Thousand Sons Sorcerer
Power armoured chaos sorcerer with tzeentchian iconography
Athletics, Awareness, Common Lore(War), Dodge, Deceive, Forbidden Lore(Astartes, Horus Heresy, Long War, Daemonology, Warp, Heresy, Xenos, Psykers, Archeotech), Linguistics(Low Gothic), Navigate(Surface), Operate(Surface), Parry, Psynicience +10, Scholastic Lore(Occult), Scrutiny, Logic.
Talents and Traits:
Psyker, Ambidextrous, Bulging Biceps, Legion Weapon Training, Heightened Senses(Hearing, Sight), Nerves of Steel, Quickdraw, Resistance(Cold,Heat,Poisons), Unarmed Warrior, Psy Rating (5), Mimic, Ancient Warrior, Warp Sense, Amphibious, Unnatural Strength(4), Unnatural Toughness (4), Paranoia, Unnatural WP (1), Soul Bound:Tzeentch, Excessive Wealth, Child of the Warp, Polyglot.
Psychic Scream, Thought Sending, Precision Telekinesis, Mind over Matter, Precognition, Precognitive Dodge, Mantle of Lies, Wind of Chaos, Telekinetic shield, Bolt of change.
Gifts of the Gods
Mark of Tzeentch (Unnatural Wp(1), Psy rating +1, Bound to Tzeentch), Intelligent Cyst, Icon of Blasphemy.
Legion Combi-Bolter + Mag-lock Holster + Belt Feed(15kg), Legion Bolt Pistol(5.5kg), Legion Combat Knife (2kg), 2 Legion Bolt Pistol Clips (1.1kg), 2 Legion Combi-Bolter Clips(3kg) Staff of Change (4kg), Legion Lightning claw.
Legion Bolter, Best Legion Bolter, Legion Combat Knife, Corrupted Legion Bolter, Refractor field.
Legion Terminator Armour:
Customization: Remnants of mutation.
Working Subsystems:Sustainable Power Source, Vox link, Auto-senses, Nutrient recycling.
|40||30||+4 35(65)||+4 40||30||50||46||+1 70||55||59||49||16|
|SB+TB||Carry||Lift||Push||Total Equipment Weight|
Careful Maintenance(Auto-senses, Nutrient Recycling)
WS 4 BS 3 S 4 T 4 I 3 W 3 A 1 Ld 10 Sv 3+/4++
Wargear: Twin Linked Bolter, Bolt Pistol, Force Weapon, Chaos Icon, Daemon Weapon
Special Rules: Night Vison/Acute Sensors, Relentless, Nerves Of Steel, Psyker, Psychic Mastery 2, Glamour of Tzeentch[Chaos Daemons Changeling], Wind of Chaos, Bolt of change(More Psychic Powers to come)
The Distant Past
Magnus was enraged, that much was clear. Sorcerous lightning smashed into the tower from a black sky that rained fire. Ahriman, Chief Librarian of the Thousand Sons, was suspended in thin air above the fireswept earth. His armoured boots thousands of feet above the statuesque forms of the legions once proud warriors, now little more than suits of armour. Magnus’ curses rang through the sky, the sound waves almost visible and they pushed aside the fiery rain.
When it seemed that his tirade was rising to its inevitable conclusion, the utter annihilation of Ahriman and his followers, he stopped mid sentence as if hearing a voice. The sudden silence was as shocking as the thunderclaps of Magnus’ rage had been but moments before. As the seconds slid by, the cabal of sorcerers watched on with dread as Ahriman floated helplessly under Magnus’ cyclopean gaze. In an instant, Ahriman was gone, disappearing as if he had never existed. The cabal watched in horror as one by one, its members were plucked out of existence, their echoing screams the only evidence of their passing.
Photep felt his boots begin to rise off the ground and knew it was his turn to be obliterated, his life forfeit for his part in the dangerous gambit that was Ahriman’s Rubric. His final words came out in a soft breath, “I’m sorry father.” A presence filled his mind, its overwhelming power almost driving Photep insane. Then a soul shatteringly loud voice echoed through his skull with a promise, “You will be.” That was when the pain started.
