Forum adverts like this one are shown to any user who is not logged in. Join us by filling out a tiny 3 field form and you will get your own, free, dakka user account which gives a good range of benefits to you:
No adverts like this in the forums anymore.
Times and dates in your local timezone.
Full tracking of what you have read so you can skip to your first unread post, easily see what has changed since you last logged in, and easily see what is new at a glance.
Email notifications for threads you want to watch closely.
Being a part of the oldest wargaming community on the net.
If you are already a member then feel free to login now.
I was wondering how Dreadnoughts them self's are in the Chapter organization like are they counted as some of the most important members of a chapter or just regular soldiers. Also how many chapters use Knight dreadnoughts ?
I don't really know about the other chapters, but Space Wolves hold them in great esteem. They are links to the past, and Space Wolves love stories about the 'good ol' days'.
Do you mean Dreadknights (GK only.) or Knights (mini-titans from Epic/40K Lore) ?
The Viletide: Daemons of Nurgle/Deathguard: 7400 pts
Disclples of the Dragon - Ad Mech - about 2000 pts GSC - about 2000 Pts
Rhulic Mercs - um...many...
Circle Oroboros - 300 Pts or so
Menoth - 300+ pts
I've seen some arguments over this exact question.
Both Galaxy in Flames and Fulgrim (both Horus Heresy books by Ben Counter and Graham Mcneill, respectively) mention Rylanor, a dreadnought who served as the Ancient of Rites for the Emperor's Children. In Galaxy in Flames you even see him reading a book. This seems to indicate that at least one group of Marines did (at one point) let their dreads serve ceremonial functions instead of just flipping their 'on' switch whenever they needed something pureed.
Bjorn the Fell handed is woken up every so often to read off some wicked stories of things that happened a long time ago, serving a ceremonial function for the Space Wolves.
In Soul Hunter, by Aaron Dembski-Bowden, a Chaos warband consults one of their dreadnoughts on matters tactical. If he had been willing to remain awake, it could be presumed they would have happily let him share in the leadership role.
I think that, in general, most dreadnoughts are kept in stasis when they aren't needed, but those dreads who are more exceptional than exceptional might continue to serve in other ways, including defense, training, cermonial duties, strategizing, leadership roles, or any other area of expertise that they were renowned for in life and are capable of continuing in death. That's just my read on it given the information we have.
Hunterindarkness wrote:I think he is asking if they are counted in on the 1000 Sm limit per chapter
Huh. I thought he was asking if they served like normal soldiers or served special roles. I could totally be wrong. If Hunter has the right of it, then I think they are NOT counted as part of the 1000 per chapter/100 per company guideline. (They were, but now they're dead. Sure, that makes sense...)
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2012/05/18 04:23:17
Only he most revered of chapter marines get the chance to be put in one of the dreadnaught sarcophagi which are quite rare and also relics of each chapter, they are still held in high regard and often times will advise high ranking members of the chapter as they will have superior battle expertise. They are often used in ceremonial way as their presence as highly regarded warriors and leaders during a chapter's rituals inspires the rest of their battle-brothers.
On the battlefield they may choose to engage the most dangerous of opponents in single combat to inspire the rest of the troops and shatter enemy morale. I'm not sure if there have been any cases in one taking command after the lose of a Captain or a Sergeant, thou I imagine that would be very likely.
BA codex has all the BA dreads mobilizing (80 odd of them i think) under the command of one of their number to repel an invasion, IIRC.
Could be wrong though
The Viletide: Daemons of Nurgle/Deathguard: 7400 pts
Disclples of the Dragon - Ad Mech - about 2000 pts GSC - about 2000 Pts
Rhulic Mercs - um...many...
Circle Oroboros - 300 Pts or so
Menoth - 300+ pts
I have the BA dex, but i didn't buy if for the fluff, so i don't read the stories that often
The Viletide: Daemons of Nurgle/Deathguard: 7400 pts
Disclples of the Dragon - Ad Mech - about 2000 pts GSC - about 2000 Pts
Rhulic Mercs - um...many...
Circle Oroboros - 300 Pts or so
Menoth - 300+ pts
Dreadnought would only serve regular duties when it has been recently entered. Because as times goes on, the fact of being, dare I say, imprisoned withing a sarcophagus will dull the mind and the sense.
Bjorn, after being entered for 10,000 years, is only awaken on a need to basis, other wise once every 1000 years for him to tell stories of old.
Else then that, there are regarded as som e of the wisest member of there chapter, some of them having been living for thousands of years and having seen more wars then any one else.
Hunterindarkness wrote:I think he is asking if they are counted in on the 1000 Sm limit per chapter.
In that case, no they're not. They're machines of war that are only activated on a need-to basis and at every codex list, Dreads are listed alongside vehicles and armouries as opposed to squad formations or battle-brothers.
Even if they were it wouldnt make much of a difference numerically anyway. Most chapters probably only have 2-3 at the most. The Ultramarines probably have the most due to their sheer resources, and they have 26 apparently. Despite how prevalent they are in fluff, Dreads are quite rare.
Hey, um, I just started a thread that relates somewhat to this about Bjorn disagreeing with Grimnar, hypothetically. Don't know how well it is connected if at all, but there you go.
I'm celebrating 8 years on Dakka Dakka!
I started an Instagram! Follow me at Deadshot Miniatures! DR:90+S++G+++M+B+IPw40k08#-D+++A+++/cwd363R+++T(Ot)DM+ Check out my Deathwatch story, Aftermath in the fiction section!
Credit to Castiel for banner. Thanks Cas!
Lex lists a chapter where there chapter master is a dreadnought. I can't remember the name but the article on them was really small. So I think it just depends on the chapter on how much they're are incorporated into the command structure.
Although having the chapter master as a dread would make meetings hard having to find a room big enough.
Jimsolo wrote:Both Galaxy in Flames and Fulgrim (both Horus Heresy books by Ben Counter and Graham Mcneill, respectively) mention Rylanor, a dreadnought who served as the Ancient of Rites for the Emperor's Children. In Galaxy in Flames you even see him reading a book. This seems to indicate that at least one group of Marines did (at one point) let their dreads serve ceremonial functions instead of just flipping their 'on' switch whenever they needed something pureed.
And i Know No Fear, the dreadnought character is relatively young, a regular line brother who did something heroic and was injured in the correct way to make Dreadding a possibility. Even though he's young, he is pretty much permanently sedated until he's needed, against his will. Apparently the disconnect from a real body is so great psychologically that the mind can't handle it and would go crazy if left for too long.
At least, that's what the UMs said ten thousand years ago....
Jimsolo wrote:
Hunterindarkness wrote:I think he is asking if they are counted in on the 1000 Sm limit per chapter
Huh. I thought he was asking if they served like normal soldiers or served special roles. I could totally be wrong. If Hunter has the right of it, then I think they are NOT counted as part of the 1000 per chapter/100 per company guideline. (They were, but now they're dead. Sure, that makes sense...)
I agree with this. The 1000-marine thing is more of a guideline anyway, rather than a set rule. The 'rule' is the ten-company Codex organisation, which should result in around a thousand Battle Brothers, plus command and support staff. This puts even the most 'Codex' and exactly-at-strength chapter at around 1100 marines, when you include captains, librarians, chaplains, techmarines, master of the fleet, etc etc.
thenoobbomb wrote:They aren't listed as marines but as support. However, they usually are designated to a company.
And Chapter Masters will never be dreads, sorry.
Unless you're in the Iron Hands! Well, Clan Master, but could easily be the 'Chapter Master' since one is elected from the ten Clan Masters whenever they actually need one.
And, of course, someone who is already Chapter Master might become injured and be Dreadded. I'm sure for Iron Hands successors, there wouldn't be a problem....
Chapter organization charts I've seen imply that Dreadnaughts exist within the armory or the Chapter's command structure and thus outside the normal count. The 1,000-Marine limit is an approximation, not a hard-set rule; you've got ten companies of a hundred men with a commander and a command squad existing outside the hundred, occasionally a few Dreadnaughts outside the hundred, then you've got the Chapter Master, his Honor Guard, the armory (Techmarines and vehicle crew), the Librarium, and the Reclusiam. In practice, a 1,000-man Codex Chapter is more likely to have 1,075 or 1,100 Marines when at full strength.
According to the section in C:SM on the Ultramarine Organiztion, the scout company is limitless in squad number, only limited by recruitment and how many scouts need to be raised to batle brother. in fact, the Exorcists mantain 2 extra scout companies, potentially puttingthem at 1200 strong.
I'm celebrating 8 years on Dakka Dakka!
I started an Instagram! Follow me at Deadshot Miniatures! DR:90+S++G+++M+B+IPw40k08#-D+++A+++/cwd363R+++T(Ot)DM+ Check out my Deathwatch story, Aftermath in the fiction section!
Credit to Castiel for banner. Thanks Cas!
In "Savage Scars" Sarik says something along the line that even dreadnoughts of other chapters are even revered. And if one givens unsolicited advice to another chapter. Heed it, it will save your behind.
