#manus

[knightofleo]

Christian Angel Artorias vs Manus, Starscourge Radahn, Ranni the Witch, Malenia Blade of Miquella, Queen Marika The Eternal, Base Serpent Messmer The Impaler, Rellana Twin Moon Knight

[menaslg]

Artorias vs Manus

[iron-peebo]

@primarchpenissucker's Iron Warrior OC Manus has found a small creeture in da machinery... >w>

(I PROMISE I can draw men who don't look like Jerma clones I POMISE;;;;;;) Intro Manus fic: Here! he a good boi who loves robots and is too autistic for the Iron Warriors' internal politics. His scars are from getting too close to moving components and weld sparks, he doesn't really have many combat injuries >W<

[primarchpenissucker]

I went and wrote my first OC thing, it's about an Iron Warrior named Manus who is strangely Iron Hands flavored for a son of Perturabo. He's got a thing for machines. Check out his intro here! It's an experimental piece I wrote from @handedsanitiser's advice to try putting some OC stuff down and not stressing too much about making a completed piece.

@viceroy-jericho @chaos-dumpster-fire @riemann-zeta may be relevant to your interests :333

(story pasted under the cut / about 1000 words)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was a curious name for a Legionary, Manus. One he’d chosen himself, for what did it matter who he’d been before the Trials? The secondborn son of an Olympian tyrant, ill-favored in comparison to his silver tongued twin, a scrappy little thing from the underground fighting rings… By all accounts, he was a fiery young lad who had somehow not been chosen in the Tithe.

They hadn’t had the chance. Manus had volunteered.

The geneseed took well to his body, rendering him broad and strong as he came into adulthood aboard the Iron Blood. Silent amongst his brethren unless provoked, he was an unremarkable Astartes by all accounts, adept in the tasks he was conditioned for and loyal to a fault. He seemed to take peace in it, being pointed at things to kill without having to try and be anyone else. No, Manus had named himself hand for the very fact of what he was – the long and merciless reach of his Primarch across worlds uncounted.

Combat was where he truly came alive. He favored the chainsword and power fist, tearing foes apart with precision that seemed mindless to the untrained eye. Force and grace in beguiling combination served him well in the dueling cages, honing his body against his brothers in prayers of violence. Often could he be found tussling with his fellow legionaries, returning their harsh words and errant japes in the language every man and beast understood.

Handyman, they called him. That was the kindest of the names. For when Manus was not going about his duties, he could be found amongst the servitors, serfs and adepts of the repair decks deep in the ship’s guts, welding all sorts of scraps back to life. How he loved the machines. The complex, scintillating beauty in the crisp arithmetic of their make. The perfect synchronicity of a hundred thousand components singing life into metal. An exaltation of humanity’s technological achievements over millennia, all in service to the Emperor. Manus looked upon hammered iron plate encasing fiber-bundle muscles as a mother might behold her newborn child, and only the machine-tongued of the lower decks did not mock him in his rapture.

He looked at a set of Cataphractii plate the same way he looked at Perturabo. Or was he just admiring the Logos?

He’s in Forge Bay XII today, clad in his steeldust habit of hessian and mail links over his bodyglove. Unarmored is how he best likes to spend his time amidst the automata, feeling their power beneath his bare hands. His pale fingers splay across the smooth chassis of a Domitar-Ferrum, tracing a hazard stripe down into the clean weld-seam of its brass trim. An Artificer kneels nearby with a tray held aloft, bioplastic cerebra and nervelike tendril webs coiled in magnetic compartments. Near the construct’s head, a Techpriest’s servo-arm rhythmically swivels to and fro plucking at the wetware with fine mechadendrites, lasering the connections of its cortex.

The Domitar’s spirit had lain dormant since its last battle, and Manus wanted to be there for its awakening. This was a sacred thing after all, this rebirth. Several robed adepts of the Legio Cybernetica stand in a line to his left, humming binary numbers through their grilles. Bathing him in warm static that fills his brain with a pleasant numbness, like circuits tasting current for the first time. He closes his eyes in reverence and sweeps his fingers back across the automaton’s chestplate.

Heavy, cloying incense coils from swinging censers swathing the Domitar’s prone form. Manus luxuriates in it, in the sharp, sweet scent of rosin aiding the techpriest’s soldering and the comforting headiness of oily, metallic solvents.

“Not too long now,” he murmurs, hearing the chanting rise in pitch and fervor. “There you go. Come back to us.”