Photep awoke, stirring as a sound intruded upon his unconcious. Pushing his tortured body up from the ground and opening his eyes, he froze. Immediately in front of him was the source of the sound that had awoken him, a great pair of golden eyes stared into his own, a huge canine form standing threateningly above him. Photep never broke the beasts gaze and after several moments it sat back on its haunches and seemed content to watch. It was at this point that Photep noticed the oddity of his surroundings. An ever changing sky of indescribable colours set above a twisted landscape, a crystalline plateau in the distance with a great green fortress set atop it. A golden path led towards the plateau, stretching for unknowable kilometres into the distance. Photep heard a voice gasp in amazement and turned to find the source, realising suddenly that the voice had come from him, but was not his own. Staring into a flickering pool of water beside the path, gave him a vision of an ordinary human female, a peasant that could be found on any world of the hated Imperium. Was this a cruel twist of Magnus’ insane humour or just a glamour cast by this fickle place? Turning away from the shocking image of his visage, Photep noticed the canine from before had moved several paces up the path and had turned back to ensure he was following. Whether it was a trick of the light or the distance, the canine appeared to have gotten marginally smaller in the intervening minutes. Struggling to his bare human feet, Photep took a few shaky steps that became much firmer as he went along, and began walking the golden path to the crystal plateau.
For what had seemed like an eternity Photep had followed this golden path, his canine companion getting smaller every time he looked away and back again. His black guide was now no bigger than one of Photep’s armoured greaves that he had worn as a marine. The fortress seemed to be getting no closer but he felt as if he had been walking for centuries. His feet bloody and sore, Photep walked in a daze, the fickle twist of fate that had put him into this frail human form utterly defeating his superhuman mind. Closing his eyes and drifting ever onwards down the golden path, Photep snapped back to alertness as he walked into a solid, immovable object and crashed to the ground. He sat and stared upwards at the monolithic doorway set into a crystalline structure before him, the twisting golden path leading into the sealed portal. The now tiny canine leapt upon Photep and settled into his arms, staring into his face. A voice slithered into his mind, informing him that this was the first of nine portals and that the guardian would ask him one of the nine hundred and ninety nine riddles of Tzaratxoth. A booming voice echoed around him, an incomprehensible torrent of sound thats understanding was on the very edge of his mind. Then came the quiet internal voice again, suggesting that he blurt the first thing that came to mind else he would be annihilated on the spot. Photep stuttered out an answer that once spoken, not even he recalled but the great portal in front of him creaked slowly open, allowing access. Photep picked himself up from the ground, still clutching this strange canine and stepped through.
This process was repeated time and time again, an incomprehensible question was asked and answered in turn, allowing passage for Photep and his companion. The final portal opened into a great library, shelves towered above into the fathomless ceiling, all stocked full of innumerable books. Pink and blue shapes of colour and light flitted amongst the shelves, endlessly moving and reordering great dusty tomes of knowledge, a seemingly impossible task. A massive humanoid figure appeared in front of Photep, with huge feathered wings and a birdlike head. A cruelly hooked beak sat inches from his face, its foetid breath exhaled as it spoke a single word: “MORTAL!”
A great cacophony of sound and motion greeted this pronouncement, the formerly silent coloured shapes yipping and shrieking, a terrible wind throwing pages and books across the library. Then as suddenly as the commotion had come, it was gone. The humanoid figure had been replaced with another, equally strange being. Vaguely human but with a face set into its torso, two great sweeping horns protruded from above burning, soulless eyes.
“So you made it then,” Came Tzeentch’s daemonic voice.
For countless millennia Photep wandered the great library, spending decades lost in a single tome. His constant companion was the black canine that one of Tzeentch’s great lords had referred to as Changeling. Photep still appeared as he had upon his first arrival but now carried a staff much like those of Tzeench’s Lords, along with a weight of knowledge and sorcerous power the likes of which the mortal realm had never seen.
“I have need of you once more,” Tzeentch’s voice broke Photep’s reverie and he looked up from the tome he had been studying. “What would you have of me Master? I am yours to command.”
With this response a whirlwind of light and colour tore through the library towards Photep, accompanied by Tzeench’s voice. “You will return to your mortal realmand complete a task for me, do as you wish to further your own ends. Only know that on the day you die, the journey has not ended for you. I shall call and you shall come, then you will return as you are.” With this final pronouncement Photep was engulfed by the flashing whirlwind and torn into a million screaming pieces.
Photep awoke, stirring as a sound intruded upon his unconscious. Pushing his tortured body up from the ground and opening his eyes, he stared in wonder. The heads up display of his astartes battle helm showed him that his superhuman body was returned to him, the glittering crystal staff was clutched in his gauntleted hands. However something wasn’t right, his knowledge was fading swiftly, his powers were ebbing away, returning to what he had been prior to his aeons long stay in the great library. Tzeentch was a hard master, to give him so much and then snatch it away was heartbreaking. He knew that Tzeentch’s infinitely complex schemes would involve him doing something in his lifetime to further them. Having not specified what such a task was made it a trifle difficult to know however. He hoped that as he furthered Tzeentch’s plans, some of his powers and knowledge would return so that he might ascend to the crystalline realm once more.
