LashLightning posted:

The demon lady is from Hasslefree, but I think the dude is a 'conversion'.

Loxbourne posted:

My respect for Hasslefree increased a bit when I met the sculptor and his wife in person at SALUTE and realised that, like Frazetta, he sculpts his wife an awful lot...

Loxbourne posted:

My respect for Hasslefree increased a bit when I met the sculptor and his wife in person at SALUTE and realised that, like Frazetta, he sculpts his wife an awful lot...

Weirdo posted:

Aww that`s cute.

JackMann posted:

SteelMentor posted:

Surely there's some kinda term for the pathological need for Bronies to jam their little obsession into everything.

goatface posted:

Asperger's.

JackMann posted:

SteelMentor posted:

Surely there's some kinda term for the pathological need for Bronies to jam their little obsession into everything.

SteelMentor posted:

Surely there's some kinda term for the pathological need for Bronies to jam their little obsession into everything.

Xarbala posted:

Lowerbacksperger's.

quote:

The drop pod slammed into the ground with the pulverizing power of tons of plasteel, its armored hull rattling with the sheer energy of the teeth-jarring impact. Or rather, it would be teeth-jarring had its occupants been mere humans. As it was, Brother-Sergeant Siegfried Tytar swept his gaze over the occupants of his drop pod, nine of his brothers, seven with their bolters ready, while Avatal and Rezkat hefted along their heavy bolters, their postures betraying no hint of the weight of the weapon that would normally be seen as a fixed emplacement, but to the enhanced muscles of an Astartes they were little burden. They had been sent to this primitive planet with a duty, and they would see it fulfilled.

"To the glory of the Him on Earth." Siegfried spoke, his voice even more gruff than usual with the distortion of his helmet's vox amplifier. His squad echoed his words.

Then, the pod's doors opened, and the ten Astartes of Rogal Dorn's geneseed strode into a hell of fire.

---------------------------------------------

The Germans had unleashed hell upon Omaha.

Chris took cover again behind the small cliff that looked hopelessly incapable of covering him entirely to his frightful mind, as a rattle of bullets against rock convinced him about the unviability of trying to get a better look. In this moment of safety, which was a very relative term at the moment, Chris found himself sparing a few moments to think of what happened.

They had come out in the beach in the morning, and they were greeted by a hellish volume of fire Chris never saw before, nor would he ever wish to again. The entire beach was raked end to end with machinegun rounds, their ear-splitting chatter driving him mad like a thousand buzzsaws. How long had it been since the initial wave? A hour? Ten? A week? He knew not, for the time had lost its meaning. The beach was stained red with the blood of the hundreds, slaughtered under the terrific rattle of German firepower, a field sown with corpses and lives and reapt with bullets and artillery. Few remaining soldiers of the vanguard were covering like rats, behind the jagged, metal, and hopelessly exposed hulls of tank traps or like Chris, behind cliffs.

If only they had tanks. A company of tanks would really help, but nothing were there, the floating Shermans had not survived the wrath of the sea apparently siding with the Krauts, upturning and dragging down the vehicles into the blue depths. Chris tried to not think of the fate of their crews, being drowned in a metal prison. Only two tanks had made it ashore, and both were rapidly knocked out by the Germans.

We're stalling, Chris thought. Germans are holding us back.

Then, it happened. One second, there was a tank trap there, his former classmate Jack taking what possible cover behind it, clutching his rifle even as his lips moved in prayer. And the next, he disappeared under a monolith descending from the skies, landing on the ground with the speed and force of an armor-piercing round, only in massive scale, for the object was enormous, around thirty feet high from a quick guess, and vaguely conical in shape with boxy; utilitarian edges.

Chris had heard the tales of the German war machinery. The seemingly indestructible German armor in form of the infamous Tiger that could pick off any Allied tank from kilometers away, and sit there taking shots from its American counterparts for the whole day without having anything to show for it beyond scratched paint. The frightful 88, murderer of tank and plane both, the bane of Allied armor advances. But what was this? What new terror had the Germans came up with?

Then, the thing's sides opened and fell down, and from inside came a group of figures, humanoid in shape, yet decidedly not human. Well over seven feet tall each, their bodies covered by what looked like armor, a full-body suit not unlike what would be worn by the knights of the late medieval era, colored in burnished yellow. There were ten of them, all moving with the grace of an experienced soldier despite the immense bulk of their armor. Chris could make out an insignia on their pauldrons, a black fist raised in wrath and defiance in the middle of a white circle, an icon unfamiliar to the soldier.

In their hands eight of them hefted monstrous, bulky things that might have been considered rifles if they weren't as large and probably as heavy as a heavy machine gun, yet those giants carried them like a soldier would carry a Thompson, and the remaining two carried even bulkier weapons looking like a heavy machine gun, but their size was closer to a light anti-tank gun, yet the two showed no indication of the bulk. The group took only one second to look around, and then they moved to an unheard order, and their monstrous weapons turned on the German fortifications.

They aren't even taking cover, Chris realized with horror. It was as if the fire to come did not concern them.

-----------------------------------------------

"Fire and advance through the enemy defenses. Target priority on enemy defense weaponry." Siegfried ordered gruffly, and the Astartes raised their weapons. At the same time, a heavy rattle began all around in a deafening cacophony. Heavy stubbers of some sort, Siegfried thought. Hardly firepower to cover against.

