My mind extends across this chamber that others call the Throne Room, upwards to the cloth-of-gold baldachin suspended above the Throne, a vast canopy embroidered with the contradictory yet intertwined principles of concordia and discordia that frames the electric-blue aura of my great lord’s light; outwards from the Throne’s massive plinth, carved from the psychoreactive material known on the craftworlds as wraithbone, and inset with psycurium and dark glass panels, tourmaline and aerolithic moldavite; past silent Uzkarel and Caecaltus at their posts, past the gleaming ranks of their Hetaeron companies at attention beyond them; out, like a rushing tide across the lustrous floor of sectile marble and ouslite; across the susurrating banks of stasis generators, archeotech regulators, and psykanic amplifiers that surround and feed the Throne, prophylactic mechanisms brought here in haste and urgently set to work when the folly of Magnus cracked the harmonised serenity of this adytum; past the diligent conclaves of the Adnector Concillium in their cowls and chasubles, standing amid the fat snakes and intestinal loops of power cables, ministering to the operation of these murmuring devices; then further out, along the frightful height and breadth of the cyclopean nave itself, a canyon turned upside down; between the soaring auramite columns rising like the trunks of mature Sequoiadendron giganteum, the Solomonic pillars of twisted bronze, the acanthus-headed colonettes, the gargantuan scissor arches; beneath the shining, ornate electro-flambeaux strung like stalactite pendants from the dizzying ceiling, and between the lumen orbs that float like infant suns; on, past echelons of burnished automata maintaining talismatic psycho-systems; past empty, scarlet-cushioned stalls where once the High Lords of the Council gathered, and the void-manic worthies of the Navis Nobilite awaited audience; past the golden pulpits of the cataleptic astropaths, adrift in algolagnic fugues; around the clattering dream-dynamos and stegosaurian oniero-looms; past the hypnostatic augury kilns breathing steam and dripping myrrh, and the affirmatrix prognometers leaking synthetic plasma, and exhaling the smell of industrially recovered nightmares; past the scriptorums of the noctuaries; past brass reliquaries and vitrodur grails; past mother-of-pearl loggia where bewitched diviners and incanting prognostipractors sift and read the ribbon-tapes of transcribed glossolalia spilled from the chattering indifference engines, searching for morsels of meaning; past prophesires swinging thuribles, and technoseers wheeling scrimshandered feretories; past mendicants in penance at their kneeling desks and anchorites bearing electro-generative monstrances; on, through the sound of melismatic antiphon and canticle welling from the mouthless choirs in chantry niches, screened by lace-pattern iconostases so they cannot catch sight of him and forget the words; past regiments of catachumen observants, seeking expiation and brimming with eucharistic ardour; along the walls of porphery and mica mosaic, frescoes of death’s-head putti and cackling ephebes that conceal hidden figures of alchemy; past engraved genealogies, and past the blazoned armorial hatchments of the twenty Legions, all but eight now shrouded in amaranthine drapes of mourning; past the iron tabernacles of the chimerical brethrendae composing, as rapidly and ceaselessly as they can, via feverish automatic writing, new variations of the material truth in a frantic effort to mediate and divert the impending bow wave of fate; past flocks of scurrying serfs and deferential abhumans, all blindfolded so they can remain present and sane at the same time, all rushing to deliver reports that no longer matter; past Zagreus Kane, the Fabricator-in-exile, with his coterie of adepts, weeping for the decimation of his battle engines, and plotting the deployment of the few that remain; past acres of empty marble floor where one day we will have to place tombs; past the great banners of liberty and victory that hang like waterfalls from the high walls every step of the nave’s six-kilometre length; beneath the vaulted gloom of the ceiling, wrought of Peruvian gold and tromp l’oeil and crystal mined on Enceladus, a ceiling a kilometre high; past the silent, waiting companies of the refulgent Custodes Pylorus who make their motionless vigil at the door, whispering their ever-mantra of by His will alone, to the ceramite and adamantine door itself, the Silver Door, the innermost gate of eternity.