Yori wrote:Only he most revered of chapter marines get the chance to be put in one of the dreadnaught sarcophagi which are quite rare and also relics of each chapter, they are still held in high regard and often times will advise high ranking members of the chapter as they will have superior battle expertise. They are often used in ceremonial way as their presence as highly regarded warriors and leaders during a chapter's rituals inspires the rest of their battle-brothers.
On the battlefield they may choose to engage the most dangerous of opponents in single combat to inspire the rest of the troops and shatter enemy morale. I'm not sure if there have been any cases in one taking command after the lose of a Captain or a Sergeant, thou I imagine that would be very likely.
motyak wrote:[...] Yes, the mods are illuminati, and yakface, lego and dakka dakka itself are the 3 points of the triangle.
Southampton, Hampshire, England, British Isles, Europe, Earth, Sol, Sector 001
A thoght from Bjorn (Note NSFW*)
Spoiler:
Storytime with Bjorn the Fellhanded
The familiar hissing of servos being powered up after decades of idleness filled the echoing sarcophagus he was trying to rest in. As his senses engaged, once more allowing him to see and hear the outside world, the familiar chanting filled his near-dead ears once more.
"Ah, dammit", he thought, "it's that time of the century again".
The language of the Space Wolves' rune priests was a harsh, guttural dialect appropriate for harsh people with excesses of phlegm, and if this lot were like the last lot, that was an accurate description.
Oh well, time to put on the show.
He cleared his throat and prepared his deep, tired voice for use once more. After all, if he made it seem like he was slowly losing his grip on reality, they might let him sleep longer.
"WHO AWAKENS BJORN?" he spoke into the microphone, letting the vox casters on the Dreadnought echo it out into the surrounding room. He could already see who was awakening him - the little gimp with the wolf-pubes for a beard - but he had to follow the ritual, make it look all authentic or they would start asking questions.
"Oh mighty Bjorn, the Fell-Handed-" ahh gak, he hated that nickname, "we awaken thee to help us remember the past, the forgotten and the sacrificed, those who embody the spirit of the Wolf."
Spirit of the Wolf? That bollocks was new. Normally they went on about the spirit of the warrior and gak.
"YOU WISH TO HEAR THE TALES AGAIN, DO YOU?" he recited, having said this gak at least half a dozen times in the past.
"Yes, oh Venerable one, please, tell us." The pube-faced-tard and the collection of ugly gaks behind him bowed in supplication. He really, REALLY hated having to tell all these tales. Imagine being asleep, and only being woken up every few hours to tell stories, then being put back to sleep. That was his fate, and he was starting to get sick of it. And they always wanted to hear about fething Leman Russ, too. Woe betide any fether stupid enough to ask about Leman Russ.
"FIND ME AN AUDIENCE OF LOYAL WARRIORS, STRONG AND TRUE, WHO MIGHT WISH TO HEAR THE TALES."
Gythor was excited. More then excited, he was ecstatic. He was still a Blood Claw, having not yet earned the opportunity to become a fully fledged Grey Hunter in glorious combat, but he privileged to be one of those alive at the right time to hear the tales of Bjorn, the Fell-Handed. One of the oldest Space Marines still alive, one who saw the Emperor himself! He would hear the glorious tales spoken from the man's own lips - well, vox casters - of great legends that had been fading to the years.
While he waited he shared an ale with his packmates, but a hush settled over the crowd as the heavy footfalls of a Dreadnought could be heard approaching. All eyes turned towards the massive oak doors of the great hall as it approached, step after step, agonizingly slowly. Just when it sounded like it was right outside the noise stopped. Second after second ticked by, quiet having settled over the room like a blanket over a frightened child. First it was seconds, then it stretched into minutes. Finally a voice down the back of the room spoke up.
"Do we... open the door for him, or someth-" He was interrupted by the door of the great hall, which had stood for a millennia, essentially exploding inwards, shattering into a thousand pieces and flinging themselves at the assembled Space Wolves. The Blood Claws near the door found themselves with cuts from flying wood all over their faces, one collapsing to the ground with a shard of wood the size of his fist embedded in his eye.
"Lucky fether," thought Gythor, "he's going to get SUCH a fething cool scar."
"I AM HERE" spoke Bjorn, the words echoing out through the great hall, emerging lifelessly from the vox caster mounted on the Dreadnought. A great cheer rose from the masses of Space Wolves, before they chanted their traditional song of joy, repeating the word 'Wolf' at varying pitches in an almost orchestral sounding song. For a second Gythor thought he heard the vox casters on the Dreadnought mutter 'what the fu-', but he knew such a thing could not be right. Bjorn's voice was as powerful as thunder, a mech like that did not mumble.
The Space Wolves cleared the path for the enormous, venerable Dreadnought to pace down the length of the enormous hall, his pounding footsteps knocking aside ale tankards within a few meters of him as he passed.
Gythor held his breath in excitement as the Dreadnought reached the head of the hall and turned to face the assembled masses.
"TELL ME, OF WHICH STORY DO YOU WISH TO HEAR?" boomed his dead, powerful voice. A thousand responses rose at once, Wolves shouting their answers all together.
The high rune priest, who had followed along behind Bjorn without even being noticed, held his hand out for silence. "Brothers, please! You, Grey-Hunter Rynold, you may ask first." The marine singled out rose from his seat, helmet clutched under his arm with pride.
"Noble Bjorn the Fell-handed-" an echoed grunt of annoyance echoed around the hall, but no one seemed to notice, "-tell us more of our glorious founder, tell us of the greatness of Leman Russ himself!" Rynold thrust his free hand into the air as if he had achieved some glorious victory in asking his question. From the cheers of agreement of his fellow marines, many felt he had. As the cheers died off, it took a few seconds to realize Bjorn was silent. He had not yet answered.
The high Rune priest cleared his throat once. "Uh, mighty Bjorn, do you need the question repea-"
"YOU ladies men" bellowed Bjorn. Silence answered his words, until a few of the long fangs near the front of the hall started chuckling, obviously thinking it was a joke. "DON'T fething LAUGH. DO I SOUND LIKE I'M MAKING A JOKE?!" Again, silence answered his words. "SERIOUSLY, I'M WOKEN UP ONCE A fething HUNDRED YEARS TO TELL YOU fethers OF THE PAST, AND EACH TIME I SEE YOU, YOU'VE fethed OVER HISTORY EVEN WORSE THEN IT WAS BEFORE!! LEMAN RUSS WAS AN donkey-cave!"
Again, silence. The Rune Priest cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should allow noble Dreadnought Bjorn some more rest, shall w-"
"NO, ENOUGH fething REST. YOU ARE ALL GOING TO HEAR ABOUT WHY LEMAN RUSS WAS A fething DICK. SERIOUSLY. A DICK. YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I'M CALLED 'THE FELL-HANDED'? HUH? DO YA'? THE fether CAUGHT ME JERKING OFF BEHIND A BIG ROCK ONE NIGHT ABOUT TWENTY METERS FROM THE REST OF THE DETACHMENT! HE KICKED THE ROCK AWAY AND SHOUTED, 'LO, IT SEEMS HE IS BESTING A MIGHTY FELL-BEAST WITH ONLY HIS HAND!"
Again, silence. This time broken by a slight snickering from some of the younger Blood Claws.
"I fething HEARD THAT, YOU witches. YOU fething WOLF fethers. YEAH, DON'T THINK I DON'T NOTICE YOUR GROWING OBSESSION WITH WOLVES. SERIOUSLY, WHEN I WAS AROUND WE WERE JUST CRAZY fethers WHO RIPPED OUT OUR ENEMIES THROATS WITH OUR TEETH. NOW YOU'RE fething RIDING WOLVES INTO BATTLE. YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE YOU CAN RIDE INTO BATTLE? fething BIKES! MAYBE EVEN A fething BIKE THAT HAS GUNS ATTACHED!"
Silence dominated the room in between Bjorn's words. A few of the Wolf-riders cleared their throats nervously and patted their wolf companions, all of whom had a thousand yard stare and the haunted look of molestation victims.
"YOU fethers THINK YOU KNOW LEMAN RUSS? THE GUY WAS A DOUCHE. HIS STRATEGIES WERE 'YEAH, YOU GUYS GO CHARGE THE ENEMY, I'LL SECURE THIS SHACK WITH THESE BITCHES', AND HE WASN'T TALKING ABOUT FEMALE WOLVES."
The high rune priest held his head in his armoured hands for a second, before standing up once more. "Mighty Bjorn, perhaps we shou-"
"HE WAS TALKING ABOUT WOMEN. YOU KNOW WHY HE HATED... WHAT'S HIS NAME, THE DARK ANGELS GUY. THAT GEEK, WHAT WAS HIS NAME AGAIN?"
The Rune Priest, now resigned to this being the second worst Bjorn story-time ever, answered, "He was Lion El'Jonson, mighty Bjorn."
