Jul 23
Listening to pink noise this morning has got me thinking of a low level blank character who psykers like to stand around because their aura cancels out warp noise when it’s really bad.
seen from Bangladesh
seen from United States
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seen from Germany
seen from China
seen from United States
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Listening to pink noise this morning has got me thinking of a low level blank character who psykers like to stand around because their aura cancels out warp noise when it’s really bad.
He loves he staff (his names smittles and i love him <3)
3D model/print by; Rubot_Emiliu on cults3D
“Why, why does my dream… hurt?”
Icon of Moriarty my Male seer psyker (my most played character/ first character i made he makes up about 1200 hours of playtime out of 1500 in game lol)
I guess you could say hes my most BELOVED character (im very funny)
I have 27 more of these to do for the different characters.
This took six and a half hours but im super proud of it!!
Next up is Leontes my Male maul arbitrator.
'Voidborn noble'
🕷 Arachne loredump (subject to tweaking) if anyone is interested. 𓃠
The artful hand of a quiet child grew less and less. Days of dancing, of singing, of promises waned. The floccose paintbrush between her fingertips, the pen writing her stories, the honeyed songs from her lips, the lavish of beauty.. a wither below unrest. A fear a young girl could not comprehend.
She began to display true psychic potential months prior to her departure - an unending tingle along her brain, paranoia she couldn't shake in floating, weaving conceptions. Predictions of now, she would realize. A heat in her fingertips, an eyetwitch inducing headaches according to sour thoughts..
The night she fled is hazy. Of her father's callous words, of his fist in her shoulder, and the girl's own arising tension. It was before things could quite register - he was on the kitchen tile clutching his skull, shouting, the blood in his veins broiling near lethal. She trembled, stepping back while clutching her garb and left everything with haste, even her siblings behind. She was afraid - afraid of what she had done, what she was.
They searched for her. She knew she couldn't face them; their thoughts flooded her mind, assaulted it with their intentions. Enshrouded by a hair, the newly rogue mutant lurked the shadows of winding alleys until their calls faded.
A shrewd street rat she became; from teen to adulthood, she slinked from apprehending hands in paranoid steps. She traversed from thieving upper hives to roving the filth and bankruptcy that was the underhive of Branx Magna.
When she wasn't sticky-fingered and hidden from the naked eye, she found herself further lacking under the law. When things became especially dire, Arachne would find herself coming back to offer herself to those at her level. For gangs, the tormenting pinch of her fingers at best and the crush of her fist to airsqueeze windpipes at worst to punish the gang's renegades did her well. She would always wince, always feel shame. Entertainment in utterly humiliating fashions that exploited and watered down her abilities, if she were asked. The true lows, however, were most assuredly scouring the industrial planet's sewer systems and feasting upon sump leeches.
She viewed the desolation she lived amongst with growing indifference, after a point - a slither of moroseness along her brain that she could drown out, one way or another..
No money once more, she took to shelter below debris. This was just another group of hooligans, quite rudely approaching at that. Arachne, in the midst of writing her newest form of escapism in tattered parchment, jolted to life when an inked hand slapped her shoulder to attention. An offer upfront, a 'recommendation' to her. The gig was running an underground stim trade.
Arachne was never quite given the impression she was 'one of them,' so to speak, even roaming amongst them. At first, it was a mere round of unsteady income, of overstimulation, of boisterous discord from the throats of feral creatures who had no sense of coordination or volume.. she was soft, frail. Always in the back, always silent beyond snide remarks. One particular woman had seemingly bewitched her one late 'party,' if one could call it such. Arachne's attitude was curt, uptight and distant - yet the hand pulling her in felt gentle, for the setting. She was offered a dance under the amber with a stab of a needle into soft ribmeat. Arachne yelped, yet felt herself grow warm... "Yvone."
They met again. A murmur about her peculiar tattoo of an eight legged penumbra in ransacked showers and a jab to not remember an arrogant psyker's name grew to a dynamic. She was no better!
