This might be the start of a Dreadwing and Ironwing force for Horus Heresy.
I've recently been inspired by the lore for both the Dreadwing and the Ironwing, with this particular Praetor being a member of the Order of Broken Claws, the order that has the knowledge of how to destroy the Rangda.
I know that there is little information of what happened in the Rangdan Xenocides. They do list that the I Legion and the VI Legion fought, with a possible appearance of the XX Legion, as well as both of the lost legions. With the total extermination of the Rangda, save for the Slaugth who continue to exist into the 41st millennium, the casualties were wiped from the records and it is plausible that the Rangda were responsible for the destruction of the two lost legions as both the Space Wolves and Dark Angels lost considerable numbers and the Ultramarines became the largest Legion.
“And the skies shall rain molten fire, and the seas will boil with the blood of sinners. And thus shall it be known as the Second Advent of the Angels of Death.”
- Judgements 5:16, the last prophesies of Gjall the Unwise.
“And the Workshop of Games shall release a spray-based Paint, of the bone-white of Wraith, and it shall thus foretell a paint scheme much improv’d.”
- Judgements 5:22, one of Gjall’s lesser known prophesies.
Almost two years after the last Deathwing Terminator, it’s been so long that GW came out with a new spray paint perfect for the boys in bone. The new recipe is similar in technique to how I do my Star Phantoms: Wraithbone primer, washed with a 1:1 mix of Agrax Earthshade and Lahmian Medium, then drybrushed again with Wraithbone paint. Can’t say I’m 100% fond of the old granite-and-snow basing, though - maybe I should do dry grassland, like with my Harakonis? Anyone got any good recommendations for basing Dark Angels?
I just re-discovered my Fallen Warband and I am just gushing about it at their fluff write-up.
The hellish shrieks and inhuman cries of the xeno-tainted offended Mordred’s ears. In the lower district of the mine-gangs’ territories, the King’s Bane moved in a murderous pack for the unaltered slaves recently claimed by these things. Their whining was close but first - these beasts had to be dealt with.
Genestealers, they were called.
Clever infiltration of spliced generations and alternated humans seeded by the things beyond this galaxy. Things of extragalactic horrors to many, another footnote to the bestiary to the Dark Angels who have beheld the wilds of Caliban. The monsters there were a constant evil and one that a true knight was destined to destroy - or die to.
Mordred hasn’t decided which fate was his yet, even as he - black-armoured of calibanite thorn and surcoat of a blade-sundered crown - moved with the fluttering tethers of his cloak. His one constant companion in clawed grasp, the Barbary Sword, hummed darkly for the xenos’ ichor since their last battle. Soon, precious friend. His beaked helm moving in quiet consideration. The wet sweat of the mined cavern has slowed.
Brother Gerallt drifted, holding his flamer in its warped blaze. The idol of the Many-Eyed Griffin perked on his power pack and pauldrons, silver and etched of the sacred oaths and wretched curses against the Unforgiven for their betrayals and hypocrites, suddenly twisted its tongue-poking beak at the shadows and shrieked a horrid cry of denouncement with burning eyes exposing one of these Genestealers to rebuking shine. Its jumpsuit and carapaceous flesh seared with its cry of pain, causing to shuttle like a wounded spike along the rocky surface.
Around the Bane’s Men, the monsters attacked with savage agility.
There was no fear from these transhumans, blessed by their Knight-Champion, who hollered an oath of triumph with his sword’s blaze burning an amethyst flame as it swung in meeting to a robed savage limbed of four arms, each holding a blade or wild whip. The first mighty swing cleaved a blade in two, turning about to catch a cracking scourge. The strength in this creature was impressive, almost dragging Mordred forward before his power armour’s surging strength added onto his for a driving yank.
Driving the creature onto his blade. Effortless as softest bread, his weapon cleaved from rib to spine. Ichor splattering onto wargear, defiling it with such disgust but Mordred paid little heed as he lifted his plasma pistol at the wild things about.
Bolt after bolt wounding most and killing one of lacking agility. “Brother Gerallt, burn these creatures!” Mordred commanded while driving the still fighting beast on his blade to the ground and twisted, the Black Lion devouring its soulstuff with a chuffing feast. “Glory onto Caliban!” The zealot cried, whipping his blazing weapon out while their battle-brothers kept their dark discipline of boltfire for a fair control of what entered their blades’ reach and what didn’t.
The smell of cooking chitin and meat hitting for the astartes’ nostrils but the armour of the Fallen Angels remain steadfast in their ancient duties of the Great Crusade ages past.
Brother-Veteran Aeon whipped his chainsword in dazzling skill fit of the ancient Luthurian Knights, catching one genestealer’s sweeping talons just behind its fingered joints and rending the creature of its precious weapons in the same motion of turning another’s head into a flying mist of close-quarter gore. The gastropoda motif slimily resting around gorget and pauldron like a fur-collar, pierced with fetishes of profane favour with its antennae twitching in its wood-carved appearance. This close, even these xeno-thralls tasted the fear of inevitable death under the devouring of maggots and flies and caused a corrupting withdrawal from a number of these things, their backs open to bolterfire while comrades screamed and danced in warpfire.
Next to him, chainaxe chewing a genestealer arm to arm, Brother Byrn stomped and ensured his prey dead despite the obvious. Bullish helm shaking side to side to pierce the haze of battle’s desire, shoulders popping in their roll and dry clip dropped from his bolt pistol while his scarred armour steamed as if from internal heat. “They run but not for long.” His voice sounded stranded and disgusted like teeth clenched together, bloody of surcoat and weapon but he kept an air of control to the Red Bull’s tribute.
“Wise words, Brother Byrn.” Mordred said, his weapon swiping of callous lethality to the last of the beasts. One sweep across the shoulder to underarm, another from hip to hip and a driving arc that uplifted the thing into a spiral of bloody parts. “We move quick and close, these monsters are not easily fought.”
"And the skies shall rain molten fire, and the seas will boil with the blood of sinners. And thus shall it be known as the Second Advent of the Angels of Death."
- Judgements 5:16, the last prophesies of Gjall the Unwise, exiled by his witch coven for heresies against the Dark Gods. That the coven was promptly routed, then wiped out by an Unforgiven task force is considered something of a poetic irony.
My paints have arrived at my new Japanese home at last - time to kick it off with some Deathwing using the Space Marine Heroes range! I’ve also got a tiny force of orks over here for Orktober, but I’m hoping I can have my main Speed Kult army shipped over too. Teacher work’s been hectic but I’m glad to be back in action!
Also, 2,000 people now follow me. Why so many of you people think my stuff is good, I’ll never know.
Terminator-Sergeant Satariel has become the second member of the Mk.II Deathwing. About time, as it's been a year and a half since I painted the first one...
