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Poxwalkers

2017-08-08T07:31:17Z

2001:8003:38E4:8100:E89D:92A8:8FAD:63C1:

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[[File:Poxwalkers1.jpg|260px|right|thumb|Look at their shit-eating grins. You know they just popped a whoopee cushion filled with all of the Galaxy's known STD's somewhere in the house. Somehow the one on the far left has [[Blood Ravens|"acquired"]] a [[What|Custodes Guardian Spear]]]]

There's a new kid in town and these shambling plague hosts are represented by the repugnant and varied Poxwalkers, each draped in scraps of clothing from their former lives. Poxwalkers are the new breed of Nurgle's rotting legions and sit somewhere between your basic Nurgle follower/cultist and [[Plaguebearers]] in Papa Nurgle's food chain. Crunch wise, Poxwalkers are smelly grognards with pretty terrible stats and no shooting weapons (flashlights make better clubs than guns tho to be honest), are slower than even Plague Marines, but can do Advance moves and get two base melee attacks. They also get the same <s>Feel No Pain</s> Disgustingly Resilient ability as Plague Marines so ignore any wound on a 5+, along with a 7+ armor save because that's a thing (since cover is a modifier now this can be improved). One of their only remarkable traits is that enemies slain in combat by Poxwalkers will themselves become a Poxwalker (sadly, they actually become a Poxwalker and not an undead version of themselves).

Poxwalkers can be affected by a few buffs that turn them from a meh tarpit unit into one that's actually kinda good. The first is that if a Poxwalker unit contains 10 or more models it adds +1 to its attack roles, making them hit on a 4. Another is Typhus; if he's within 6" Poxwalkers gain +1 S/T. Casting Miasma of Pestilence makes enemy shooting rolls -1, and all can be combined, along with Disgustingly Resilient ignoring wounds on 5+ and Curse of the Walking Pox adding models every time enemies are slain, to turn this into a shockingly effective blob unit. 20 of these will cost about the same as 5 Plague Marines (not counting Typhus' cost for the S/T boost).

In the [[fluff]], Poxwalkers are in fact Plague Zombies of a specific strain. The Walking Pox, as it's called, is spread specifically to those who engage the [[Death Guard]] in battle and has the especially cruel effect of preserving the victim's consciousness even after their death and transformation. This leaves the Poxwalker [[Grimdark|fully aware of its surroundings and condition, but incapable of controlling the actions of its decaying, increasingly mutated body]]. The Ordo Sepulturum think the Walking Pox may be a modified form of Nurgle's Rot, as even after the Poxwalker's death its flesh mutates in the same way as a [[Plaguebearer]]'s.
{{Chaos Space Marines}}

Bjorn the Fell Handed

2017-08-08T03:39:10Z

2001:8003:38E4:8100:E89D:92A8:8FAD:63C1: /* On the Tabletop */

[[File:The_Fell_Handed.jpg|200px|thumb|right| GET OFF MY FUCKING LAWN!]]

:''"God-Emperor? Calling him a god is why this mess started in the first place."''
:--Bjorn the Fell Handed's apt summary on why [[Horus Heresy|everything went wrong]] in the [[Great Crusade]]

'''Bjorn the Fell Handed''' (Imperial Gothic: Bear) is a [[Dreadnought]] of the [[Space Wolves]], and the single oldest loyal Space Marine alive (or, well, at least still in active service. Because, err..., well you know). No relation to Sigmar's dad.

== About Bjorn ==
[[File:Bjorn of Tra.jpg|200px|thumb|right|Before he lost his hand and became a mobile coffin, this was Bjorn.]]
Bjorn is a Space Marine of the Space Wolves chapter, and (by virtue of almost dying and being interred in a Dreadnought) is the oldest living being in the [[Imperium]] who hasn't turned to [[Chaos]], after the [[God-Emperor of Mankind|Big E]] himself (or rather was until the recent revival of [[Roboute Guilliman]]). He is so old, in fact, that he fought alongside [[Leman Russ]] in battle and even saw the [[Emperor]] before the events of the [[Horus Heresy]], meaning he's been around for at least ten thousand years. Following the disappearance of Russ, Bjorn became the first Great Wolf, the Chapter Master of the Space Wolves, until he was injured. In light of his advanced years, the majority of his time is spent dormant in stasis, but is awakened every century or so such that the Space Wolves might learn from his ancient wisdom. In practical terms, this means they pester him to tell them stories about Leman Russ. Since Bjorn's only waking hours are universally spent this way (unless there's some battle so big that Bjorn absolutely must be deployed to it like in the first War of Armageddon), he does his best to appear more and more senile every time he is awoken in the dim hope they will eventually stop asking him about the old stories.

