A few weeks ago, I got another game in with my Sisters of Battle. This time, it was against the same Blood Angels player whom I had fought a year or so ago in an Apocalypse game. I am never one to turn down a rematch, and so we agreed to a 2000 point game to test out the new bolter beta rules that had been printed in White Dwarf.Continue reading…
The skies above Dontoria Hivesprawl had been smothered in a blanket of thick smog for as long as anyone could remember. Biochemical effluent, manufactoria burnout, industrial exhalations and the smoke of thousands of unsanctioned sump-fires had long ago created a noxious shroud of yellow-brown pollution that settled like a second skin over the centuries, staining buildings and streets alike in yellow corrosion, seeping into ground, water and people’s lungs alike, and smothering away the sky and blotted out all natural light like a damp rag guttering out a candle. Entire generations of hive-crawlers had lived and died under the this blanket of smog, and in this way, the citizens of the Big Fug were oddly blessed, for they were shielded from the madness of the Cicatrix Maledictum in a way that the other hive-continents of Vigilus weren’t.
On this day, though, the drab brown sky was punctuated by fierce streaks of yellow as Ork warplanes and missiles streaked overhead.Continue reading…
c. Games Workshop Ltd.
Veteran Sergeant Amadeo leaned down and grabbed Tyrio by the wrist, hauling the Neophyte over the edge of the ruined hab’s second storey. Tyrio was always lagging behind his brothers, Amadeo noted, always falling to the rear in any operation or training session. For some reason, the young Astartes simply lacked the confidence his brothers found so natural, and this was an almost fatal flaw in a Space Marine. Tyrio must have been conscious of his Sergeant’s silent judgement, as Amadeo saw second-long flicker of humiliation cross the young man’s face before he hung his head and hurried over to the edge of the ruined windowsill, taking up an overwatch position on the grey ruins below. The roof to this place had long ago been torn open by Drukhari bombings, and filthy rainwater pattered down on them from the polluted sky above, spattering against Amadeo’s bare head unpleasantly.
Hundreds of miles below the Valkyrie, the surface of planetoid Ixis 37B was a jagged grey tangle of crags, peaks, and canyons, punctuated here and there by the bright orange of a lava flow. It was a low atmosphere rock where little sunlight pierced the perpetual gloom, and little or nothing lived. It wasn’t until you got closer to the surface that you saw stranger sights– rock formations hovering above the ground like strange, floating sculptures, perfectly hemispherical pits stretching for miles across, and strange electromagnetic signals seemingly originating from the planet itself– all of which had attracted the attention of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
(art by Games Workshop)
When chronicles of the Indomitus Crusade look back to what is now known as the Battle of Desolation Row, there is much dispute as to the cause of this battle– who fired the first shot, why it escalated to the point that it did, and what ultimately could have possessed loyal servants of the Emperor to take up arms and wage war against one another.
(Original art by Games Workshop, colourist unknown)
Zhirae, Succubus of the Cult of Spite, exalted in the feeling of the wind whipping through her red braids as her Raider screamed across the flatlands, followed closely by flocks of Venoms, Reavers and Ravagers and other skycraft. Her raiding host was in motion, a fleet of flinty grey dagger-shapes speeding above the surface of this world like loosed arrows homing in on the soft flesh of a target. The world itself was a flat, ugly black rock, with a landscape of dry canyons, plains of barren earth and rising outcroppings of sandstone and basalt. There seemed to be nothing alive here– nothing that she could hunt, nothing that she could kill. It was oddly peaceful and tranquil– which made Zhirae hate it all the more.
(Art by Sharpwriter at Deviantart)
The shelling had finally ceased. Clambering back onto the roof of the ruined administratum building that served as her command post, Canoness Lucia Trevalyne surveyed the damage: the hive sector, already a battered skeleton after weeks of fighting, had been reduced further by the bombardment, its ruins bleached white with fungal rot and its streets scoured to the granite by viral-bomb impacts. Nothing remained alive in this sector– nothing, that was, except she and her Sisters.