#path to glory

[primestartes]

The Lady of Rothelm Fortress

In her rise as Nurgle's vessel, she has become a powerful and deadly warrior-sorceress.

[phelanw0lf]

Enjoying the hell out of this third hand metal Daemon Prince resuscitated for Age of Sigmar play. I got it with the wings epoxied on, and then I swapped the head with a spare Goroan from the Theridon kit. Acrylic and oils. Should varnish it up over the weekend.

[chaosprinceundivided]

Bozhidar Gluttonclaw, Slaaneshi Champion of Rulek

A former warrior of the Kislevite Ungol Kindred, long - like many of his fellow countrymen - a enemy to the forces of Chaos in its many hideous forms for most of his life. He was apart of an expeditional company seeking the head of Throgg, the Troll-King. However, instead they met the hideous horror of daemons dancing in the cold winds.

He never beheld the evil that led the fae-dancers in true, only its tall monolithic shape as it twirled and twisted. Blade in hand and long pincer-claws like its minions, tearing through his kindred apart. Man and horse alike, war bears gutted and fellow soldiers taken in moaning pleas and screaming horror.

He himself escaped from the kneading fingers of a daemon wearing the face of his lover, cutting her bosom and lips poisoned by ichor that flow in his cursed veins even now. Bozhidar was lost in a blizzard, his body fighting through while his god's death cries quaked the world.

How he did not freeze, he never understood. Only that he was founded and dragged into a cave by goatmen while the daemonic blood cursed him with a growing madness that stemmed more by the dark chanting and whispers done by the goats' shaman, beholding a vision of a great gargoyle of a monster.

The Slayer of Ursun himself looked down upon him, transformed and terrifying. However, something else - greater, malevolent in its mercy - rested its elegant fingers along the Slayer's shoulders and whispered into his ear. It wanted him, desired him like a lover wanting a new pet...and to Bozhidar's eternal damnation, the Slayer obliged with a claw to tear the screaming Kislevite's sanity.

It had been years since, and years more in the hellish lands in the Far North, a man of Kislev returned to the mortal world as an exalted champion of Slaanesh. More and more transformed each time he was beckoned from his Path to Glory.

A caprine-faced champion mutated to little recognition, from the carapaced-wrapped claw flexing of his former left arm to the peering fangs glistening for a bounty of his next victim's ichor. The hunger gnawing at his gut, pushing him further in the rapturous demand of the Dark Prince with a warband of beastmen and cultists follow at his heel.

Gluttony burning in his eldritch-enlightenined eyes and the quiet envy of those lucky enough that day to have died, unaware of the torture so many of them still suffer under the daemonic allurers of Silverspine.

[thatonenerdydog]

Our mini PTG is on the go!

Starting off with two rounds between Lucky's Skaven and Kyle's Disciples of Tzeentech.

Round 1, FIGHT!

Game 1, Lucky conceded after the first battleround after most of his clan rats were decimated.

Game 2 lasted four battlerounds, with Lucky taking the first turn each round. Kyle still came out on top though after a tough time working through the hoard.

Game 3 is being played tomorrow, between Rob's Ossiarch Bonereapers and the Skaven, and game 4 between Kyle and my Nurgle aligned Slaves To Darkness.

[writeronthego]

Originals are the ones who are best at judging the process rather than themselves. There are times when we get inclined towards an idea. We get too attached to that idea such that we often feel that it is way too cool and in no way, there is a chance that it might fail. We start to jot down the plan and we feel that the plan can no way fail. But soon there is a stage when we don't get the required results. Soon we start to get the unwanted results. During such times, we consider ourselves to be ineffective. We start to believe that we are not efficient and effective enough to achieve that goal we set for ourselves. That we don't have what it takes to walk that path. Sooner or later we give up and someone else realises the destiny that belonged to us. But the reality was that the path wasn't sustainable enough. It was the methodology and not the person that had to be changed. I feel that originals are the people who care for themselves, who don't judge their instincts. They follow their instincts blindly and the path they are walking is feasible. I believe we shouldn't judge ourselves but the approach we are having. Just find your instincts and that's the best path you can ever follow. Do watch the video above.

[licnbright]

@slytongue

With the late summer breeze caressing the fair cheeks of the wild locked witch; chocolate diamonds stare out at the scenery that was Hogwarts’ land. She had been in this era for much longer than expected, she was trapped here. With her time turner broken; she was forced to remain in this timeline until she could produce a new one or repair her old one. She had entered the school under the alias of Hermione Camillo, sorted into Ravenclaw Hermione was at a loss on what to do now that she was stuck fifty plus years in the past. But it did not end there for the witch, she had befriended the unlikeliest of people. Tom Riddle, and Abraxas Malfoy. It was strange to her, seeing the dark lord in his youth and being on really good terms with him…

For the moment….

Hermione stood on the stone bridge way with her eyes fixated on the scenery. How did she managed to get into such a mess, especially with the dark lord. An exasperated sigh escaped through her nostrils as she gripped the ledge of the bridge; the sound of the bells indicating it was time to gather in the great hall ringed loudly in the back. Hermione removed herself solemnly from the temporary solace; she used a quick spell allowing her to apparate outside the great hall. Glancing around her gaze took in the students filing in; Hermione moved swiftly heading towards the Slytherin table to join her two friends there.

She was grateful that it wasn’t ever frowned upon for students from other houses to sit at the feasting tables of other houses. After all, it was encouraged to improve relations between houses. Hermione found Abraxas sitting across from no other than Tom; she took the open seat beside him and whispered her soft hellos to the pair. Her eyes flickered towards where headmaster Dippett stood with a great smile on his face. The school year had literally just begun a few weeks ago; Armando Dippett clapped his hands trying to gather everyone’s attention.