"Comedian" George Carlin would have classified Bjorn as an "Old Fuck". It is kind of like a "Fat fuck".

[[Warhammer Fantasy|No relation to that Chaos Marauder chieftain from Slaves to Darkness]] (Also known as the best Chaos story ever).

The Horus Heresy series has supplied some new Bjorn fluff recently. He starts off out of kilter with his Legion- really good at killing shit, but not so much at the whole drunken barbarian thing. Then Prospero happens, he does some cool shit and the ensuing "what have we done" gloom brings the Legion closer to his mood. Then he impresses Russ by trying to solo a Contemptor, and things start to escalate.

== On the Tabletop ==
{| class=wikitable
! || Pts || M || WS || BS || S || T || W || A || Ld || Sv
|-
| '''Bjorn the Fel-Handed:''' || 210 || 8"|| 2+ || 2+ || 7 || 8 || 8 || 5 || 4 || 3+
|}

Bjorn is a venerable dreadnought character who you can select as an HQ choice, which means he can we bour warlord. His rules include: ATSKNF, Ancient Tactician (+1 Command Points), Last of the Company of Russ (All Space Wolves within 6" re-roll hit rolls of 1), Legendary Tenacity (5+ Feel No Pain) and Smoke Launchers. He comes base with an assault cannon and Trueclaw, a S+5 AP-4 D6 shred powerclaw with an undersung heavy flamer. He can upgrade his assault cannon to a heavy plasma cannon, helfrost cannon or twin lascannons. His loadout allows him to throw heat downrange with his ranged weapon or wreck infantry or vehicles with his trueclaw.

Additionally, due to being a character with less than 10 wounds, [[Cheese|he cannot be shot at unless he is the closes model to a unit]].

==Tales of Bjorn==
===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 shit, 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 shit.

"YOU WISH TO HEAR THE TALES AGAIN, DO YOU?" he recited, having said this shit 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 dipshits 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 fucking Leman Russ, too. Woe betide any fucker stupid enough to ask about Leman Russ.

"FIND ME AN AUDIENCE OF LOYAL WARRIORS, STRONG AND TRUE, WHO MIGHT WISH TO HEAR THE TALES."

<center>♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦</center>

Gythor was excited. More than 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 was 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 millennium, exploded 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 fucker," thought Gythor, "he's going to get SUCH a fucking 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 COCKSUCKERS" bellowed the noble dreadnought. 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 FUCKING LAUGH. DO I SOUND LIKE I'M MAKING A JOKE?!" Again, silence answered his words. "SERIOUSLY, I'M WOKEN UP ONCE A FUCKING HUNDRED YEARS TO TELL YOU FUCKERS OF THE PAST, AND EACH TIME I SEE YOU, YOU'VE FUCKED OVER HISTORY EVEN WORSE THAN IT WAS BEFORE!! LEMAN RUSS WAS AN ASSHOLE!"

Again, silence. The Rune Priest cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should allow noble Dreadnought Bjorn some more rest, shall w-"

"NO, ENOUGH FUCKING REST. YOU ARE ALL GOING TO HEAR ABOUT WHY LEMAN RUSS WAS A FUCKING DICK. SERIOUSLY. A DICK. YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I'M CALLED 'THE FELL-HANDED'? HUH? DO YA? THE FUCKER 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 FUCKING HEARD THAT, YOU CUNTS. YOU FUCKING WOLF FUCKERS. YEAH, DON'T THINK I DON'T NOTICE YOUR GROWING OBSESSION WITH WOLVES. SERIOUSLY, WHEN I WAS AROUND WE WERE JUST CRAZY FUCKERS WHO RIPPED OUT OUR ENEMIES' THROATS WITH OUR TEETH. NOW YOU'RE FUCKING RIDING WOLVES INTO BATTLE. YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE YOU CAN RIDE INTO BATTLE? FUCKING BIKES! MAYBE EVEN A FUCKING 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 FUCKERS 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 armored 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. THAT GEEK, WHAT WAS HIS NAME AGAIN?"