"YEAH, fething LION EL'JONSON, HE WAS A DECENT MAN. HE AND LEMAN HATED EACH OTHER BECAUSE LION EL' ENJOYED BOOKS. YEAH, THAT'S IT. FIRST TIME THEY EVER MET LION WAS READING A BOOK, LEMAN WALKED IN AND SHOUTED 'HEY, I'M LOOKING FOR MY BROTHER PRIMARCH, ALL I SEE IS A BOOK-READING PUSSY'. THEN HELD HIS HAND OUT TO BE BRO-FISTED. NO ONE DID, SO HE SUCKER-PUNCHED LION TO LOOK TOUGH."
Again, only silence, this time broken by the sound of an ale tankard being dropped from numb fingers.
"YEAH, THE GUY WAS A witch. WHEN THEY SHOWED HIM THE SCHEMATICS FOR THE LEMAN RUSS TANK, YOU KNOW WHAT HE SAID? HE SAID 'MAKE THE CANNON BIGGER... LIKE MY COCK!' HE DEMANDED THE SCHEMATICS FOR THE PREMIERE TANK OF THE IMPERIAL GUARD BE ALTERED PURELY SO HE COULD MAKE A DICK JOKE!"
The servos of Bjorn's mighty armoured sarcophagus whirred into life as he suddenly started forward, his pounding feet bringing him back towards the door he burst in from. He did not stop as he crushed his way through a two-millennia-old table, and Space Wolves scattered out of his way with each thudding footstep. The entire assembled chapter watched in amazement as the Dreadnought sulked off, stopping only at the door to turn and speak once.
"IF YOU fethers WAKE ME AGAIN, IT BETTER BE TO KILL SOMETHING OR ASK ABOUT ACTUAL HEROES, NOT BITCH-STEALING donkey-caves." And with that, Bjorn walked away, followed by hastily running Rune Priests.
Or.
Spoiler:
Bjorn's Happy End
Slowly his thoughts arose from their centuries of slumber once more. Chemical stimulants pumped in through the tubes connected to his sarcophagus and washed away the residual grogginess of stasis sleep. The sound of servos activating, lifting his armoured shell from its resting position into an upright stance, heralded the sudden explosion of light that filled his vision before clarifying into a familiar scene. Apothecaries and TechMarines stood before him, data-slates and tools in their hands, and one white-haired marine ahead of all the rest in the centre of his field of view. The decorations on his armour identified him as Brother-Captain. Something seemed a touch unusual about the whole scenario, but he couldn’t quite put his power claw on it. No matter. It seemed the time had come again.
“WHO AWAKENS BJORN?” he rumbled through the Dreadnought’s speakers. “IS IT TIME FOR WAR?” he added hopefully.
“It is indeed time for war, mighty Bjorn,” the Captain responded. “We have awakened you to do battle with our foes!”
“FIGURES. IT’S NEVER TIME FOR – WAIT, WHAT?”
There was a stunned silence from all in the room. It lasted a few seconds before the Brother-Captain broke it by clearing his throat. “Uhm, yes, ancient one, it is time for war. That-that’s not a problem is it?”
Bjorn did not respond for another several moments. When he did, his words were slow and uncertain. “YOU…DON’T WANT ME TO TELL YOU TALES OF THE OLD TIMES? OF LEMAN RUSS?”
“I… I suppose you could, but to be honest, venerable warrior, it is your skill in combat that we were hoping you would display.”
Again, a pause. A pair of apothecaries at the back of the group began to mutter to each other. “Did we get the ritual wrong?” “I heard them say he was going senile… he probably doesn’t even remember what he’s supposed to do-“
A sudden booming noise echoed around the armoury chamber. It was a moment before anyone realised that the sound was that of laughter, issuing forth from the Dreadnaught’s speakers.
“VERY WELL!” Bjorn announced, once his fit of chuckling had subsided. “I SHALL DO BATTLE ONCE MORE!” The worried expressions on the faces of the assembled Marines immediately turned to smiles and relief.
“Of course, great one!” grinned the Captain. “It will be an honour to fight at your side!” Bjorn was ecstatic. He was being awoken to actually fight, nobody wanted him to tell stories about fething Leman Russ, and not once so far had anyone referred to him by his Emperor-forsaken full title. This century was shaping up well so far! If this luck kept up, they’d be celebrating their upcoming victories in battle with a complete sacred machine-oil application administered by a pair of Adepta Sororitas –
“Uhm, mighty one? You sort of zoned out for a moment there… something about twins?”
“WHAT? NOTHING. WHEN DO WE FIGHT!?” Bjorn demanded, changing the subject quickly. “LEAD ME TO OUR SHIPS THAT WE MIGHT TRAVEL TO WHEREVER OUR ENEMIES DWELL!”
“We are already aboard our Battle Barge and orbiting our target,” the Captain informed him. “In a short space of time we will be in position to drop assault pods and initiate the battle. If you would follow me to the pod bays, we shall prepare to depart immediately.” Ah! So they were already aboard a vessel, and not in the fortress as he had expected. No wonder the situation had seemed unusual when he awoke, for he realized he did not recognize his surroundings. Bjorn approved; anxious to fight as he was, the prospect of a lengthy and boring voyage to the field of battle would not have been a welcome one. With a hiss and a whir, his Dreadnought’s motor systems roared into life and he made to follow the Brother-Captain.
“LEAD ON, BROTHER. I DO NOT RECOGNIZE THIS VESSEL NOR KNOW ITS LAYOUT. WHICH SHIP HAS THE FORTUNE OF CARRYING US INTO BATTLE?”
The Captain mumbled something quietly and the other assembled marines looked nervously at each other.
“BROTHER, I HAVE SEEN THE PASSING OF TEN MILLENNIA AND MY HEARING IS NOT WHAT IT ONCE WAS. PLEASE SPEAK UP.”
“We – we are aboard the Litany of Fury, ancient one.”
“HM. A NEW ADDITION TO THE FLEET, IT SEEMS. THE CHAPTER IS DOING WELL. AND SURPRISINGLY CLEAN!” Bjorn remarked, looking upon the gleaming surfaces where hazy red reflections of his and the other Marines’ armour could be seen. “I EXPECT EVERYTHING TO BE COVERED IN WOLF SHI- RED. WHY AM I RED?”
“Oh, gak.” Muttered a Tech-Marine, before one of his companions poked him in the side with a mechadendrite.
The Brother-Captain turned to glare at him for a moment before turning back to Bjorn. “Why wouldn’t you be red, revered Bjorn? Red has always been the colour of our chapter –“
“SILENCE!” Bjorn commanded, and the group fell quiet. Bjorn took a few steps over to a convenient nearby bulkhead and experimentally scraped one of his arms against the surface before rotating it into his field of view. A familiar bright blue could be seen peeking out from the scratched layer of red paint applied over it.
Now, Bjorn had indeed lived for longer than any other in the Imperium could claim, and the priests of the Space Wolves all believed the long years had driven him senile, but in truth his mental faculties were as sharp as they had ever been. Sometimes, however, they simply needed time to warm up after a long rest. He turned to face the red-armoured group, noting the bird and blood drop iconography featured on their shoulder-plates and the banners adorning the room.
“Now, mighty Bjorn, we can explain,” the Captain began, but Bjorn silenced him with a shout.
“SHUT UP! I’M THINKING.”
This was not something they had expected. All stood worriedly as they waited for Bjorn’s thoughts to reach a conclusion.
“…HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT WOLVES?”
There was some conferral. Eventually the Brother-Captain stepped forward again and said “We… are… neutral on the subject of wolves?”
“GOOD. I HATE THE fething THINGS.”
Bjorn leaned forward, as much as was possible for a Dreadnought to do, until he teetered precariously over the Brother-Captain and the slightest tremor from the engines of the ship risked condemning the unfortunate marine to a crushing death. He spoke.
“NO WOLVES. NO QUESTIONS ABOUT LEMAN RUSS. ABSOLUTELY NO REFERENCES TO FELL HANDS. ANYBODY WHO ASKS ME A QUESTION ABOUT THE OLD TIMES IS GOING TO BE USED AS PAINT TO HELP FIX THIS gakky JOB YOU’VE DONE ON ME,” Bjorn rumbled. “THOSE ARE MY TERMS. AGREE AND I’LL PRETEND NOT TO NOTICE WHAT YOU THIEVING LITTLE BASTARDS HAVE DONE. DEAL?”
The Captain nodded frantically.
“GOOD. NOW WHERE ARE THE fething ASSAULT PODS?” Bjorn demanded, spinning his power claw and returning to a normal stance, mirth creeping back into his voice. This could turn out to be a very good century indeed.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2012/05/21 19:56:49
That should be a donkey cave...
Also typical Blood Ravens
Dakka Bingo! By Ouze "You are the best at flying things"-Kanluwen
"Further proof that Purple is a fething brilliant super villain " -KingCracker
"Purp.. Im pretty sure I have a gun than can reach you...."-Nicorex
"That's not really an apocalypse. That's just Europe."-Grakmar
"almost as good as winning free cake at the tea drinking contest for an Englishman." -Reds8n
Seal up your lips and give no words but mum.
