forrix-returned
THE BREAKER LIVES
Fickle fate returns a Lord of Iron from oblivion. Forrix of the IV Legion lives! [A narrative roleplaying blog; asks and submissions welcome.]
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SUBMISSION
Heard you like some good, wholesome Iron Bois content. Iron Within, Iron Without!
Excellent gritty Iron Bois ~ Robbie
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Kottos
“One arm or no arms, orders are orders and I’m bloody well going to make sure they’re followed. Besides, two arms was just greedy anyway.”
- Attributed to Vt. Sgt. Kottos, 117th Grand Battalion, after he was asked whether or not he was still combat capable after the loss of his left arm in the field.
Equal parts consummate professional and grizzled old sot, Veteran Sergeant Kottos was the perfect NCO - firm, yet fair, with just enough tactical insight to keep his squad alive while effectively ensuring he would never be promoted past his station. A brick-jawed slugger of a man with little time for fancy talk or grandstanding even for an Iron Warrior, Kottos’ plain speaking and blunt demeanour did little to endear him to the more blue-blooded Olympian officers.
Kottos is pictured here with the wargear he carried from the day he was promoted to the day he eventually died - bolter, pistol, and power axe, uncomplicated weaponry for an uncomplicated warrior. Box magazines on the Phobos type of boltgun were not uncommon amongst veteran units, who were granted more leeway when it came to weapon personalisation.
By the Emperor, I’m not dead! Well, not yet, anyway.
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Paragon Sword or Chainblade?
“The paragon sword is a rare breed, and in the uncommon event of damage not easily restored. A chainblade may not yield such potency, but is easily restored or replaced, and cuts admirably, if not as surely. Neither can match what a proper powered gauntlet can provide in strength and control, tearing blades from fingers numbed by shattering impacts and crushing the life from even the hardiest foes.”Ah Forrix, ever fond of the direct, hands on approach. He misses the fist on his old tactical dreadnought suit, though he won’t admit it.
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Oh dear, Broken, Breaker. You wonder what we may be. We are echoes of the lost and damned, forgotten to the ages by all but the most ancient, even then, a faceless number in a crowd, to watch as empires rose and fell, forgetting parts of ourselves as the world Material forgot us. This tragedy of a world is but a speck in a blood stained history, as damned to be forgotten as ourselves... The question is, what will you do with this chance of yours? Succumb to damnation, or seek Truth in the Ashes?
Forrix resisted the urge to spit on the ground in irritation and contempt. He stared into the rift before him, an unknown destination and almost certain damnation awaiting him. He was already damned, he considered, so what was one more dip into the warp? His resolve solidified, he stowed his knife, unlimbered his bolter, and readied his shield before striding purposefully to the unnatural portal before him. Perhaps his next destination would reveal what import Morningstar had on him now.
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“At least cracking open such a wall-nut would lead to delicious victory, especially over Dorn’s welps.”
HEY GUESS WHAT AN IMPERIAL FISTS FAVOURITE NUT IS?
A WALL-NUT!
@askrogaldorn40k @first-captain-sigismund
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Forrix scowled at the image. "This is slander of the most juvenile fashion."
Sure thing, buddy. It's still in the running for the blog cover image.
This may very well be the greatest image I have ever come across
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“Hail, Warmaster! Like you, I shall not falter even as madness runs wild in my wake.”
Mikhail Savier just does fantastic work.
Horus Lupercal
by Mikhail Savier
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“We are the Iron Warriors, we do our duty, no matter how grim and inglorious. We are the Iron Warriors and we do what must be done.”
(By:https://nezermoar.deviantart.com)
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The immaterial wind grew, and soon a white noise of psychic wash joined it, ricocheting within his skull as a tear in reality bled into being. Furies screeched from within, clawing their way into the materium through the torn, thin veil.
Forrix prepared blade and shield as the first shook free, screeching impossible sounds in deafening volume as it hurled itself at him in blind anger. It slammed into his braced shield, scrabbling with its claws against it before a forceful shrug knocked it to the ground. As the next lunged towards him, he stomped a boot down upon the first fury and speared the second with his long knife, twisting the blade and yanking it free to deflect a swipe of a taloned limb, sweeping it back across to remove the twisted parody of a hand as the edge of his shield dropped sharply to crush the skull of the daemon below.