The Rune Priest, now resigned to this being the second worst Bjorn story-time ever, answered, "Lion El'Jonson, mighty Bjorn."

"YEAH, FUCKING LION EL', HE WAS A DECENT MAN. HE AND LEMAN HATED EACH OTHER BECAUSE LION ENJOYED BOOKS. YEAH, THAT'S IT. FIRST TIME THEY EVER MET HE 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 CUNT. 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 FUCKERS WAKE ME AGAIN, IT BETTER BE TO KILL SOMETHING OR ASK ABOUT ACTUAL HEROES, NOT BITCH-STEALING ASSHOLES." And with that, Bjorn walked away, followed by hastily-running Rune Priests.

[[Image:Warhammer_40k_dreadnought_bjorn_1920x1200.jpg|600px|thumb|right|See those Power Claws? They're not just for show.(You would think so, with those bits of [[Thousand Sons]] Hanging off of them.)]]

----

=== 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 armored 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 center of his field of view. The decorations on his armor 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 armory chamber. It was a moment before anyone realized 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 fucking 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 THEY WERE|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’ armor could be seen. “I EXPECTED EVERYTHING TO BE COVERED IN WOLF SHI- RED. WHY AM I RED?”

“Oh, shit.” 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-armored 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 Bjorns 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 FUCKING 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 SHITTY 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 FUCKING 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.
[[File:Bjorn_The_Fell-Handed_pic.jpg|400px|thumb|left|Bjorn, ten thousand years ago. Ladies, take a number.]]

=== Bjorn's Happy End-2 ===
"YOU COCKSUCKERS" bellowed the noble Dreadnought. Silence answered his words, until a few of the scouts near the front of the hall started chuckling, obviously thinking it was a joke. "DON'T FUCKING LAUGH. DO I SOUND LIKE I'M MAKING A JOKE?!" Again, silence answered his words. "SERIOUSLY, I'M WOKEN UP ONCE A FUCKING HUNDRED YEARS TO TELL YOU FUCKERS OF THE PAST, AND EACH TIME I SEE YOU, YOU'VE FUCKED OVER HISTORY EVEN WORSE THAN IT WAS BEFORE!! OUR PRIMARCH WAS AN ASSHOLE!"

Again, silence. Gabriel Angelos cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should allow miraculously recovered Davian Thule some more rest, shall we?"

"NO, ENOUGH FUCKING RE~ YES. SOME MORE REST, INDEED."

=== Stormfangs ===
"AT THIS POINT, ORNAMENTS AND FILIGREE SOUND FUCKING PEACHY KEEN. BRING BACK THE GILDED RUNES AND SHIT. DRESS ME UP LIKE THAT FUCKING PONCE FULGRIM. JUST LET ME DO BATTLE"

The tech-adepts sighed collectively. This was the worst Story Time with Bjorn anyone could remember. He hadn't even answered the questions senior wolf-lords had asked him.

"YOU STUPID FUCKERS", Bjorn continued, "COVERING EVERYTHING WITH WOLVES. RIDING WOLVES INTO BATTLE. HOWLING AND CHASING STICKS. DO YOU THINK THAT THE WOLF FRIGHTENS THE ENEMIES OF MANKIND?"

Several newer recruits, deafened by Bjorn's tirade and trying to avoid his visor's angry glare, nodded furiously, tongues hanging out and hair bristled.

"YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN WHAT WE ARE. WE ARE ASTARTES! SPACE FUCKING MARINES! GENE-FORGED, BATTLE-HARDENED, IMMORTAL SLAYERS OF MORTALS. THE ENEMIES OF MANKIND ARE NOT AFRAID OF TRAINED BEASTS. THEY SHOULD FEAR US."