Equip, Reload. Do violence.
Watch for Gerry.
The familiar hissing of servos being powered up after decades of idleness filled the echoing sarcophagus he was trying to rest in. As his senses engaged, once more allowing him to see and hear the outside world, the familiar chanting filled his near-dead ears once more.
"Ah, dammit", he thought, "it's that time of the century again".
The language of the Space Wolves' rune priests was a harsh, guttural dialect appropriate for harsh people with excesses of phlegm, and if this lot were like the last lot, that was an accurate description.
Oh well, time to put on the show.
He cleared his throat and prepared his deep, tired voice for use once more. After all, if he made it seem like he was slowly losing his grip on reality, they might let him sleep longer.
"WHO AWAKENS BJORN?" he spoke into the microphone, letting the vox casters on the Dreadnought echo it out into the surrounding room. He could already see who was awakening him - the little gimp with the wolf-pubes for a beard - but he had to follow the ritual, make it look all authentic or they would start asking questions.
"Oh mighty Bjorn, the Fell-Handed-" ahh gak, he hated that nickname, "we awaken thee to help us remember the past, the forgotten and the sacrificed, those who embody the spirit of the Wolf."
Spirit of the Wolf? That bollocks was new. Normally they went on about the spirit of the warrior and gak.
"YOU WISH TO HEAR THE TALES AGAIN, DO YOU?" he recited, having said this gak at least half a dozen times in the past.
"Yes, oh Venerable one, please, tell us." The pube-faced-tard and the collection of ugly gaks behind him bowed in supplication. He really, REALLY hated having to tell all these tales. Imagine being asleep, and only being woken up every few hours to tell stories, then being put back to sleep. That was his fate, and he was starting to get sick of it. And they always wanted to hear about fething Leman Russ, too. Woe betide any fether stupid enough to ask about Leman Russ.
"FIND ME AN AUDIENCE OF LOYAL WARRIORS, STRONG AND TRUE, WHO MIGHT WISH TO HEAR THE TALES."
Gythor was excited. More then excited, he was ecstatic. He was still a Blood Claw, having not yet earned the opportunity to become a fully fledged Grey Hunter in glorious combat, but he privileged to be one of those alive at the right time to hear the tales of Bjorn, the Fell-Handed. One of the oldest Space Marines still alive, one who saw the Emperor himself! He would hear the glorious tales spoken from the man's own lips - well, vox casters - of great legends that had been fading to the years.
While he waited he shared an ale with his packmates, but a hush settled over the crowd as the heavy footfalls of a Dreadnought could be heard approaching. All eyes turned towards the massive oak doors of the great hall as it approached, step after step, agonizingly slowly. Just when it sounded like it was right outside the noise stopped. Second after second ticked by, quiet having settled over the room like a blanket over a frightened child. First it was seconds, then it stretched into minutes. Finally a voice down the back of the room spoke up.
"Do we... open the door for him, or someth-" He was interrupted by the door of the great hall, which had stood for a millennia, essentially exploding inwards, shattering into a thousand pieces and flinging themselves at the assembled Space Wolves. The Blood Claws near the door found themselves with cuts from flying wood all over their faces, one collapsing to the ground with a shard of wood the size of his fist embedded in his eye.
"Lucky fether," thought Gythor, "he's going to get SUCH a fething cool scar."
"I AM HERE" spoke Bjorn, the words echoing out through the great hall, emerging lifelessly from the vox caster mounted on the Dreadnought. A great cheer rose from the masses of Space Wolves, before they chanted their traditional song of joy, repeating the word 'Wolf' at varying pitches in an almost orchestral sounding song. For a second Gythor thought he heard the vox casters on the Dreadnought mutter 'what the fu-', but he knew such a thing could not be right. Bjorn's voice was as powerful as thunder, a mech like that did not mumble.
The Space Wolves cleared the path for the enormous, venerable Dreadnought to pace down the length of the enormous hall, his pounding footsteps knocking aside ale tankards within a few meters of him as he passed.
Gythor held his breath in excitement as the Dreadnought reached the head of the hall and turned to face the assembled masses.
"TELL ME, OF WHICH STORY DO YOU WISH TO HEAR?" boomed his dead, powerful voice. A thousand responses rose at once, Wolves shouting their answers all together.
The high rune priest, who had followed along behind Bjorn without even being noticed, held his hand out for silence. "Brothers, please! You, Grey-Hunter Rynold, you may ask first." The marine singled out rose from his seat, helmet clutched under his arm with pride.
"Noble Bjorn the Fell-handed-" an echoed grunt of annoyance echoed around the hall, but no one seemed to notice, "-tell us more of our glorious founder, tell us of the greatness of Leman Russ himself!" Rynold thrust his free hand into the air as if he had achieved some glorious victory in asking his question. From the cheers of agreement of his fellow marines, many felt he had. As the cheers died off, it took a few seconds to realize Bjorn was silent. He had not yet answered.
The high Rune priest cleared his throat once. "Uh, mighty Bjorn, do you need the question repea-"
"YOU ladies men" bellowed Bjorn. Silence answered his words, until a few of the long fangs near the front of the hall started chuckling, obviously thinking it was a joke. "DON'T fething LAUGH. DO I SOUND LIKE I'M MAKING A JOKE?!" Again, silence answered his words. "SERIOUSLY, I'M WOKEN UP ONCE A fething HUNDRED YEARS TO TELL YOU fethers OF THE PAST, AND EACH TIME I SEE YOU, YOU'VE fethed OVER HISTORY EVEN WORSE THEN IT WAS BEFORE!! LEMAN RUSS WAS AN donkey-cave!"
Again, silence. The Rune Priest cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should allow noble Dreadnought Bjorn some more rest, shall w-"
"NO, ENOUGH fething REST. YOU ARE ALL GOING TO HEAR ABOUT WHY LEMAN RUSS WAS A fething DICK. SERIOUSLY. A DICK. YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I'M CALLED 'THE FELL-HANDED'? HUH? DO YA'? THE fether CAUGHT ME JERKING OFF BEHIND A BIG ROCK ONE NIGHT ABOUT TWENTY METERS FROM THE REST OF THE DETACHMENT! HE KICKED THE ROCK AWAY AND SHOUTED, 'LO, IT SEEMS HE IS BESTING A MIGHTY FELL-BEAST WITH ONLY HIS HAND!"
Again, silence. This time broken by a slight snickering from some of the younger Blood Claws.
"I fething HEARD THAT, YOU witches. YOU fething WOLF fethers. YEAH, DON'T THINK I DON'T NOTICE YOUR GROWING OBSESSION WITH WOLVES. SERIOUSLY, WHEN I WAS AROUND WE WERE JUST CRAZY fethers WHO RIPPED OUT OUR ENEMIES THROATS WITH OUR TEETH. NOW YOU'RE fething RIDING WOLVES INTO BATTLE. YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE YOU CAN RIDE INTO BATTLE? fething BIKES! MAYBE EVEN A fething BIKE THAT HAS GUNS ATTACHED!"
Silence dominated the room in between Bjorn's words. A few of the Wolf-riders cleared their throats nervously and patted their wolf companions, all of whom had a thousand yard stare and the haunted look of molestation victims.
"YOU fethers THINK YOU KNOW LEMAN RUSS? THE GUY WAS A DOUCHE. HIS STRATEGIES WERE 'YEAH, YOU GUYS GO CHARGE THE ENEMY, I'LL SECURE THIS SHACK WITH THESE BITCHES', AND HE WASN'T TALKING ABOUT FEMALE WOLVES."
The high rune priest held his head in his armoured hands for a second, before standing up once more. "Mighty Bjorn, perhaps we shou-"
"HE WAS TALKING ABOUT WOMEN. YOU KNOW WHY HE HATED... WHAT'S HIS NAME, THE DARK ANGELS GUY. THAT GEEK, WHAT WAS HIS NAME AGAIN?"
The Rune Priest, now resigned to this being the second worst Bjorn story-time ever, answered, "He was Lion El'Jonson, mighty Bjorn."
"YEAH, fething LION EL'JONSON, HE WAS A DECENT MAN. HE AND LEMAN HATED EACH OTHER BECAUSE LION EL' ENJOYED BOOKS. YEAH, THAT'S IT. FIRST TIME THEY EVER MET LION WAS READING A BOOK, LEMAN WALKED IN AND SHOUTED 'HEY, I'M LOOKING FOR MY BROTHER PRIMARCH, ALL I SEE IS A BOOK-READING PUSSY'. THEN HELD HIS HAND OUT TO BE BRO-FISTED. NO ONE DID, SO HE SUCKER-PUNCHED LION TO LOOK TOUGH."
Again, only silence, this time broken by the sound of an ale tankard being dropped from numb fingers.