“I have an announcement. At the end of this week, we as a school will be departing Hogwarts for an adventure like no other. We shall be heading to another wizarding school for a very special event; however, I will not be revealing what this event is until we arrive in our destination” He exhales with a bright smile, the words made Hermione’s face pale as she quickly realized exactly what was occurring. It couldn’t be. She had to be mistaken right? It was banned. A small huff escaped her lips as she murmured to herself. “Ridiculous. There’s no way…” Could they really be heading to another school for the Triwizard tournament?

Hermione knew the tournament to be banned till 1994, so why were they reviving it? Unless she was mistaken and that wasn’t the event they’d be leaving for. Hermione’s eyes twist to the pair and she speaks to them. “I have an idea on what the event may be.” She says with a serious gaze her voice hushed so it was low enough for only their ears. It was strange being apart of their group. Being around him. Being close with him. Especially since she knew the man he would become, but then again their relationship was built mostly on a lie. He knew her to be Hermione Camillo, a half-blood. But she was certain he had figured the truth out long ago and chose not to say anything about it.

Her friendship with Abraxas, however, that was a genuine surprise. Especially with how his son Lucius and his grandson Draco acted towards the muggle race. Abraxas was someone she felt she could trust. Someone she could confide in. Even if she hadn’t confided in him in regards to her being from the future. She was determined to keep it to herself; she could not risk the timeline or order of things. But, the thoughts had crossed her mind. What would her future be like if she managed to prevent Tom from becoming that infamous man.

Her eyes met with Tom’s dark gems briefly; those gems that could capture her in so many ways. Tucking back wild locks she looks to the pair. “Have either of you heard of the Triwizard tournament?” She whispers softly wondering if they had heard of it, but if her hunch was right and it was the Triwizard tournament they’d be attending. Would either of them try to compete as a champion?

[khornashflame]

The Path to Glory

Restarting this blog and advancing it with a more story-driven directive.

The Warp-crackling sky slashed and roared in fury of the Youngest Prince, flamboyant arcs and spitting acidic rain fell from the world’s skies. How could this happen?

The rain touched onto his bloodied face, he barely felt the offensive liquid roll like pearls upon the sizzling cuts and knuckle-dug pits in the once flawlessness of his flesh. Eyes staring up into the sky in utter paralyzation. Not of cut nerves, but wounded pride and flabbergasting shock. He couldn’t feel his biotic legs, they were sprawled elsewhere. One still trying to move by the last command he gave it, clenching and unclenching its bladed talons still thick of gore from his last kill.

Multi-colored sanguine rolled into a spreading pool under his arm. He has not seen this much of his own blood in many years…

Vopi. Vopi the Magnificent. The Son of the Incubus. The Master of the Host. The Champion of the Fox-Prince. Perfection Flesh-Engineered. The Vat-Treasure. The Peacock of Slaanesh.

Defeated in such absolution since the duel of that insufferable Word Bearer by - not of a Thrall of the Corpse-Emperor or a Champion of the Ruinous Four - a forsaken of the worst kind. A Centurion of Pallid and Abyss. An Ultramarine, Vopi knew the smell and arrogance all too well, who have forsaken everything.

Now, laying on his back and barely able to lift his own body with his useless power pack, Vopi could crane his head just enough to see his Father’s chosen champion do battle with this manthing. This exiled Ultramarine moved with a blank skill, the way his dual-coloured cape swished and swung. His power gladius meeting blade for blade with a Terminator-clad astartes or moved in controlled, methodical techniques that matched an Emperor’s Child of the Great Crusade.

For the first time, Vopi tasted something. It was revolting as it was intriguing. It bittered his tongue and twisted his stomach...was this fear? Awe-stabbing fear of seeing an enemy that outmatched him? To cut the majesty of his wings and destiny like a spider’s web by a godforsaken finger?

He was frozen as the Gilded Minotaur fought with thousands of years’ worth of experience and prowess, the one he believed and aspired to match one day. The astartes who stood next to his Father and trained him brutally to become a swordsman worthy to one day surpass even the Immortal Lucius. Rarely have the Minotaur been so hardpressed.

He was motionless as a clawed hand grabbed at his armpits and pulled his weight like a stricken child. The bodies of his host around, massacred and beaten with bodies of their enemy. These twin-coloured foes that he had never seen before, they caused a hate unlike any other to rouse in Vopi. He couldn’t hear his squawking hatred and roaring curses under the storm. He wanted to kill them. He wanted to kill Him.

And this vow was sealed for the last thing Vopi seen was the Minotaur’s sword arm cleaved from the elbow, the exposed joint caught in one majestic feint and the gladius deprived his champion before going for the killing strike with one inverted colored plasma gun under the chin.

That deathblast rang even now in Vopi’s ears. As he stood over the bodies of the Emperor’s Thralls, feeling the rain pelting on his sullen face and scaled hood. The wind plucking at the cloak and war-skirt. His remaining wing hung around his waist, its talon hooked on his silver-strands of chains with the skulls of past champions dangling. Their souls trapped in corrupted spirit stones, wailing for freedom. Their pain only gives a temporary soothing.

It will not pass till Vopi the Magnificent had his vengeance. The violet-clad champion turned to the remnant of his humbled host. A squad where there was once a company’s worth, augmented by a half-squad of Havocs, and a trio of White Scar bikers that sworn fealty to him not too long ago. The throbbing beats of Noise Marines standing onto a cliff’s side, heralding the praise of Slaanesh to this region. They have claimed this and more will come.

Yes. More will come.

[helvetikuu]

@ensiferummetal Path To Glory Tour 2018 @Z-7 (hier: Konzertfabrik Z7 Bleibt - support page)