Остался только Лев

Lionel Heresy Rogal Dorn

The Stone, the Master of Phalanx, the True Champion of the Emperor

In the 10,000 years since the Heresy to the opening of the Great Rift, Rogal Dorn has never stopped pushing forward the Great Crusade. The Imperial Fist Legion, which rotated in their role with the Luna Wolves as Terra's Guards at the Warmaster's command, found and rescued the drifting frigate Eisenstein while on a mission near Isstvan V. The survivors told shocking news: Horus took full power of Terra before confining the Emperor to the Palace; and now the Warmaster's forces had clashed with Horus's forces at Isstvan V. 

It seemed unbelievable for Rogal Dorn, who knew Horus well, so he organized an investigative fleet to have a better grasp of the situation and dispatched Hashin Yonnad as commander at the recommendation of Sigismund. However, an unidentified attacker destroyed the fleed and killed Yonnad, and only a small number of survivors were returned thanks to the aid of both the Dark Angel and Ultramarine forces. Warmaster persuaded the confused Dorn by showing a harrowing battle record of Isstvan V followed by a recording of Horus' declaration of war against his wayward brothers, which was sent to the entire galaxy. It was this, told him Lion, which led Guilliman, Ferrus, and even Russ and Sanguinius to rebel, and soon after the 7th Legion decided to join the Warmaster. Eventually, to atone for his failure to protect Terra, Rogal Dorn turned his ornate yellow armor to solid black and wore a Pain Glove at all times, pledging not to take it off until he liberated Terra.Since then, Imperial Fist's determination and skill have been the great pillar of the Warmaster's army.

The 7th Legion managed to beat even the 13th Legion and break through Peturabo's defenses throughout the Solar System as they entered, securing a foothold for the 1st Legion to advance. At the Siege of Terra, he showed his tenacity beyond himself. However, while Warmaster entered the Gates of Eternity to rescue the Emperor, Rogal Dorn faced his archrival, the Lord of Iron, but failed to beat him down. Moreover, when even Lion collapsed and a great army led by Konrad, Logar and Omegon arrived from the rear, he swallowed his anger and retreated with Guilliman.

Since then, while other brothers have lost themselves to Chaos, only Rogal Dorn has not forgotten his mission to restore Terra. Relying on his great ship Phalanx to go back and forth between the Warp and the material, he has turned to ever increasingly desperate means to recover Terra, from accepting all sorts of dangerous technologies to questionable allies, attacking "Horus' Empire" several times. The Orks' amazing Planet Crack technique, especially obtained from the War of the Beasts, was applied to Phalanx through the reverse engineering done by Rogal Dorn, and the VII Legion’s flagship has now been reborn as the ultimate weapon to rip up the continents and boil the seas.When the Great Rift broke out and Horus was revived, Rogal Dorn burned with an unprecedented fighting spirit, for he had never for a moment forgotten the painful memory of retreating 10,000 years ago just before his victory. Even Sigismund, who joined Guilliman's Black Crusade and became a Chaos Champion, rejoined 7th Legion for vengeance. They soon burst out of the cracks that opened closest to the Solar System and began to conquer the False Empire's army and many planets returned to the arms of the "true" Imperium. Later, when Abaddon the Indominus marched into Phalanx, Rogal Dorn took Sigismund as the vanguard and took the Indominus Crusaders on Pluto, and the prelude to the greatest war began.

Ля, как же я кайфую от этих артов. Это не просто лучшие Ваха-арты по правилу 63, это ещё и просто арты с охуенным покрасом, динамикой и мимикой. Блеск доспехов, рожа Лоргары(всё ещё считаю её лучшей работой автора), цвета на последнем арте. В общем, Cnmbwjx просто красавчик. Осталось дождаться Пертурабо, Ферруса, Хоруса и близняшек.

>Тебя уже и так десяток раз в говно ебалом макали

Как и тебя, но ты не останавливаешься и просишь добавки

Точнее цитирование двух сцен. Слова Жиллимана взяты из сцены, где он обращается с изображением Импи в крепости Геры

Справедливости ради, она ведь та ещё старуха

Ну а что удивляться, если Падшие — это маленькие дети, которым девочка по-старше вместе со своими одноклассницами запудрила мозги. А Захар как раз одна из этих одноклассниц.

Третья — это Чумное сердце. Да-да, конечно, варп здесь не причём. Это просто чистое существо из нематериального царства, змей-круг, из которого вытекает мудрость мистаи, ага

Да, послать к тёмным эльдарам делегацию тау определённо было охуенно идеей