c. Inkary at https://www.artstation.com/inkary
The alarm came from out of nowhere, piercing the sweltering, monotonous gloom of the forge like hot nails through lead. Magos Kelethrex had been overseeing the creation of yet another great war machine to be birthed within the magma-filled vaults of the complex when the alarm sounded, half warbling klaxon, half wailing shriek of thousands of trapped neverborn. The sound caused the lumbering, vat-grown serfs attending Kelethrex to cover their malformed heads and moan in pain, and more than a few slipped and fell into the hot magma of the forge, screaming before the molten metal consumed them. Even worse, the half-made construct in front of Kelethrex was driven into a frenzy by the sounds, the tank-sized conglomeration of steel and flesh thrashing and flailing in the great chains that held it above the pit.
He could no longer remember how long he had been down here. It could have been a day, a month a year…time and memory had devolved into fleeting, hazy things in the wake of all of the pain, the blood, and the screaming. At least, he knew there had been pain, because his entire body throbbed with raw, incessant agony, and every time it dulled, his captor found some way to make it return, hotter and sharper than before. He knew there had been blood because he smelled its familiar copper tang, and felt it awash across his naked form. And he knew there had been screaming, because his throat was hoarse and raw. Beyond that, the details of how, why, where, when and who escaped him.
So this is just a minor update post, but I felt I just needed to gush about a few things down the pipeline, specifically as it pertains to two upcoming GW releases, both of which will be huge for armies that I play.
It felt good to be back on his command throne, Khyrus thought to himself as he eased back into glossy obsinite seat at the centre of the Talon’s bridge, welcoming the feeling of the jagged spines of the armrests digging into his palms and forearm. n the familiar gloom of the ship’s interior, he saw the dull brown orb of Hod’s Anvil on the holo-ghost before him, turning with a ponderous slowness in the void.
(artwork by Games Workshop and Fantasy Flight Games)
“The lights are wrong,” said the voice on the vox recording, his voice laced with wisps of static. “I repeat, the lights are wrong.”
The vox message then looped back on itself, as it had been doing for the past fifty-two hours. Sergeant DeSane kept it playing on his armour’s internal vox system, so that his helm’s internal sensors could keep a lock on its source, even as he backed away from the airlock door. The floors and walls of the hallway were coated in a thick rime of frost, and the doors were frozen solid, glittering with a thick patina of ice. The environmental controls of this silo had failed, it seemed, at about the same time as contact had been lost.
c. Games Workshop
The column inched its way down Furion Road with a ponderous, methodical slowness, looking from a distance like some vast dun-red caterpillar crawling across the wasteland. Rows of red-robed Skitarii marched in unison through the ruins of old outpost towns, their steel-soled feet clanging dully against the centuries-old pavement, marching in perfect, synchronous lockstep. Long-limbed Ironstriders loped around the edges of the column, looking for all the world like the vigilant desert lizards scanning for prey, their gunners swivelling twin-barrelled autocannons against the horizon as their mind-impulse units took in thermal information. At the rear, larger quadrupedal walkers stomped along with a trundling, beetle-like gait, their arrays of weaponry aimed skyward. Hulking robots, their forms squat and bulbous, stomped along on a pre-programmed path, the blank visors covering their dome-like heads flickering every once in a while with an electromagnetic glimmer of mechanical awareness.
c. Bethesda Softworks
Klaxons were blaring angrily all throughout Thule Omega district, accompanied by the customary, servitor-laden warnings for all civilians to stay in their homes. The entire district was going into lockdown, and patrols in the other districts were arming as well. At this rate, the whole bloody hive would be under martial law before long.