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Ultimates Grey Knights Background - WestGamer
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PostPosted: Wed Oct 12, 2011 9:34 pm 
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Hey all, took a break from frantically painting grey knights for ultimates and decided to write up some background for them. Before anyone says anything yes the grey knights are OP here because it's fluff and it's allowed to be :wink: :P anyway here you go, if there's any glaring mistakes let me know please, C&C welcome :D



Daemons walked the world. Insect thin bloodstalkers, gibbering things that dribbled aetheric flame, swollen plague-carriers, monstrous brute-hulks, all of them twisted and distorted beyond sane comprehension. Daemons. A nightmare catalogue of monstrosities had swept across the planet. An army of them even now swept towards one of the last few fortresses mankind had on the world. The swarm of insanity swept down into the valley, a jagged scar of shale in the landscape a kilometre across. There the monsters paused, not in need of respite, nor for shelter, they were clothed in the skin of the warp and such concerns were beneath them. They paused because they were opposed. An unwavering line of silver armoured warriors stood before them, white of helm and carrying blazing halberds. Daemon-slayers, incorruptibles, Purifiers. Grey Knights.

The world was paramount, the crusade launched from the Ocularis Terribus was unprecedented in strength and this bastion could not, would not fall. Nearly every Grey Knight had heard the call and had set out to defend the Imperium. Here now stood the elite of even that lofty chapter. Purifiers, warriors untouchable by chaos, an unblemished order of warriors that stood at the forefront of a chapter designed for daemon slaying. All but a few of those that existed in the galaxy were present here at the mouth of the valley. A thin line of thirty-two warriors backed by the colossal forms of three sacred dreadnoughts, war-tombs of fallen heroes allowed to continue to fight. Thirty-five silent warriors stared down thousands of nightmares without flinching.

The daemons screamed, roared and shrilled their fury, a wall of sound and psychic malevolence swept down the valley. Rocks cracked, plants withered and died, the ground itself warped. The wave hit the line of warriors. It did little more then ruffle the oath-papers and scrolls that adorned the Grey Knights limbs. The daemons charged forward a tidal wave of horror, skittering and stomping forward. The Purifiers were silent as they raised there weapons. Wrist-mounted cannons and heavier man-portable assault weapons opened up. A juddering, flickering carpet of destruction spread out from the Purifiers. Daemons lost limbs, lost heads, lost lives, ichor and inhuman screams filled the air. Still they came, no hesitation, no doubt, an unstoppable inhuman wave of corruption. The pumping bolts of light like shooting stars from stormbolters and sooty blurs of hard ordnance from the psycannons not enough to stem the tide. A slaughter-mob of stamping bronze behemoths thundered ahead towards the silver line and a lone figure charged from the line of Grey Knights to meet them head on.

I AM THE HAMMER

The words were felt by every living thing within two-kilometres. Bronze-clad monsters and shrieking horrors were engulfed in white fire. The daemons could endure any mortal flame; they had liquid fire for blood and metal for skin. They crumbled to ash and molten slag in the face of this maelstrom.

I AM THE SWORD IN HIS HAND

Whatever didn’t die to the fire died to a sweeping blade, the warrior moving with impossible grace. Four seconds had passed and the entire pack of eight monsters died. The warrior stood alone amidst the scorched and blackened remains. The daemons hissed and spat at him unwilling to go closer. They whispered his name, words overlapping and repeating in a frenzied tumult. Executioner. Flame Lord. High Castellan. Anathema Priest. Keeper of the Blade. Garran Crowe. He charged. One warrior charged. Thousands of daemons remained. He charged and the other thirty-one Purifiers charged with him. The daemons faltered. Beings of pure malice and hate, warp-spawned monsters and eldritch horrors faltered.