Ah, what was the use? They'd forget it all soon anyway, go back to molesting their hairy friends and howling at the moon. They'd be using wolves to pull fucking chariots next. At least the madness hadn't reached all parts of his beloved chapter. The Thunderhawks hadn't been renamed Thunderwolves, at least the last time he....

"WHAT IS THAT?"

The tech-adepts coughed and fidgeted. One ventured a glance at Bjorn and responded.

"What is what, honored lord?"

"THAT... THING ON THE LANDING PAD. WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK IS THAT?"

"The noble Stormfang gunship, honoured lord? It has been part of the chapter's armory since..."

"ANOTHER FUCKING WORD AND I WILL TURN YOU INTO A SOUP CAN, TECH-PRIEST. THAT... THING IS NEW. IT IS NEW AND IT LOOKS LIKE A WOLF'S HEAD."

Bjorn tried to remember the names of the great flying machines of his age. Something about this new craft was familiar...

"YOU FUR-FUCKING FUCKERS CUT A CAESTUS ASSAULT RAM IN HALF, DIDN'T YOU? YOU CUT IT IN HALF AND BOLTED SOME ENGINES AND A FUCKTON OF WOLF SYMBOLS TO IT."

Most of the tech-adepts had quietly disappeared, but a few remained, and denied the accusation with desperate, quiet words as Bjorn stalked towards them.

"OH NO? NOT YOU. THEN."

"The Blood Ravens chapter, honoured lord. They said it was a gift."

"THOSE FUCKING MAGPIES. THEY NEVER GIVE GIFTS. WHAT DID THEY TAKE IN RETURN?"

"Honoured lord, the Blood Ravens were kind enough to accept our disused battle-bikes in trade."

"WHAT!"

"Most of Chapter prefers to ride into battle on their wolves, my lord, and so the bikes are no loss."

"WHAT ELSE."

"They... they also took several Vindicator tanks and a few relics from our armory."

"SON OF A SHIELDWOMAN'S SPAWN, YOU FUCKERS THOUGHT THAT WAS A GOOD TRADE?"

"My lord, the Chapter as a whole approved it. In the words of Blood Claw Firegar, 'It looks just like a wooooooOAAAAUUUUGH!"

Bjorn stalked back towards the stasis vaults and cryo-tanks, dead tech-adept in hand. He needed a nap. A long, quiet nap. When he woke up, he quietly hoped the whole Chapter would be extinct or too bestial to fight. Then he'd have some peace and quiet.

=== [[Wulfen]] ===

The rhythmic thumping kept heightening until he could no longer ignore it. With great reluctance he finally pulled himself out of the artificial slumber.

His memories may have faded, and much of it outright disappeared, but he remembered. He remembered how it had been the last few times these wolf fuckers had called him back from the restful darkness. Bjorn desperately wished to remember his glory of old; the crusades with Leman Russ; the great enemies he felled. Instead all he could clearly remember was the howling idiots, the wolf talismans and the wolf blades and how they had tacked wolf in front of half the armoury's items. He remembered how loudly he'd laughed when the Iron Priests had told him of the thunderwolves; from the dreadnought's speakers it had sounded like booming thunder. The degenerates interpreted that as a sign of his approval.

But what made Bjorn truly sorrowful is that by now he had gotten used to it. They would wake him up. He'd play along and perform the theatrics. These were what remained of the Space Wolves and he'd just have to accept it. At this point what could these wolf-idiots possibly do that would bother hi-

"NO" crackled out from the speakers. The nearby servitors winced in pain.

Bjorn looked around his throne room. "NO" he said again. "NO NO NO WHAT HAVE YOU FUCKERS DONE". He glanced up and saw the hanging wolf pelts. He glanced right and saw the gigantic wolf statues. He glanced left and saw a wolf marking its territory and two more mating. He glanced down and saw the pathway had been etched with wolf heads and lighted by candles in wolf heads. The throne room was his last bastion of comfort and these blithering animals had renovated its austere space with all of the wolf imagery that they could muster. Bjorn gave the room another quick look around. Where were his battle trophies? Did the fuckers throw away his trophies?