"YEAH, THE GUY WAS A witch. WHEN THEY SHOWED HIM THE SCHEMATICS FOR THE LEMAN RUSS TANK, YOU KNOW WHAT HE SAID? HE SAID 'MAKE THE CANNON BIGGER... LIKE MY COCK!' HE DEMANDED THE SCHEMATICS FOR THE PREMIERE TANK OF THE IMPERIAL GUARD BE ALTERED PURELY SO HE COULD MAKE A DICK JOKE!"
The servos of Bjorn's mighty armoured sarcophagus whirred into life as he suddenly started forward, his pounding feet bringing him back towards the door he burst in from. He did not stop as he crushed his way through a two-millennia-old table, and Space Wolves scattered out of his way with each thudding footstep. The entire assembled chapter watched in amazement as the Dreadnought sulked off, stopping only at the door to turn and speak once.
"IF YOU fethers WAKE ME AGAIN, IT BETTER BE TO KILL SOMETHING OR ASK ABOUT ACTUAL HEROES, NOT BITCH-STEALING donkey-caves." And with that, Bjorn walked away, followed by hastily running Rune Priests.
Or.
Spoiler:
Bjorn's Happy End
Slowly his thoughts arose from their centuries of slumber once more. Chemical stimulants pumped in through the tubes connected to his sarcophagus and washed away the residual grogginess of stasis sleep. The sound of servos activating, lifting his armoured shell from its resting position into an upright stance, heralded the sudden explosion of light that filled his vision before clarifying into a familiar scene. Apothecaries and TechMarines stood before him, data-slates and tools in their hands, and one white-haired marine ahead of all the rest in the centre of his field of view. The decorations on his armour identified him as Brother-Captain. Something seemed a touch unusual about the whole scenario, but he couldn’t quite put his power claw on it. No matter. It seemed the time had come again.
“WHO AWAKENS BJORN?” he rumbled through the Dreadnought’s speakers. “IS IT TIME FOR WAR?” he added hopefully.
“It is indeed time for war, mighty Bjorn,” the Captain responded. “We have awakened you to do battle with our foes!”
“FIGURES. IT’S NEVER TIME FOR – WAIT, WHAT?”
There was a stunned silence from all in the room. It lasted a few seconds before the Brother-Captain broke it by clearing his throat. “Uhm, yes, ancient one, it is time for war. That-that’s not a problem is it?”
Bjorn did not respond for another several moments. When he did, his words were slow and uncertain. “YOU…DON’T WANT ME TO TELL YOU TALES OF THE OLD TIMES? OF LEMAN RUSS?”
“I… I suppose you could, but to be honest, venerable warrior, it is your skill in combat that we were hoping you would display.”
Again, a pause. A pair of apothecaries at the back of the group began to mutter to each other. “Did we get the ritual wrong?” “I heard them say he was going senile… he probably doesn’t even remember what he’s supposed to do-“
A sudden booming noise echoed around the armoury chamber. It was a moment before anyone realised that the sound was that of laughter, issuing forth from the Dreadnaught’s speakers.
“VERY WELL!” Bjorn announced, once his fit of chuckling had subsided. “I SHALL DO BATTLE ONCE MORE!” The worried expressions on the faces of the assembled Marines immediately turned to smiles and relief.
“Of course, great one!” grinned the Captain. “It will be an honour to fight at your side!” Bjorn was ecstatic. He was being awoken to actually fight, nobody wanted him to tell stories about fething Leman Russ, and not once so far had anyone referred to him by his Emperor-forsaken full title. This century was shaping up well so far! If this luck kept up, they’d be celebrating their upcoming victories in battle with a complete sacred machine-oil application administered by a pair of Adepta Sororitas –
“Uhm, mighty one? You sort of zoned out for a moment there… something about twins?”
“WHAT? NOTHING. WHEN DO WE FIGHT!?” Bjorn demanded, changing the subject quickly. “LEAD ME TO OUR SHIPS THAT WE MIGHT TRAVEL TO WHEREVER OUR ENEMIES DWELL!”
“We are already aboard our Battle Barge and orbiting our target,” the Captain informed him. “In a short space of time we will be in position to drop assault pods and initiate the battle. If you would follow me to the pod bays, we shall prepare to depart immediately.” Ah! So they were already aboard a vessel, and not in the fortress as he had expected. No wonder the situation had seemed unusual when he awoke, for he realized he did not recognize his surroundings. Bjorn approved; anxious to fight as he was, the prospect of a lengthy and boring voyage to the field of battle would not have been a welcome one. With a hiss and a whir, his Dreadnought’s motor systems roared into life and he made to follow the Brother-Captain.
“LEAD ON, BROTHER. I DO NOT RECOGNIZE THIS VESSEL NOR KNOW ITS LAYOUT. WHICH SHIP HAS THE FORTUNE OF CARRYING US INTO BATTLE?”
The Captain mumbled something quietly and the other assembled marines looked nervously at each other.
“BROTHER, I HAVE SEEN THE PASSING OF TEN MILLENNIA AND MY HEARING IS NOT WHAT IT ONCE WAS. PLEASE SPEAK UP.”
“We – we are aboard the Litany of Fury, ancient one.”
“HM. A NEW ADDITION TO THE FLEET, IT SEEMS. THE CHAPTER IS DOING WELL. AND SURPRISINGLY CLEAN!” Bjorn remarked, looking upon the gleaming surfaces where hazy red reflections of his and the other Marines’ armour could be seen. “I EXPECT EVERYTHING TO BE COVERED IN WOLF SHI- RED. WHY AM I RED?”
“Oh, gak.” Muttered a Tech-Marine, before one of his companions poked him in the side with a mechadendrite.
The Brother-Captain turned to glare at him for a moment before turning back to Bjorn. “Why wouldn’t you be red, revered Bjorn? Red has always been the colour of our chapter –“
“SILENCE!” Bjorn commanded, and the group fell quiet. Bjorn took a few steps over to a convenient nearby bulkhead and experimentally scraped one of his arms against the surface before rotating it into his field of view. A familiar bright blue could be seen peeking out from the scratched layer of red paint applied over it.
Now, Bjorn had indeed lived for longer than any other in the Imperium could claim, and the priests of the Space Wolves all believed the long years had driven him senile, but in truth his mental faculties were as sharp as they had ever been. Sometimes, however, they simply needed time to warm up after a long rest. He turned to face the red-armoured group, noting the bird and blood drop iconography featured on their shoulder-plates and the banners adorning the room.
“Now, mighty Bjorn, we can explain,” the Captain began, but Bjorn silenced him with a shout.
“SHUT UP! I’M THINKING.”
This was not something they had expected. All stood worriedly as they waited for Bjorn’s thoughts to reach a conclusion.
“…HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT WOLVES?”
There was some conferral. Eventually the Brother-Captain stepped forward again and said “We… are… neutral on the subject of wolves?”
“GOOD. I HATE THE fething THINGS.”
Bjorn leaned forward, as much as was possible for a Dreadnought to do, until he teetered precariously over the Brother-Captain and the slightest tremor from the engines of the ship risked condemning the unfortunate marine to a crushing death. He spoke.
“NO WOLVES. NO QUESTIONS ABOUT LEMAN RUSS. ABSOLUTELY NO REFERENCES TO FELL HANDS. ANYBODY WHO ASKS ME A QUESTION ABOUT THE OLD TIMES IS GOING TO BE USED AS PAINT TO HELP FIX THIS gakky JOB YOU’VE DONE ON ME,” Bjorn rumbled. “THOSE ARE MY TERMS. AGREE AND I’LL PRETEND NOT TO NOTICE WHAT YOU THIEVING LITTLE BASTARDS HAVE DONE. DEAL?”
The Captain nodded frantically.
“GOOD. NOW WHERE ARE THE fething ASSAULT PODS?” Bjorn demanded, spinning his power claw and returning to a normal stance, mirth creeping back into his voice. This could turn out to be a very good century indeed.
+ fething 1 you legend!
I'm celebrating 8 years on Dakka Dakka!
I started an Instagram! Follow me at Deadshot Miniatures! DR:90+S++G+++M+B+IPw40k08#-D+++A+++/cwd363R+++T(Ot)DM+ Check out my Deathwatch story, Aftermath in the fiction section!
Credit to Castiel for banner. Thanks Cas!
Yori wrote:Only he most revered of chapter marines get the chance to be put in one of the dreadnaught sarcophagi which are quite rare and also relics of each chapter, they are still held in high regard and often times will advise high ranking members of the chapter as they will have superior battle expertise. They are often used in ceremonial way as their presence as highly regarded warriors and leaders during a chapter's rituals inspires the rest of their battle-brothers.
On the battlefield they may choose to engage the most dangerous of opponents in single combat to inspire the rest of the troops and shatter enemy morale. I'm not sure if there have been any cases in one taking command after the lose of a Captain or a Sergeant, thou I imagine that would be very likely.