The chestplate shudders beneath his palm and a low, resonant thrum climbs through the deck plating, vibrating into his bones. One of the adepts calls a binary string and another answers it. The censer swings in a final circle. He feels the minute expansion of plating as systems pressurize, and then… the Domitar’s lenses flicker. Steady amber blooms to life, the spirit within present.

A smile graces Manus’s lips. He dips his head in benediction.

“Welcome home,” he breathes, sitting back on his knees and gazing into the construct’s lenses with utmost pride. “I knew you’d make it.”

The adepts file out in quiet procession, their work complete. The lead Techpriest follows without a word, knowing better than to linger when this particular Legionary takes interest in a subject. After a moment, the Artificer trails after him with a curious glance back at the kneeling Iron Warrior.

Manus doesn’t move.

The Domitar's systems are cycling up around him, its soft internal chorus filling the bay. Coolant moving through channels, gyroscopes orienting, the low magnetic hum of its weapon mounts running diagnostics. He listens with the patience of a man hearing a beloved piece of music after decades of bolter fire and screams.

The amber lenses track to him. Slow, considering.

He raises his hand, and the construct's gaze follows it.

“There,” he says softly. “Good.”

He doesn't know how much it remembers. The Techpriests had been cagey on that point, as they always were. Proprietary knowledge, sacred mysteries, the usual deflections. The wetware was largely intact, they'd said. Largely. He'd sat with that word for three days following the battle that had felled a construct he’d never seen fall before.

He reaches up and lays his palm flat against the side of the Domitar's head. The metal is warm now where it had been cold, humming faintly against his skin.

The construct makes a sound. Low, structureless, somewhere beneath language - not Binary, not anything with edges to it. Just sound. Just presence.

Manus feels something unknot in his chest.

“I know,” he says. “I know. Take your time.”

He stays like that for a long while with his hand against its temple, listening to it breathe itself back into being. The incense thins to a familiar stillness. Innumerable worlds writhe and burn across the galaxy but in here, there is only this. The warm chassis, the amber light, and the slow and patient work of returning.

Eventually the Domitar turns its head, just slightly, into his hand.

Manus closes his eyes.

[omercifulheaves]

Dark Souls - Manus, Father of the Abyss concept art

[en-snygg-mastertjuv]

Den bortklippta födelsedagsscenen

Okay, guys, EXCITING NEWS! Jag har fått tag på en kopia av manuset som användes under inspelningen av Tidstjuven, och var förstås särskilt intresserad av den famösa födelsedagsscenen. Tyvärr visade det sig att scenen inte finns med i manus. Faktum är att det inte finns ett spår av den: i manus säger Clint att han inte vet när Bengtsson frågar hur gammal han tror att Bengtsson är.

But never let it be said I’m not persistent in my obsession. Jag lyckades till slut även få kontakt med regissören Calle Åstrand, som visade sig vara världen snällast människa, och som berättade att scenen tillkommit under inspelningen och bara funnits nedtecknad på en papperslapp som inte längre finns kvar.

Men! Han sammanfattade scenen för mig (som sagt, världens snällaste människa):

Scenen gick ut på att Bengtsson har snott en bit prinsesstårta och ska fira sin födelsedag. Clint kommer till hans gömställe.

”Fyller du år?” säger Clint och tittar lystert på tårtbiten.

Bengtsson nickar.

”Grattis!” säger Clint.

Bengtsson tittar ner på sin enda tårtbit, sedan mot Clint. ”Vill du ha?”

”Jaa!”

Bengtsson ger bort sin tårtbit. Clint trycker i sig den.

Tanken med scenen var att visa att Bengtsson börjar bry sig om någon annan än sig själv. Samtidigt som Clint litar på honom helt och hållet.

(Det här är ordagrant återgivet, men jag har lagt till radbrytningar och citationstecken för ökad läsbarhet.)

Det vi vet sedan tidigare (eftersom Simon J Berger berättade det i Morgonstudio-intervjun 23/12) är att Bengtsson också påstår sig fylla 28 år – han fyller 28 VARJE år.

Det verkar också som att scenen var tänkt att placeras tidigare än jag förr spekulerat om, men eftersom jag fortfarande inväntar eventuellt ytterligare information i frågan så avvaktar jag med att försöka gissa mer just nu. To be continued!

[ivyjinna]

Anyone going to watch this New Year movie? I heard it’s quite good, plus Artorias will attend the premiere 😌