"Hail, mighty Bjorn!" came from next to him. Finally he noticed the Iron Priest that had been standing by his side since he woke up. The motherfucker was wearing so many wolf skulls on his armor that he had difficulty moving his head to look up at the dreadnought. "We have need of you once again!"

The dreadnought remained perfectly still. Inside Bjorn's fleshy remains were banging weakly against the metal frame. The Iron Priest took the silence as a sign of Bjorn's attention. "Our long-lost brothers have returned, scattered across the galaxy."

"WHO" said Bjorn, a hint of curiosity in his voice. Brothers returning? If they were old, perhaps they might be less... tainted. Truer to the roots of the legion.

"The Wulfen, brother Bjorn! The Wulfen have returned to us. See for yourself." With a few clicks on his data-slate, the Iron Priest sent multiple holo-picts to the dreadnought's systems for Bjorn to review.

There was a pause, and then Bjorn took a step forward. And then another, and another. Bjorn kept walking, out of the throne room and then out of The Fang. He kept walking into the raging snowstorm and no one ever saw him again.

===Bjorn the Fell Handed: [[Warhammer 40,000 8th edition|Dark Imperium]]===
"I HAVE AWOKEN, IS IT TIME FOR WA-... [[Primaris Marines|WERE YOU LOT ALWAYS THIS BIG?]]"

== External Links ==
* [http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/13552516/ This is Bjorn's story as it was ORIGINALLY posted to 4chan, replete with grammar errors, replies, praise, etc. Also, if you have questions or are puzzled by the stories, this link should illuminate things significantly.]
* [http://warhammer40k.wikia.com/wiki/Bjorn_the_Fell-Handed Bjorn the Fell-Handed is NOT exclusively a creation of /tg/ and the Warhammer 40k fandom! Click here to read about his role in the Warhammer 40k universe as originally contrived!]

{{Marines-Characters}}

[[Category:Space Wolves]]

Creed

2017-08-08T01:11:58Z

2001:8003:38E4:8100:E89D:92A8:8FAD:63C1: /* NO?, YES? Mabey? */

{{awesome}}

[[Image:Creed.jpg|thumb|right|And you thought [[Vance Motherfucking Stubbs]] was manly.]]
[[File:Tzeentch's_True_Form.png|thumb|right|What Creed Pretends to be.]]
'''Ursarkar E. Creed''' is a Lord General of the [[Imperial Guard]] and the current Lord Castellan of [[Cadia]] who is such a tactical genius he may somehow infiltrate ANY unit onto a battlefield (as if it were using the Scouts special rule) [Update: He is not since Cadia was devourered by warp]. Even vehicles. Even SQUADRONS of vehicles. Apparently even [[Titan]]s, and Living Saints. [[What|The only thing his genius can't handle is cavalry, since it wouldn't make sense for them to be scouts.]] This can cause considerable confusion and consternation to opposing forces as, for example, a 45 foot tall Warhound reveals itself from behind a small bush (hey its a SCOUT titan), or they notice that the door they just attempted to open was in fact a Baneblade, leading them to curse the tactical genius of their enemy with cries of "CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!".

His miniature is actually based around British Wartime Prime Minister Winston Churchill, he's also a manly-looking cigar-chomping motherfucker with a coat so huge its collar obscures all peripheral vision. Presumably he wears it due to a lack of power armor, which normally fulfills this function by virtue of [[pauldrons]]. In addition to that, he also carries not one, but TWO motherfucking [[Hellgun|hellpistols]] in combat, just to show everyone that he's that pimping. He is currently aligned with <s>Tzeentch, Oh fuck.</s> {{BLAM}} [[Emperor|The Emprah]], since Creed is too much of a Tactical Genius for Tzeentch's pussy ass to handle, and he knows this.