Was it love that bloomed? Love shying from physically intimate, yet teetered on it so thinly. It stung of great pain, yet a heated feeling in her cheeks that she couldn't quite deny. Hugs, whispers, yells, odd gifts, stabs of needles, hazed delirium.. the paintbrush against canvas, writings, songs all for the ganger. Her psychal abilities expanded, flourished. Biomancy, pyromancy, telekenesis faulty, but present with concentration. She felt more comfortable front-lining their scraps, even if it ended in scars and bruises.. she would be patched up just right. She began to feel like one with the pack. Arachne would even awaken after an especially intoxicating evening with a new, albeit infected back neck tattoo.
The bloodied tooth dropped in her hand after a rather nasty fight she would comment as revolting. Yvone had never given her a gift back.. she pocketed it.
The point of arrest was fleeing after an exchange of goods had gone awry. A trap. A cloud of limbs, of shrieks, of bloodspill and crimson glow. As they ran hand in hand, she was stopped in her tracks by an abrupt yank. Arachne could only look back in time to watch with consternation while a cyber-mastiff chewed the howling scum to a paste of viscera in mere moments - the severed appendage dangled in a shellshocked Arachne's hand, one she had arduously attempted to pull into her. The warmth of carnage spattered her, stuck to her curls, a metallic rivulet down her gaze.
It was all gone, again. Arachne stood, her mind finally fracturing. Buzzing and tight.. tighter, tighter. She couldn't breathe. The witch crumbled. She clawed her head in agony, in breathless tears. Suffocation. Agony.
Arachne suffered psyhic phenomena in that moment. She channeled a daemon, warping her features grotesque and shrieking out with enough pierce to harm anyone in vicinity.This performance frightened the Arbites before her into brutally concussing her into an awaiting abyss.
When she drifted to under the warmth of flourescence, dread gripped her frailness. The psyker hugged herself and shivered in the darkness. The end would never come, even as she sobbed for it.
Her teeth felt serrated, nails felt brittle. Her skin felt tight.. somehow amiss. Her sclera was left aberrated and bloodshot, pigment as deep as the ink on her back.. arachnid. She was right - her name didn't matter. Not anymore. She was a changed woman.. at least she felt so. Arachne abandoned her former congomen. She could do little more than lie there in the Tancred Bastion.
.. And still, it was far from over. How the woman with little militia experience, who had near met her end every day after recruitment, pained groans filling the storm raptor, has made a gradual climb up The Mourningstar's ladder as far as she has with her smug and teasing attitude in this new bleak reality is unbeknownst to her beyond a fuel of spite and a sneer of indignation. She had indeed flourished every day. Days that hardened her with every new scar along her cracked porcelain.
The exhibit of her psychal ability now becomes near frightening at times; the artful hand serves useful on the battlefield, after all. The raven mutant conjures grotesque and horrific images into the minds of her foes, a twist of her hand and she drinks of life essence, to the sensation of sightless spiders crawling beneath the enemies' flesh and rendering them floorbound, the boil of blood and bursting of craniums, her song of sunburst and eruption of flames and the psychic maelstrom released with a shriek. She shrouds her companions, whom she may feel some tenderness to, a wordless caveat of approaching horror in her soulsight while the vivid winds of Shyish swirl about. Her power can be denied less and less - she conquers from a once helpless whelp.
The makeup embellishing behind flowing curls of deep mocha are gothic and intricate. After all, she has experience in trading with gangers - one fellow particularly had taken a liking to handing supplies. Some days she sits upon the cell floor and scribbles, others she muses, paces. A hum can be heard - soothed and deep.
my pair of darktide OCs and chibi humanized Orikan!
Seer Psyker Aurek and his bodyguard skitarii DOS-147 who believes the delusional psyker to be a speaker of the Omnissiah. (he isn't entirely wrong).
Orikan I just designed for fun, I don't rlly have a headcanon for how Necrontyr used to look like so I wouldn't call it that.
can't offer more than random sketches, I'm recharging a lil
commission for @jewishevilxisuma !!!!
Darktide Psyker and the Emperor himself!
thank you so much for commissioning me once again <3