The "Soul Drinkers" chapter had a Dreadnought named Daenyathos who attempts to bring the whole Chapter to Chaos. That was pretty sweet and probably one of the only examples I can remember of a Dreadnought "leading" anything in a large regard.
The familiar hissing of servos being powered up after decades of idleness filled the echoing sarcophagus he was trying to rest in. As his senses engaged, once more allowing him to see and hear the outside world, the familiar chanting filled his near-dead ears once more.
"Ah, dammit", he thought, "it's that time of the century again".
The language of the Space Wolves' rune priests was a harsh, guttural dialect appropriate for harsh people with excesses of phlegm, and if this lot were like the last lot, that was an accurate description.
Oh well, time to put on the show.
He cleared his throat and prepared his deep, tired voice for use once more. After all, if he made it seem like he was slowly losing his grip on reality, they might let him sleep longer.
"WHO AWAKENS BJORN?" he spoke into the microphone, letting the vox casters on the Dreadnought echo it out into the surrounding room. He could already see who was awakening him - the little gimp with the wolf-pubes for a beard - but he had to follow the ritual, make it look all authentic or they would start asking questions.
"Oh mighty Bjorn, the Fell-Handed-" ahh gak, he hated that nickname, "we awaken thee to help us remember the past, the forgotten and the sacrificed, those who embody the spirit of the Wolf."
Spirit of the Wolf? That bollocks was new. Normally they went on about the spirit of the warrior and gak.
"YOU WISH TO HEAR THE TALES AGAIN, DO YOU?" he recited, having said this gak at least half a dozen times in the past.
"Yes, oh Venerable one, please, tell us." The pube-faced-tard and the collection of ugly gaks behind him bowed in supplication. He really, REALLY hated having to tell all these tales. Imagine being asleep, and only being woken up every few hours to tell stories, then being put back to sleep. That was his fate, and he was starting to get sick of it. And they always wanted to hear about fething Leman Russ, too. Woe betide any fether stupid enough to ask about Leman Russ.
"FIND ME AN AUDIENCE OF LOYAL WARRIORS, STRONG AND TRUE, WHO MIGHT WISH TO HEAR THE TALES."
Gythor was excited. More then excited, he was ecstatic. He was still a Blood Claw, having not yet earned the opportunity to become a fully fledged Grey Hunter in glorious combat, but he privileged to be one of those alive at the right time to hear the tales of Bjorn, the Fell-Handed. One of the oldest Space Marines still alive, one who saw the Emperor himself! He would hear the glorious tales spoken from the man's own lips - well, vox casters - of great legends that had been fading to the years.
While he waited he shared an ale with his packmates, but a hush settled over the crowd as the heavy footfalls of a Dreadnought could be heard approaching. All eyes turned towards the massive oak doors of the great hall as it approached, step after step, agonizingly slowly. Just when it sounded like it was right outside the noise stopped. Second after second ticked by, quiet having settled over the room like a blanket over a frightened child. First it was seconds, then it stretched into minutes. Finally a voice down the back of the room spoke up.
"Do we... open the door for him, or someth-" He was interrupted by the door of the great hall, which had stood for a millennia, essentially exploding inwards, shattering into a thousand pieces and flinging themselves at the assembled Space Wolves. The Blood Claws near the door found themselves with cuts from flying wood all over their faces, one collapsing to the ground with a shard of wood the size of his fist embedded in his eye.
"Lucky fether," thought Gythor, "he's going to get SUCH a fething cool scar."
"I AM HERE" spoke Bjorn, the words echoing out through the great hall, emerging lifelessly from the vox caster mounted on the Dreadnought. A great cheer rose from the masses of Space Wolves, before they chanted their traditional song of joy, repeating the word 'Wolf' at varying pitches in an almost orchestral sounding song. For a second Gythor thought he heard the vox casters on the Dreadnought mutter 'what the fu-', but he knew such a thing could not be right. Bjorn's voice was as powerful as thunder, a mech like that did not mumble.
The Space Wolves cleared the path for the enormous, venerable Dreadnought to pace down the length of the enormous hall, his pounding footsteps knocking aside ale tankards within a few meters of him as he passed.
Gythor held his breath in excitement as the Dreadnought reached the head of the hall and turned to face the assembled masses.
"TELL ME, OF WHICH STORY DO YOU WISH TO HEAR?" boomed his dead, powerful voice. A thousand responses rose at once, Wolves shouting their answers all together.
The high rune priest, who had followed along behind Bjorn without even being noticed, held his hand out for silence. "Brothers, please! You, Grey-Hunter Rynold, you may ask first." The marine singled out rose from his seat, helmet clutched under his arm with pride.
"Noble Bjorn the Fell-handed-" an echoed grunt of annoyance echoed around the hall, but no one seemed to notice, "-tell us more of our glorious founder, tell us of the greatness of Leman Russ himself!" Rynold thrust his free hand into the air as if he had achieved some glorious victory in asking his question. From the cheers of agreement of his fellow marines, many felt he had. As the cheers died off, it took a few seconds to realize Bjorn was silent. He had not yet answered.
The high Rune priest cleared his throat once. "Uh, mighty Bjorn, do you need the question repea-"
"YOU ladies men" bellowed Bjorn. Silence answered his words, until a few of the long fangs near the front of the hall started chuckling, obviously thinking it was a joke. "DON'T fething LAUGH. DO I SOUND LIKE I'M MAKING A JOKE?!" Again, silence answered his words. "SERIOUSLY, I'M WOKEN UP ONCE A fething HUNDRED YEARS TO TELL YOU fethers OF THE PAST, AND EACH TIME I SEE YOU, YOU'VE fethed OVER HISTORY EVEN WORSE THEN IT WAS BEFORE!! LEMAN RUSS WAS AN donkey-cave!"
Again, silence. The Rune Priest cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should allow noble Dreadnought Bjorn some more rest, shall w-"
"NO, ENOUGH fething REST. YOU ARE ALL GOING TO HEAR ABOUT WHY LEMAN RUSS WAS A fething DICK. SERIOUSLY. A DICK. YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I'M CALLED 'THE FELL-HANDED'? HUH? DO YA'? THE fether CAUGHT ME JERKING OFF BEHIND A BIG ROCK ONE NIGHT ABOUT TWENTY METERS FROM THE REST OF THE DETACHMENT! HE KICKED THE ROCK AWAY AND SHOUTED, 'LO, IT SEEMS HE IS BESTING A MIGHTY FELL-BEAST WITH ONLY HIS HAND!"
Again, silence. This time broken by a slight snickering from some of the younger Blood Claws.
"I fething HEARD THAT, YOU witches. YOU fething WOLF fethers. YEAH, DON'T THINK I DON'T NOTICE YOUR GROWING OBSESSION WITH WOLVES. SERIOUSLY, WHEN I WAS AROUND WE WERE JUST CRAZY fethers WHO RIPPED OUT OUR ENEMIES THROATS WITH OUR TEETH. NOW YOU'RE fething RIDING WOLVES INTO BATTLE. YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE YOU CAN RIDE INTO BATTLE? fething BIKES! MAYBE EVEN A fething BIKE THAT HAS GUNS ATTACHED!"
Silence dominated the room in between Bjorn's words. A few of the Wolf-riders cleared their throats nervously and patted their wolf companions, all of whom had a thousand yard stare and the haunted look of molestation victims.
"YOU fethers THINK YOU KNOW LEMAN RUSS? THE GUY WAS A DOUCHE. HIS STRATEGIES WERE 'YEAH, YOU GUYS GO CHARGE THE ENEMY, I'LL SECURE THIS SHACK WITH THESE BITCHES', AND HE WASN'T TALKING ABOUT FEMALE WOLVES."
The high rune priest held his head in his armoured hands for a second, before standing up once more. "Mighty Bjorn, perhaps we shou-"
"HE WAS TALKING ABOUT WOMEN. YOU KNOW WHY HE HATED... WHAT'S HIS NAME, THE DARK ANGELS GUY. THAT GEEK, WHAT WAS HIS NAME AGAIN?"
The Rune Priest, now resigned to this being the second worst Bjorn story-time ever, answered, "He was Lion El'Jonson, mighty Bjorn."
"YEAH, fething LION EL'JONSON, HE WAS A DECENT MAN. HE AND LEMAN HATED EACH OTHER BECAUSE LION EL' ENJOYED BOOKS. YEAH, THAT'S IT. FIRST TIME THEY EVER MET LION WAS READING A BOOK, LEMAN WALKED IN AND SHOUTED 'HEY, I'M LOOKING FOR MY BROTHER PRIMARCH, ALL I SEE IS A BOOK-READING PUSSY'. THEN HELD HIS HAND OUT TO BE BRO-FISTED. NO ONE DID, SO HE SUCKER-PUNCHED LION TO LOOK TOUGH."
Again, only silence, this time broken by the sound of an ale tankard being dropped from numb fingers.