<s>As of 6th Edition, his tektikal jinyus has failed him and Failbaddon is fucking shit up all about Cadia and Segmentum Obscurus in general.</s> <s> {{BLAM}} {{BLAM| Creed's genius remains indisputable, GW are just desperately trying to pretend that Abaddon isn't the big fat failure that we all know that he is.}}</s> <s>nope he's simply waiting for the best opportunity to reveal that what Abaddon previously thought was Cadia is in fact a carefully arranged group of Imperator Class Titans. [[Just_As_Planned|Just as Planned]].</s> As of Fall of Cadia, Abaddon finally gets a sort-of victory as Cadia is destroyed (not conquered) though much of the Imperial forces are able to evacuate due to the heroic sacrifice of Creed and the Cadian 8th (although rumor has it [[Trazyn]] manages to capture him for his collection before the planet blows up with him on it). Creed's tactical genius and plot armour make him the Imperial Guard equivalent of [[Marneus Calgar|Papa Smurf]], <s>though being just an ordinary human otherwise makes him less (or more, depending on how you view it) of a Mary Sue. </s> Creed is not a Mary Sue; I doubt he really could hide a bajillion baneblades behind a lamp post and- Oh not agai- {{BLAM}}

No but seriously, apparently the 13th Black Crusade got retconned by GW. Turns out the results of the worldwide campaign were a flop so they're going to try again, which is a part of the fluff-upheaval they've been talking about.

As far as we know, Creed has one son, but as revenge after his loss in The Great Game, Tzeentch did a Primarch and fired his son into 1980s Illinois, where he was found and given the name of Kevin McCallister.

No-one knows it yet, but Creed plays [[Just as planned]] with the Deciever, [[Cegorach]] and [[Tzeentch]] every Saturday night. He's just '''waiting''' for the right moment to reveal that he's TACTICAL GENIUSED himself into the games. That's right. The [[Emprah]] is actually Creed. Oh, FFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU- {{BLAM}} HERESY!

==Creed & 4chan==
Creed has woven his very essence into /tg/ through the tactical skills he possesses. /tg/ is now clearly known to stand for Tactical Genius, and not Traditional Games as many have previously thought. Only a tactical genius could accomplish this. Likewise, only a tactical genius could have hidden the entire Cadian 8th in 4chan's interwebzserver boxes to surprise ambush the maintenance shift and bring 4chan down.

In fact, it's probably the best meme /tg/ has created for some time now. Seriously, sometimes one might believe that it could have only been started by some kind of tactical geniu-

CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!

<div style="text-align:right; font-style:italic;">..........Tactical genius hrrrrr......</div>

==FALL OF CREED==
{{MattWard}}
Sadly, due to [[Matt Ward|this douche]], Creed is no longer the Tactical Genius extraordinaire, as his ability has been co-opted by the Fifth-Edition [[Grey Knights]], who can Scout up to three units. God ''damn'' it, [[Games Workshop]]. That said, the original CREEEEEEEEED!-like ability was the ''Second Edition'' generic Imperial Assassin; before the Polymorphine wargear card was replaced with one specific to the Callidus Assassin, it wasn't entirely abnormal for a Gretchin to suddenly become an Imperial Assassin in Terminator Armour riding a bike.

In Creed's defense, this is at least fluff-inconsistent; the [[Grey Knights]] are highly brainwashed troops, who obey every single command to the letter, without showing personal initiative. Creed, on the other hand, gets to work with Imperial Guardsmen, who, unlike Grey Knights, actually have an in-game mechanic for following orders, they do it so much. Also, Creed isn't using bullshit tricks like being psychic or [[Khornate Knights|killing off a ton of friendly Adeptae Kitchenates to fight demons]].

Besides which, the [[Grey Knights]] can't scout vehicles, so Creed is still the only source of Titans hiding behind waist-high fences.

Also, who do you think taught them their Tactical Genius to begin with?

==RESHUFFLING OF CREED==

And then Sixth Edition happened. Creed's power became a IG exclusive Warlord Trait. Now any Guard Commander <s> who rolls right </s> who was, in fact, Creed all along is a Tactical Genius. Also, Creed gets to roll for two Warlord Traits now, so he gets double chance to Outflank shit compared to everyone else. It should be noted that the Warlord Trait in question works on D3 units from the same <s>Codex as Creed - so no more outflanking Titans, but maybe outflanking cavalry. All in all, not all is lost.</s> It says from the same primary detachment! Slap that Imperator in you LoW slot, and you are good to go!