The Not So Distant Past
Scout Sergeant Centris carefully adjusted his telescopic sights, keeping the target locked and ready to purge this chaos scum with the simple squeeze of a pressure plate. The corrupt abomination that once walked the galaxy as one of the Emperor’s champions sat squarely in his crosshairs, his blue and gold power armour almost corrupted beyond recognition however several telltale signs identified it as having once been Crusade Pattern. Centris would gain great honour for the chapter by eliminating this scourge upon the Emperor’s galaxy, all he needed was a green light to flicker in his heads up display and it would end.
Photep’s life was swiftly drawing to an end once more, as it had done several times during his unnaturally long existence. This endless cycle of death would once again repeat. His precognitive abilities had shown the murkiness of the next few hours, the unlikelihood of his survival plain to see if one had the witchsight.
By now his enemies would have broken though the outer defences, the void shields had flickered and died hours ago. They were too late anyway, the ritual was past the point of no return and nothing these loyalist scum could do would stop the inevitable conclusion. The cultists monotonous chanting was almost drowned out by the incessant shelling that was tearing into the surrounding walls and bastions. So far his web of illusions and traps had kept their forces at bay long enough for his task to be achieved, their purpose was served. With a wave of his hand they dispersed, no doubt the fools would think that their pathetic efforts had overcome him. It was time.
Finally! Hakon’s Rune Priests had shattered this spawn of Magnus’ witchcraft. Even now the Skyclaw packs were bounding towards the now accessible walls, the Talon of Russ linebreaker squadron’s demolisher cannons having punched gaping holes in the rockcrete. Jorahn’s Rhino leapt forward towards the breach, closely followed by the rest of the companies transports, racing across the blasted landscape to close with the infernal sorcerers fortress. His wolf scouts had the witch targeted but such was the way of witches that there would be no guarantee he was truly dead unless he was chopped to pieces. Such a foe must be faced head on.
The rhino belonging to Styrkar’s pack exploded beside Jorahn’s as heavy weapons fire lanced from the fortress, high calibre shells tearing the armoured hull to pieces. The unnatural twilight lighting up with tracer rounds and explosions, the claws were suffering a fearful toll under the onslaught, grey armoured bodies and shattered vehicles already littering the field. The Skyclaws were bounding through the breach, trails of fire blasting from their jump packs as they leapt to slay the foes of the Allfather. Jorahn’s pack poured from the rhino as it skidded to a halt in front of the shattered wall, Grey Hunters streaming into the cursed fortress. A hail of auto fire and lasbolts greeted them but such weapons were no match for their battle plate, only a lucky shot to a weak joint could do any real damage. The Skyclaws were already amongst the cultists with chainblades sending blood and limbs flying with every swing. With a feral roar Jorahn hurled himself into the fray, the packs streaming forward with him.
His frost axe crackled in his hands, the sorcerer stood in front of him surrounded by the crumpled remains of at least a dozen wolves. Jorahn snarled and surged forwards, his axe clashing with the sorcerers crystalline staff. Back and forth they danced in a maelstrom of violence, Jorahn’s raw fury blunted by Photep’s precision skill. Leaping backwards Photep spoke a single word and Johran’s axe fell from his nerveless fingers as a deep paralysis set in, his limp body lifting off the ground and crucified in mid air.
“I have enjoyed our dance dog of the Corpse God but now it is time to finish it,” Photep’s unnerving voice seeming to speak within Jorahn’s mind rather than an audible sound.
“I will tear you to pieces witch! By the God Emperor you will pay for this!” Jorahn spat back.
Photep’s unearthly laughter rang out before he spoke again, “What would you know of your Emperor? I met your Corpse God once, he was a powerful man but he was no god.”
Jorahn gave a feral grin as he uttered a single word in response.
In the distance a light changed from red to green and a split second later Photep lurched sideways as a high velocity round punched into his helmet. Jorahn’s paralysis disappeared and in an instant he was upon the foul sorcerer, his axe flashing as it tore into the corrupted power armour of his foe. Green balefire pouring from his many wounds, Photep’s eerie laughter came again as he spoke once more.