A third and final fury leaped overhead on its leathery wings, landing behind him as the grounded fury bled steaming, hissing ichor from the ruin of its head, death spasms gouging ineffective scars into the ceramite of his greaves. Both standing furies leapt at him together.
Forrix surged forward, stance low as he crunched shield-first into the fury ahead, angling the shield to toss it over and behind into the next. A spin on his heel and shift to an inverted knife grip allowed him to bury the blade into the back of its neck, and he just managed to get his shield in place to weather the worst of the last fury’s wild swipes. He drew another combat knife and rammed forward with the boarding shield, but the daemons would not go down.
The fury with the knife impaling its neck screeched as the other tore it apart in its eagerness to get to grips with the astartes that defied it, but its open maw went silent, the target it presented too great. Forrix rammed his second knife into its mouth and up into its skull, gauntlet hissing as whatever foul contents of its mouth attempted to eat away at his armor. With a practiced twist of the wrist, whatever occupied the daemon’s head was ruined. The knife was stuck fast, however, so the Iron Warrior let it go. He would retrieve it when the daemon faded back to the warp.
He turned and looked back to the warp tear, which had not faded. He sensed whatever entity had spoken to him beyond its keening abyss, and the portal did not fade.
It was time for a decision.
Author’s note:
Now we really kick off the ask blog portion of things. Why has Forrix been brought back here? What significance does Morningstar play in Forrix’s new journey? Where will Forrix end up if he dives into the rift? Your whispers can reach this wayward son of Olympia. Perhaps you may even steer his course, if you dare…
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The immaterial wind grew, and soon a white noise of psychic wash joined it, ricocheting within his skull as a tear in reality bled into being. Furies screeched from within, clawing their way into the materium through the torn, thin veil.
Forrix prepared blade and shield as the first shook free, screeching impossible sounds in deafening volume as it hurled itself at him in blind anger. It slammed into his braced shield, scrabbling with its claws against it before a forceful shrug knocked it to the ground. As the next lunged towards him, he stomped a boot down upon the first fury and speared the second with his long knife, twisting the blade and yanking it free to deflect a swipe of a taloned limb, sweeping it back across to remove the twisted parody of a hand as the edge of his shield dropped sharply to crush the skull of the daemon below.
A third and final fury leaped overhead on its leathery wings, landing behind him as the grounded fury bled steaming, hissing ichor from the ruin of its head, death spasms gouging ineffective scars into the ceramite of his greaves. Both standing furies leapt at him together.
Forrix surged forward, stance low as he crunched shield-first into the fury ahead, angling the shield to toss it over and behind into the next. A spin on his heel and shift to an inverted knife grip allowed him to bury the blade into the back of its neck, and he just managed to get his shield in place to weather the worst of the last fury’s wild swipes. He drew another combat knife and rammed forward with the boarding shield, but the daemons would not go down.
The fury with the knife impaling its neck screeched as the other tore it apart in its eagerness to get to grips with the astartes that defied it, but its open maw went silent, the target it presented too great. Forrix rammed his second knife into its mouth and up into its skull, gauntlet hissing as whatever foul contents of its mouth attempted to eat away at his armor. With a practiced twist of the wrist, whatever occupied the daemon’s head was ruined. The knife was stuck fast, however, so the Iron Warrior let it go. He would retrieve it when the daemon faded back to the warp.
He turned and looked back to the warp tear, which had not faded. He sensed whatever entity had spoken to him beyond its keening abyss, and the portal did not fade.
It was time for a decision.
Author’s note:
Now we really kick off the ask blog portion of things. Why has Forrix been brought back here? What significance does Morningstar play in Forrix’s new journey? Where will Forrix end up if he dives into the rift? Your whispers can reach this wayward son of Olympia. Perhaps you may even steer his course, if you dare...
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Forrix stood silent and still for long moments as faded recall slipped further away in the growing wash of insubstantial voices. Though he was no sorcerer or psyker, he know what he was experiencing. Around daemon engines, or the most dangerous beings that served as loci for the influence of Chaos, he had felt it before.
He could hear echoes of the warp in this place. Whispers of daemon and dead alike. A name, susurrating breathlessly.
Morningstar.