WE ARE THE HATE. WE ARE THE WRATH. WE ARE THE VENGEANCE

All the Purifiers spoke now, their psychic voice manifesting in billowing waves of flame. Where the daemons fire was eldritch and corposant, this was cleansing and pure. Horrors with dozens of eyes and alien nightmares without faces screamed and died. Blazing halberds and chattering cannons laid them to ruin. Outnumbered a hundred to one the Purifiers slaughtered the daemons. The valley becoming a plane of molten sand and fused bone as an inferno of cleansing flame swept out. It took eleven minutes and six seconds for every daemon to be sent screaming back to hell. The Grey Knights paused. The ground trembled. A new horde approached utterly dwarfing the previous in size. The entire valley mouth seemed to ripple with movement as a living tide of daemons charged into view. Millions upon millions of horrors skittered, bound, shambled and leapt forward, entire coteries of slaughter-lords and pleasure-kings stamped and loped forward. Oceans of lesser spawn scurried around them, scores of heralds led their courts, and herds of beasts writhed along the ground or tore through the air.

The Purifiers reformed their line. Cadia could not and would not fall. Not while a single Grey Knight drew breath. Flame licked out from the silver armoured forms as they prepared for the foe. Weapons were checked and fresh ammunition packs clipped into place. Crowe strode forward leading the prayer-chant, as one the Purifiers charged forward a tidal wave of flame and faith opposing one of abomination and nightmare.

WE ARE THE WOES OF DAEMONKIND. WE ARE THE ZEALOT WATCHMEN.
WE ARE THE GREY KNIGHTS


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PostPosted: Thu Oct 13, 2011 9:55 am 
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nice olly. i like how crowe is on his own out front, just like on the tabletop. now get back to work!

instead of making a new thread i might just post my fluff here.

The Descent

As I walked through the large, strong, safe doors to the cathedral, guarded by 10 of the churches finest, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. As my knee touched the pure marble floor I glanced around at my prophesied charges, none of whom seem to follow my reverence. The Ex-military sniper pulled something out of his ghillie suit, kissing it before returning it to its resting place. The Tracker was standing near a pew looking awkward, out of place within these walls. With a look of relief on his face he leant down to pat my dog Shep, who was threading its way between the group. We had come across both of them in the nearby woodlands which stretched for hundreds of kilometres exactly where I had seen in my dreams many times before. The next that my gaze fell upon was a Pimp of sorts, a dubious man whose many moral failings in some respects was made up for with an incredible sense of what is right and fairness. We had come across him holed up in small, solid, familiar looking building shortly after our journey out of the woodlands. Then there was the Professor, the first who had joined me. He was a quirky man, a genius in many fields although now he was consulting his pocket watch as though it would give him all the answers. All of them carried a variety of arms collected from stores and houses on this journey to our apparent safety. At this I looked down and saw my old shotgun under my hand on the marble and realised this was the part where I was suppose to rise.
“Close those doors and board them, we can block them with these pews. Father Nathaniel, give me a hand here” the Ex-military sniper called to the group. Hurriedly we set about securing the massive door. Compared to everywhere else in the city this building seemed pristine and untouched by the events of the past few days and weeks. By our estimates we had an hour or so of anonymous safety. This time was used taking turns with the amenities, showering and shaving, a luxury absent from the start of this hell until now. In the free time I had I continued with what seemed a never ending prayer, a prayer which seemed even more fitting here. A knocking on the door jolted me from my silent, almost desperate pleas to the almighty. This knock surprised me even though I was expecting this. It was shortly followed by another knock, and another.
I picked up my shotgun, checking to see that it carried its maximum compliment and able to scream my indignation in ways more effectively then my righteous tongue, and moved towards the altar at the back of the cathedral with the well trained and well-armed guards of this holy place. By the time I reached my designated spot the knocking had grown louder and more insistent, too loud now to be called a mere knock. It became an incessant pounding caused by dozens of hands or other, unknown appendages. As I readied myself, holding Shep near to my leg, I uttered a few more words of my prayer before the doors burst open.
As I saw our opposition I heard the panicked curses uttered by my small flock, one of whom was to be the saviour of mankind, but whom? There was a moment held in time, my heart had stopped, there was no need to breathe. A warm glow filled the cathedral, not fed by any natural light. This was the deliverance I had been promised. A great host of angels descended to the marble floor. I immediately recognised the form of St Michael at their head. Time began to flow again and I realised my cheeks were dripping tears. My destiny in this world was complete.

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existential crisis in 3... 2... 1... existential crisis aborted, Check out my daemonkin Blog!


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