"YEAH, THE GUY WAS A witch. WHEN THEY SHOWED HIM THE SCHEMATICS FOR THE LEMAN RUSS TANK, YOU KNOW WHAT HE SAID? HE SAID 'MAKE THE CANNON BIGGER... LIKE MY COCK!' HE DEMANDED THE SCHEMATICS FOR THE PREMIERE TANK OF THE IMPERIAL GUARD BE ALTERED PURELY SO HE COULD MAKE A DICK JOKE!"
The servos of Bjorn's mighty armoured sarcophagus whirred into life as he suddenly started forward, his pounding feet bringing him back towards the door he burst in from. He did not stop as he crushed his way through a two-millennia-old table, and Space Wolves scattered out of his way with each thudding footstep. The entire assembled chapter watched in amazement as the Dreadnought sulked off, stopping only at the door to turn and speak once.
"IF YOU fethers WAKE ME AGAIN, IT BETTER BE TO KILL SOMETHING OR ASK ABOUT ACTUAL HEROES, NOT BITCH-STEALING donkey-caves." And with that, Bjorn walked away, followed by hastily running Rune Priests.
Or.
Spoiler:
Bjorn's Happy End
Slowly his thoughts arose from their centuries of slumber once more. Chemical stimulants pumped in through the tubes connected to his sarcophagus and washed away the residual grogginess of stasis sleep. The sound of servos activating, lifting his armoured shell from its resting position into an upright stance, heralded the sudden explosion of light that filled his vision before clarifying into a familiar scene. Apothecaries and TechMarines stood before him, data-slates and tools in their hands, and one white-haired marine ahead of all the rest in the centre of his field of view. The decorations on his armour identified him as Brother-Captain. Something seemed a touch unusual about the whole scenario, but he couldn’t quite put his power claw on it. No matter. It seemed the time had come again.
“WHO AWAKENS BJORN?” he rumbled through the Dreadnought’s speakers. “IS IT TIME FOR WAR?” he added hopefully.
“It is indeed time for war, mighty Bjorn,” the Captain responded. “We have awakened you to do battle with our foes!”
“FIGURES. IT’S NEVER TIME FOR – WAIT, WHAT?”
There was a stunned silence from all in the room. It lasted a few seconds before the Brother-Captain broke it by clearing his throat. “Uhm, yes, ancient one, it is time for war. That-that’s not a problem is it?”
Bjorn did not respond for another several moments. When he did, his words were slow and uncertain. “YOU…DON’T WANT ME TO TELL YOU TALES OF THE OLD TIMES? OF LEMAN RUSS?”
“I… I suppose you could, but to be honest, venerable warrior, it is your skill in combat that we were hoping you would display.”
Again, a pause. A pair of apothecaries at the back of the group began to mutter to each other. “Did we get the ritual wrong?” “I heard them say he was going senile… he probably doesn’t even remember what he’s supposed to do-“
A sudden booming noise echoed around the armoury chamber. It was a moment before anyone realised that the sound was that of laughter, issuing forth from the Dreadnaught’s speakers.
“VERY WELL!” Bjorn announced, once his fit of chuckling had subsided. “I SHALL DO BATTLE ONCE MORE!” The worried expressions on the faces of the assembled Marines immediately turned to smiles and relief.
“Of course, great one!” grinned the Captain. “It will be an honour to fight at your side!” Bjorn was ecstatic. He was being awoken to actually fight, nobody wanted him to tell stories about fething Leman Russ, and not once so far had anyone referred to him by his Emperor-forsaken full title. This century was shaping up well so far! If this luck kept up, they’d be celebrating their upcoming victories in battle with a complete sacred machine-oil application administered by a pair of Adepta Sororitas –
“Uhm, mighty one? You sort of zoned out for a moment there… something about twins?”
“WHAT? NOTHING. WHEN DO WE FIGHT!?” Bjorn demanded, changing the subject quickly. “LEAD ME TO OUR SHIPS THAT WE MIGHT TRAVEL TO WHEREVER OUR ENEMIES DWELL!”
“We are already aboard our Battle Barge and orbiting our target,” the Captain informed him. “In a short space of time we will be in position to drop assault pods and initiate the battle. If you would follow me to the pod bays, we shall prepare to depart immediately.” Ah! So they were already aboard a vessel, and not in the fortress as he had expected. No wonder the situation had seemed unusual when he awoke, for he realized he did not recognize his surroundings. Bjorn approved; anxious to fight as he was, the prospect of a lengthy and boring voyage to the field of battle would not have been a welcome one. With a hiss and a whir, his Dreadnought’s motor systems roared into life and he made to follow the Brother-Captain.
“LEAD ON, BROTHER. I DO NOT RECOGNIZE THIS VESSEL NOR KNOW ITS LAYOUT. WHICH SHIP HAS THE FORTUNE OF CARRYING US INTO BATTLE?”
The Captain mumbled something quietly and the other assembled marines looked nervously at each other.
“BROTHER, I HAVE SEEN THE PASSING OF TEN MILLENNIA AND MY HEARING IS NOT WHAT IT ONCE WAS. PLEASE SPEAK UP.”
“We – we are aboard the Litany of Fury, ancient one.”
“HM. A NEW ADDITION TO THE FLEET, IT SEEMS. THE CHAPTER IS DOING WELL. AND SURPRISINGLY CLEAN!” Bjorn remarked, looking upon the gleaming surfaces where hazy red reflections of his and the other Marines’ armour could be seen. “I EXPECT EVERYTHING TO BE COVERED IN WOLF SHI- RED. WHY AM I RED?”
“Oh, gak.” Muttered a Tech-Marine, before one of his companions poked him in the side with a mechadendrite.
The Brother-Captain turned to glare at him for a moment before turning back to Bjorn. “Why wouldn’t you be red, revered Bjorn? Red has always been the colour of our chapter –“
“SILENCE!” Bjorn commanded, and the group fell quiet. Bjorn took a few steps over to a convenient nearby bulkhead and experimentally scraped one of his arms against the surface before rotating it into his field of view. A familiar bright blue could be seen peeking out from the scratched layer of red paint applied over it.
Now, Bjorn had indeed lived for longer than any other in the Imperium could claim, and the priests of the Space Wolves all believed the long years had driven him senile, but in truth his mental faculties were as sharp as they had ever been. Sometimes, however, they simply needed time to warm up after a long rest. He turned to face the red-armoured group, noting the bird and blood drop iconography featured on their shoulder-plates and the banners adorning the room.
“Now, mighty Bjorn, we can explain,” the Captain began, but Bjorn silenced him with a shout.
“SHUT UP! I’M THINKING.”
This was not something they had expected. All stood worriedly as they waited for Bjorn’s thoughts to reach a conclusion.
“…HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT WOLVES?”
There was some conferral. Eventually the Brother-Captain stepped forward again and said “We… are… neutral on the subject of wolves?”
“GOOD. I HATE THE fething THINGS.”
Bjorn leaned forward, as much as was possible for a Dreadnought to do, until he teetered precariously over the Brother-Captain and the slightest tremor from the engines of the ship risked condemning the unfortunate marine to a crushing death. He spoke.
“NO WOLVES. NO QUESTIONS ABOUT LEMAN RUSS. ABSOLUTELY NO REFERENCES TO FELL HANDS. ANYBODY WHO ASKS ME A QUESTION ABOUT THE OLD TIMES IS GOING TO BE USED AS PAINT TO HELP FIX THIS gakky JOB YOU’VE DONE ON ME,” Bjorn rumbled. “THOSE ARE MY TERMS. AGREE AND I’LL PRETEND NOT TO NOTICE WHAT YOU THIEVING LITTLE BASTARDS HAVE DONE. DEAL?”
The Captain nodded frantically.
“GOOD. NOW WHERE ARE THE fething ASSAULT PODS?” Bjorn demanded, spinning his power claw and returning to a normal stance, mirth creeping back into his voice. This could turn out to be a very good century indeed.
The familiar hissing of servos being powered up after decades of idleness filled the echoing sarcophagus he was trying to rest in. As his senses engaged, once more allowing him to see and hear the outside world, the familiar chanting filled his near-dead ears once more.
"Ah, dammit", he thought, "it's that time of the century again".
The language of the Space Wolves' rune priests was a harsh, guttural dialect appropriate for harsh people with excesses of phlegm, and if this lot were like the last lot, that was an accurate description.
Oh well, time to put on the show.
He cleared his throat and prepared his deep, tired voice for use once more. After all, if he made it seem like he was slowly losing his grip on reality, they might let him sleep longer.
"WHO AWAKENS BJORN?" he spoke into the microphone, letting the vox casters on the Dreadnought echo it out into the surrounding room. He could already see who was awakening him - the little gimp with the wolf-pubes for a beard - but he had to follow the ritual, make it look all authentic or they would start asking questions.
"Oh mighty Bjorn, the Fell-Handed-" ahh gak, he hated that nickname, "we awaken thee to help us remember the past, the forgotten and the sacrificed, those who embody the spirit of the Wolf."
Spirit of the Wolf? That bollocks was new. Normally they went on about the spirit of the warrior and gak.