Slugs began to rain upon them like hail, kicking up small patches of dirt and rattling repeatedly off their ceramite armor. Siegfried ignored the sound. This would at best scratch the paint. The Astartes sergeant hefted along his bolter and aimed towards a sandbagged emplacement, one of the many sources of stubber fire, and let loose a burst. The rocket-propelled bolt shells struck the target with the impeccable accuracy granted by long decades of service, reducing the weapon and its crew to a tangle of metal and flesh.

Then, the terrific twin roar of heavy bolters filled the beach, as Rezkat and Avatal opened up with their heavy weapons. While the rest of the team fired short, accurate and precise bursts on important targets as they walked through waves of stubber fire, the two heavy bolters swept entire cliffs before them, washing the primitive defenses in a baptism of fire and blessed bolt shell. Chunks of pulverized concrete flew from the bunkers as the hellish firepower spread a tide of destruction across them, wreaking the trademark havoc of a Space Marine Devastator upon the primitive defenses.

The hiss and howl of a falling shell managed to reach Siegfried's ears amongst the sounds of battle, and before even his superhuman reflexes could react something exploded in the middle of the squad with an ear-deafening roar. He turned his face away from the explosion to protect the weak points, and for a second the only sound in his ringing ears was the deafening rattle of shrapnel against the ceramite plates of his power armor.

The sergeant emerged from the smoke and dust with bolter still in hand, still raining righteous fire down upon the primitives. His armor was no worse for wear, and he doubted that there was any wounded in his squad either. Artillery, Siegfried thought. Beyond our reach, at least right now. For now they walked through a hail of stubber fire like the instruments of His Divine Will they were, and with every bolter roar, the hail lessened.

-------------------------------------------

Chris looked on with sheer terror at the yellow-clad figures. Minutes. That was all it took.

One minute, it seemed like the Omaha Beach was an insurmountable obstacle. One minute, it seemed that Hitler's Fortress Europe was well and truly impregnable. Then, from the heavens they came.

Their armor did not suffer anything beyond scratched paint from what must have been a million bullets. Their strange weapons tore through the Krauts like butter through knife. Within mere minutes of the arrival of those strange figures, the fortifications of Omaha which resisted hours of flattening bombardments and thousands of assaulting soldiers, were left broken and abandoned. And now the nine metal giants stood solemn and silent in a single perfect rank atop a cliff reigning over the beach, atop the husk of a German bunker, the tenth of their group standing before them. They have the aura of soldiers being debriefed, Chris thought, but no sound came from the yellow behemoths. How did they speak? Could they even speak?

Chris was possibly the only soldier bold enough to come this close to these mysterious warriors. Even now, mere minutes after the ten behemoths cleared out the German defenses, the shellshocked survivors of the attacking American forces were taking care to not approach, as they slowly fortified the beach for a possible counterattack.

Then, the one separate soldier, probably an officer of some sort, lifted something Chris did not notice was there. It was a long, wooden pole, and an unfamiliar banner hung on it. It was quartered in the manner of some ancient coat of arms, two of the four quarters burnished yellow like the armor of the ten giants, other two checkered black and white. In the center laid the black fist insignia the soldiers wore on their pauldrons, and under it a ribbon on which was written two words: Imperial Fists. The officer raised high the banner, and slammed it down on the ground, allowing the foreign standard to flutter gently in the wind.


Then it turned towards Chris, the mask over its face impassive and cold as ice.

"You." A gruff voice, too thick to belong to a human, rumbled in the air, and Chris froze where he stood. The giant took a few enormous steps towards him and stood before the frightened soldier. The helmet inclined down to stare at his face.

"Who are you?" The giant asked.

Chris gave a textbook salute.

"Corporal Chris Temple, 29th Division, 116th Infantry, Baker Company, sir."

The giant made no move. A few seconds later, his rumbling voice spoke again.

"I am Brother-Sergeant Siegfried Tytar, Fifth Company, the Imperial Fists chapter. In the name of the Primarch-Progenitor and in the name of Him on Earth, I lay claim upon this world for the Imperium of Man. Bring me your leaders."

Irate Tree posted:

... You know, can't even be mad at this one. Good job.

Fathis Munk posted:

Yay wh40k/WW2 crossover fan fiction. Love it.

Hamshot posted:

So, who would win Emps vs Incredible Hulk?

That whole site is a treasure trove for the likes of the badcast fact or fanfiction segment.

Moola posted:

like every Hulk vs fight, either the opponent beats him straight away by catching him off guard in some way, or Hulk just keeps growing stronger until he wins from attrition

Screaming Idiot posted:

Space Nazis versus Earth Nazis.

Moola posted:

hmm yeah I guess Hulk is kinda like Goku

MasterSlowPoke posted:

THIS IS NOT A TOY

Moola posted:

oh hey its Boba Fetish

Iron Crowned posted:

I like the alternate head option

Moola posted:

Booba Fettish

Moola posted:

Booba Fettish

Ilor posted:

Why would he need to defeat them? They'd see that he's da biggest and da greenest, and naturally he would lead the next great Waaaaaagh. It is known.

richyp posted:

Until Red Hulk turns up.

quote:

Their armor did not suffer anything beyond scratched paint from what must have been a million bullets.