“This isn’t over dog,”
“For you it is witch,” Jorahn growled before sweeping his axe down and cleaving the sorcerers head from his shoulders.
The ground shook violently, crumbling stonework rained down from the battered buildings as the tremors grew worse. The sorcerer’s corpse began to stir, the shattered helm re-attaching to his gorget. The cracks and rents in the ancient plate were knitting back together, the cobalt coating blistering as if exposed to a great heat. Jorahn readied his axe as the corpse floated as if crucified in the air, liquid paint running in rivers from the corrupt armour revealing crimson beneath. Jorahn watched in a mix of horror and fascination as the damned sigils and modifications falling away and melting into the blasted earth.
A great keening wail reverberated around the fortress and eldritch green fire erupted from the armour joints. A whirling vortex of flame engulfed the sorcerer’s corpse before exploding outwards, blasting the remaining space wolves from their feet. The last thing Jorahn saw before blacking out was what appeared to be a suit of Corvus pattern blood angels armour clattering to the ground where the sorcerer had once been.
The Space Wolf was enraged, howling curses and throwing himself against the bars of his cage. Brother Sergeant Crain watched on impassively as the marine vented his impotent rage, these bars were designed to hold marines and would not break. Until he was verified to be pure from taint, the space wolf would remain caged.
Jorahn’s hate filled gaze burned into the Grey Knight, yellow eyes shining in the dim light of the holding cell. He could still hear the sorcerers mocking laughter, the sound had kept him awake for what seemed like weeks. This was the first time he heard the voice however.
“Such an injustice, that you who could slay such a powerful being as I, are betrayed by your own allies. Locked tight in this cage. Wolves are not meant to be caged like dogs, wolves run free. These whelps who have caged you are not true space marines. They have no honourable history, they have no primarch. They are nothing more than glorified errand boys, going wherever the inquisition points. They are nothing compared to you. Nothing. You cannot be free of this cage on your own.”
“But I can help.”Brother Sergeant Crain snapped to attention as he felt the psychic force welling up inside the cell, his blessed bolt gun already tracking the Space Wolf. He thumbed the safety de-activation rune and squeezed the trigger. Instead of the expected hail of bolt shells quickly ending the wolfs heresy, the firing pin slammed into an empty chamber as the magazine ejected and clattered to the floor. As Crain turned and sprinted towards the alarm panel, red warning runes flashed through his visor, his armour’s vital systems shutting down as he ran. Small needles of precision psychokinetic force were slashing through fibre bundles and power conduits, slamming Crain into the deck plating as vital motor functions failed. The small needles of power rerouted the armour’s cooling systems and pumped boiling fluids throughout the nutrient recyclers. The last image Crain saw as he thrashed within his ceramite prison was a hazy image of the Space Wolf who’s flickering shadow appeared to have great sweeping horns and spreading black wings
Jorahn raced down steel corridors, the Grey Knight’s bolter in one hand and bolt pistol in the other, spitting shells at anything that barred his way. The rest of the Grey Knight squad had proved little challenge. Quick whip-cracks of psychokinetic power ripped the pins from their braces of krak grenades, blasting the unprepared Astartes into gore and ceramite shrapnel. The blast twisted the bridge doors and flying projectiles cut down most of the command crew, a quick hail of bolt shells finished off the rest.
The enormity of what had just occurred crashed down around Jorahn, stolen weapons clattering to the ground as he dropped to his knees.
“Poor puppy, have you done something wrong?” The sorcerers treacherous voice whispered within his mind.
“You… You tricked me.”
“No puppy, you asked for my help to escape. I merely granted your wish. You were the one who perpetrated this travesty. This betrayal! How can you live with what you have done heretic?”
“No matter puppy. I am willing to help you one last time, I can end it here, make it all stop, make it all go away. It is within my power.”
For a long time Jorahn knelt, surrounded by the blood of those he had betrayed, spent bolt casings sizzling in the congealing pools. Until finally he bowed his head and whispered, “Do it.”
Suddenly he realised the horrifying depths of his last ever mistake as his mind was ripped away from control and a new consciousness supplanted his own. Photep ignored his victims screams that only he could hear, they would grow quieter in time.He settled into the command throne, roughly pushing aside the corpse of the captain. He keyed in a new flight plan and transmitted it to the isolated navigator’s nest, the poor sap within knew nothing of what had transpired within the vessel. Photep fancied he could already see the rich cobalt blue coming through the flat grey paint of his new battleplate. He smiled with the wolf’s borrowed features and whispered to himself, “Just as planned.”