"YOU WISH TO HEAR THE TALES AGAIN, DO YOU?" he recited, having said this gak at least half a dozen times in the past.
"Yes, oh Venerable one, please, tell us." The pube-faced-tard and the collection of ugly gaks behind him bowed in supplication. He really, REALLY hated having to tell all these tales. Imagine being asleep, and only being woken up every few hours to tell stories, then being put back to sleep. That was his fate, and he was starting to get sick of it. And they always wanted to hear about fething Leman Russ, too. Woe betide any fether stupid enough to ask about Leman Russ.
"FIND ME AN AUDIENCE OF LOYAL WARRIORS, STRONG AND TRUE, WHO MIGHT WISH TO HEAR THE TALES."
Gythor was excited. More then excited, he was ecstatic. He was still a Blood Claw, having not yet earned the opportunity to become a fully fledged Grey Hunter in glorious combat, but he privileged to be one of those alive at the right time to hear the tales of Bjorn, the Fell-Handed. One of the oldest Space Marines still alive, one who saw the Emperor himself! He would hear the glorious tales spoken from the man's own lips - well, vox casters - of great legends that had been fading to the years.
While he waited he shared an ale with his packmates, but a hush settled over the crowd as the heavy footfalls of a Dreadnought could be heard approaching. All eyes turned towards the massive oak doors of the great hall as it approached, step after step, agonizingly slowly. Just when it sounded like it was right outside the noise stopped. Second after second ticked by, quiet having settled over the room like a blanket over a frightened child. First it was seconds, then it stretched into minutes. Finally a voice down the back of the room spoke up.
"Do we... open the door for him, or someth-" He was interrupted by the door of the great hall, which had stood for a millennia, essentially exploding inwards, shattering into a thousand pieces and flinging themselves at the assembled Space Wolves. The Blood Claws near the door found themselves with cuts from flying wood all over their faces, one collapsing to the ground with a shard of wood the size of his fist embedded in his eye.
"Lucky fether," thought Gythor, "he's going to get SUCH a fething cool scar."
"I AM HERE" spoke Bjorn, the words echoing out through the great hall, emerging lifelessly from the vox caster mounted on the Dreadnought. A great cheer rose from the masses of Space Wolves, before they chanted their traditional song of joy, repeating the word 'Wolf' at varying pitches in an almost orchestral sounding song. For a second Gythor thought he heard the vox casters on the Dreadnought mutter 'what the fu-', but he knew such a thing could not be right. Bjorn's voice was as powerful as thunder, a mech like that did not mumble.
The Space Wolves cleared the path for the enormous, venerable Dreadnought to pace down the length of the enormous hall, his pounding footsteps knocking aside ale tankards within a few meters of him as he passed.
Gythor held his breath in excitement as the Dreadnought reached the head of the hall and turned to face the assembled masses.
"TELL ME, OF WHICH STORY DO YOU WISH TO HEAR?" boomed his dead, powerful voice. A thousand responses rose at once, Wolves shouting their answers all together.
The high rune priest, who had followed along behind Bjorn without even being noticed, held his hand out for silence. "Brothers, please! You, Grey-Hunter Rynold, you may ask first." The marine singled out rose from his seat, helmet clutched under his arm with pride.
"Noble Bjorn the Fell-handed-" an echoed grunt of annoyance echoed around the hall, but no one seemed to notice, "-tell us more of our glorious founder, tell us of the greatness of Leman Russ himself!" Rynold thrust his free hand into the air as if he had achieved some glorious victory in asking his question. From the cheers of agreement of his fellow marines, many felt he had. As the cheers died off, it took a few seconds to realize Bjorn was silent. He had not yet answered.
The high Rune priest cleared his throat once. "Uh, mighty Bjorn, do you need the question repea-"
"YOU ladies men" bellowed Bjorn. Silence answered his words, until a few of the long fangs near the front of the hall started chuckling, obviously thinking it was a joke. "DON'T fething LAUGH. DO I SOUND LIKE I'M MAKING A JOKE?!" Again, silence answered his words. "SERIOUSLY, I'M WOKEN UP ONCE A fething HUNDRED YEARS TO TELL YOU fethers OF THE PAST, AND EACH TIME I SEE YOU, YOU'VE fethed OVER HISTORY EVEN WORSE THEN IT WAS BEFORE!! LEMAN RUSS WAS AN donkey-cave!"
Again, silence. The Rune Priest cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should allow noble Dreadnought Bjorn some more rest, shall w-"
"NO, ENOUGH fething REST. YOU ARE ALL GOING TO HEAR ABOUT WHY LEMAN RUSS WAS A fething DICK. SERIOUSLY. A DICK. YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I'M CALLED 'THE FELL-HANDED'? HUH? DO YA'? THE fether CAUGHT ME JERKING OFF BEHIND A BIG ROCK ONE NIGHT ABOUT TWENTY METERS FROM THE REST OF THE DETACHMENT! HE KICKED THE ROCK AWAY AND SHOUTED, 'LO, IT SEEMS HE IS BESTING A MIGHTY FELL-BEAST WITH ONLY HIS HAND!"
Again, silence. This time broken by a slight snickering from some of the younger Blood Claws.
"I fething HEARD THAT, YOU witches. YOU fething WOLF fethers. YEAH, DON'T THINK I DON'T NOTICE YOUR GROWING OBSESSION WITH WOLVES. SERIOUSLY, WHEN I WAS AROUND WE WERE JUST CRAZY fethers WHO RIPPED OUT OUR ENEMIES THROATS WITH OUR TEETH. NOW YOU'RE fething RIDING WOLVES INTO BATTLE. YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE YOU CAN RIDE INTO BATTLE? fething BIKES! MAYBE EVEN A fething BIKE THAT HAS GUNS ATTACHED!"
Silence dominated the room in between Bjorn's words. A few of the Wolf-riders cleared their throats nervously and patted their wolf companions, all of whom had a thousand yard stare and the haunted look of molestation victims.
"YOU fethers THINK YOU KNOW LEMAN RUSS? THE GUY WAS A DOUCHE. HIS STRATEGIES WERE 'YEAH, YOU GUYS GO CHARGE THE ENEMY, I'LL SECURE THIS SHACK WITH THESE BITCHES', AND HE WASN'T TALKING ABOUT FEMALE WOLVES."
The high rune priest held his head in his armoured hands for a second, before standing up once more. "Mighty Bjorn, perhaps we shou-"
"HE WAS TALKING ABOUT WOMEN. YOU KNOW WHY HE HATED... WHAT'S HIS NAME, THE DARK ANGELS GUY. THAT GEEK, WHAT WAS HIS NAME AGAIN?"
The Rune Priest, now resigned to this being the second worst Bjorn story-time ever, answered, "He was Lion El'Jonson, mighty Bjorn."
"YEAH, fething LION EL'JONSON, HE WAS A DECENT MAN. HE AND LEMAN HATED EACH OTHER BECAUSE LION EL' ENJOYED BOOKS. YEAH, THAT'S IT. FIRST TIME THEY EVER MET LION WAS READING A BOOK, LEMAN WALKED IN AND SHOUTED 'HEY, I'M LOOKING FOR MY BROTHER PRIMARCH, ALL I SEE IS A BOOK-READING PUSSY'. THEN HELD HIS HAND OUT TO BE BRO-FISTED. NO ONE DID, SO HE SUCKER-PUNCHED LION TO LOOK TOUGH."
Again, only silence, this time broken by the sound of an ale tankard being dropped from numb fingers.
"YEAH, THE GUY WAS A witch. WHEN THEY SHOWED HIM THE SCHEMATICS FOR THE LEMAN RUSS TANK, YOU KNOW WHAT HE SAID? HE SAID 'MAKE THE CANNON BIGGER... LIKE MY COCK!' HE DEMANDED THE SCHEMATICS FOR THE PREMIERE TANK OF THE IMPERIAL GUARD BE ALTERED PURELY SO HE COULD MAKE A DICK JOKE!"
The servos of Bjorn's mighty armoured sarcophagus whirred into life as he suddenly started forward, his pounding feet bringing him back towards the door he burst in from. He did not stop as he crushed his way through a two-millennia-old table, and Space Wolves scattered out of his way with each thudding footstep. The entire assembled chapter watched in amazement as the Dreadnought sulked off, stopping only at the door to turn and speak once.
"IF YOU fethers WAKE ME AGAIN, IT BETTER BE TO KILL SOMETHING OR ASK ABOUT ACTUAL HEROES, NOT BITCH-STEALING donkey-caves." And with that, Bjorn walked away, followed by hastily running Rune Priests.
fething hell, that was utter genius
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2012/05/22 14:47:00
Dman137 wrote:
goobs is all you guys will ever be
By 1-irt: Still as long as Hissy keeps showing up this is one of the most entertaining threads ever.
(((((((Michael was here))))))) 
4th company
The Screaming Beagles of Helicia V
Hive Fleet Jumanji
: third compagny in the building 
5000pts 
6000pts 
