength," he said. Strong as I was, I could not crush the metal. "The coin is Macragge," he said, "Beautiful and unbreakable. Made to outlive us all. And while there is a Macragge, I will be with you, Roboute. My virtue is the virtue of Macragge. My strength is the strength of Macragge. This is not just my home, Roboute, it is my soul and it is my family. And it is your family, too. Macragge will endure. Macragge must endure. And as long as it does, you will not be alone."
+ + +
I noticed an odd aroma in the air, bitter and chemical. It seemed worryingly familiar and I scoured my memory, trying to recall when I had smelt it before.
Then I saw movement on the floor near Gallan, near the burning tapestry.
'Watch out!' I snapped.
He backed away and we both raised our guns.
I gasped as I saw a man, crumpled on the floor like a piece of broken furniture.
'Father!' I howled, shaking my head. 'No!'
We rushed towards him, but he held up a warning hand and we stopped a few feet away, both whispering curses. His ornamental cuirass was punched full of holes and his robes were drenched in blood. His leg was bent underneath him at a sickening angle and his skin was scorched and blistered. Worst of all, though, was the dark line at his throat. It looked like a second mouth, wide and leering, dribbling crimson threads. He gasped, trying to breathe, colour draining from his face.
I dropped to my knees, reaching out to him. Again, he waved me away, desperate warning in his eyes. He tried to speak but only managed hideous bubbling.
For all my strange gifts I could do nothing as he slipped away, choking on his own blood, gripping his throat and trying to sit up. I tore some of my cloak to wrap it around his neck but he pointed a pistol at my face, fury in his eyes.
'Who did this?' I gasped, but he did not seem to register my words.
When I stopped trying to touch him the anger left his eyes and he tried to reach for something on the floor.
I grabbed it. It was a coin. It must have fallen from his robes when he fell. I tried to give it to him but he shook his head, indicating that I should close my fist around it.
I gasped as I understood what he was doing. He was reminding me of that day in the mountains. The day when he handed me a coin and promised I would never be alone.
'No!' I howled, but he was still pointing a gun at me, refusing to let me approach.
Gallan put a hand on my shoulder but I shrugged him off, gripping the coin so hard it buckled.
For nearly a minute, my father lay there, gun pointed at my head, warning me not to touch him. Then his stare hardened, focusing on somewhere only the dead could see.
Hi everyone, I'm quite new to the Warhammer universe, and this is my illustration of Guilliman. I incorporated some of my own redesigns into the character's details. I've uploaded the high-res image to my ArtStation, so feel free to head over there for a closer look. Hope you all like it, and thanks for the support!
This is one of the most beautiful, adorable, gorgeous portraits of Roboute in this fandom. He looks just like I imagine him. Mature but young, handsome, but not too perfect, full of life. Amazing work.