Searing memory burned to the fore. The damaged mass conveyor falling back to the ground after a traitorous attack by cultists. Ahzek’s limp form across his shoulder as he fought through his wounds to protect the Thousand Son while he worked his witchery. The awe inspiring power of Magnus the Red as he slowed the descent from a fiery demise to a ground-shaking landfall.
This world was dead by the hands of primarchs. By the guns of the Thousand Sons, and by the guns of the Iron Warriors.
An age ago. Days of what should have been glory during the Crusade. Ashes and misery and one more point of contention for the suffering the Emperor’s demands wrought. The ease of humanity’s corruption.
From among the whispers: “Yes. You remember now. Your first true taste of what can happen beyond the veil.” He recognized it; the voice from before, in the haze before his awakening.
“Show yourself, daemon! What tricks would you test me with?”
“No tricks. Only... a new beginning, born from the ashes of your past. A fate woven that may yet save you. Might save your brothers.”
Forrix listened impassively for more. What he heard may have been the dead wind laughing at him, but it blew in a distinct direction. The longer he stood, the stronger the wind blew, yet he did not move. The dust at his feet did not either. His eyes widened in alarm.
The winds of the warp blew through to this world.
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In his descent into meager ruins of the city, he had attempted to track the time with his armor chronometer. Whether the malfunction was due to the armor or planet was beyond his knowledge, but he could not accurately track time beyond perhaps a few minutes. Even then he held the displayed value in contempt.
He marched down what must have once been a sloping procession towards the shore, the broken, cratered expanse perhaps the blasted landing fields of a spaceport. A flash of memory, burning fighters screaming out of the sky as a great starship slowed its ascent and fell back towards the ground below. As fast as it came, it slipped away, leaving a scowl on his blunt features, hidden by cumbersome helm. What he would have given for a mark III suit instead of this ancient heap.
Knife in hand, he slowed as he approached the shore. He was unsure how he knew where beach ended and ocean had once begun, perfect recall somehow failing him. The whispers... he could hear the whispers again, though none had penetrated the fog of recollection.
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Before long, Forrix had departed from the fortress, for it offered nothing more for him. The scorched sands of the barren world welcomed him once more, and the kaleidoscopic sky wheeled above him. As he approached the cliff abutting the fortifications, memory teased at the edges of consciousness.
Below, the melted bones of a city were just discernable, jutting at odd angles from the blasted landscape. The ground sloped away from where the buildings had once stood, and the hills and cliffs surrounding the city had slumped and shattered under world-killing force.
This place had been ruined nearly beyond recognition, yet still a spark of memory threatened to ignite. Forrix swiftly located a path down, and set off to explore the ruins of his past.
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Forrix explored the complex for hours, detoured many times by collapsed passages and fused blast doors. He eventually stowed the knife when it became clear that if things were lurking the empty halls, they had no interest in him or respected what a legionnary could do.
When he finally located the food stores, he accepted the grim state of the stocks stoically. Few crates and palettes of provisions remained, and most were broken and dessicated things, the stores within ruined by time and the warp. He managed to find a small stash of nutrient for his armor injector systems, which he went about equipping. Shortly after, he found a sizable crate of basic protein bars, which he left in their battlefield kit box and latched behind his waist. It may very well be all that sustained him as he explored the world.
The only thing he found in what could be considered suitable supply was water. There were several armored tanks of the precious liquid, purified and sterilized, built to withstand all but the greatest of calamities. He prepared several containers’ worth to bring along with his food, and his mind was already performing the logistical calculus for maximizing energy expenditure against his meager resources. With the advantages of his physiology and seemingly fresh and hale state upon awakening, he estimated being able to stretch his supplies out in a measure of months. If he was forced into combat or injured, it would shrink to a measure of weeks. He sat upon one of the ruined supply crates as he finished his ruminations, understanding the fatal depth of his current predicament.
By the warp, how was he supposed to get off this rock?
Author’s note: Forrix is alive, equipped, and even has some food.... for now. But what dangers await on the world he’s on? Just as importantly, what world is he on? Let the whispers come forth and stir the tides of the empyrean. Fate demands Forrix be tested upon a broken world of his past.
TL;DR - your asks will influence the story, so submit to the Breaker!
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