==NO?, YES? Maybe?==
In 8th creed has lost the ability to scout units but instead of hiding baneblade behind fences he can now hide a hit inside your miss or hide a lascannon shot inside the enemy's vehicles or even hide extra guardsmen in your guardsmen squad!! I know not ass cool as scouting titans butt arguably more useful {{BLAM}} NO ARGUING. He now gives two extra command points which is pretty ok but the best part is to tell your opponent who has 4 or 6 command points that you brought 14! (in combination wit a brigade detachment).

==Writefaggotry!==
"So. Fresh bunch'a recruits straight off the regimental home world, huh? Got your heads full of propaganda and not much else, lemme bet. Well, listen to me and listen good, kids - probably half of what you know is nothing but ambull-shit, and you'd better get that through your heads now rather than getting a traitor's lasbolt through your head on the battlefield. Now, you pray to the Emperor like you should, and if you don't the Commissar'll blow your head off, and that'll be a mercy compared to what I'll do to ya if I find out 'fore he does - but don't be thinkin' for a second that recitin' the Litany of Protection makes you invulnerable on a battlefield.

Sure, you'll hear stories about brave Guardsmen that charged enemy positions armed with nothin' but their lasguns and their bayonets and won - and I'll even admit that probably a couple of them are true, but in an army that numbers in the billions one or two of ya are bound to get lucky every now and again, so it don't really say much. No, kids, they might make for inspirin' stories, but fanatical charges aren't what win battles. Battles are won by determination and tactics. Lemme tell you about this one time our regiment was servin' under the command of General Creed.

Never a finer tactician has the Imperial Guard ever seen than that General Creed, let me tell you. He came up with plans so devious and cunnin' you didn't even have a hope of figurin' out how he'd done what he'd done 'less he explained it to ya himself. We were fightin' on Kavara IV, what'd used to be a good Imperial world till the taint of Chaos found its way down there and turned loyal citizens into traitorous scum. At the time we'd been shipped off, we thought we were just gonna be helping the local PDF put down a small insurrection, but what with the ways of the warp by the time we got there it'd turned into a full on rebel uprisin' and all the nobles were already dead or in hidin', and another army led by General Creed had arrived to bring it back under control - we'd been missin' so long they thought we'd been lost to the warp, you see, and sent another off in our place - so we wound up joinin' forces an' bolsterin' their ranks.

Now, we got deployed into one of the urban centers that'd been taken over almost entirely by the heretics, goin' through clearing buildings of resistance and tightenin' the noose around their filthy necks. Only been gettin' minor resistance until a couple of hours in, when we stumbled across a fortified plaza that hadn't been in none of the intelligence reports. So there we were, pinned down by enemy fire, usin' rubble for cover and hopin' to the Emperor that'd we get some artillery support soon, when all of a sudden there's a tremendous rumblin' off to the right, soundin' like a column of tanks comin' up towards the buildin' we'd just cleared.

We weren't gettin' nothin' about armored support on the vox, so we was sittin' there shittin' ourselves wonderin' where the traitors had got tanks from, when all of a sudden the front of the buildin' just collapses out onto the street and a damn Baneblade rolls right on out in front of us. One blast from the main gun and it turned the heretic's position into a crater. The vox lights up and we get ourselves a message - "Armored Support courtesy of General Creed", they say. Now that's tactics, kids - we never saw it comin', so those traitors sure didn't. The application of overwhelmin' force at just the right spot at just the right moment'll turn the tide of any battle in your favor.

I took a look at that buildin' again as we were marchin' down the street in the Baneblade's wake, though. Funniest thing, the only hole in it was the one the tank'd made on its way out. How the hell we missed it when we were clearin' the place I don't know. How the hell Creed got it in there in the first place, I'm not sure I WANT to know - but let me tell you, pulling that off must've taken one hell of a tactical genius."

-Sergeant Karls addressing new recruits to the Hirian 204th, shortly before being relieved of duty and sent for psychiatric evaluation due to inexplicable urges to scream incoherently.

=== Tactical Genius ===
The forces of Chaos reigned victorious over the shattered city, littered with the wounded and dying Guardsmen of the Cadian 503rd. At their head, ready to deliver the killing blow to the last world between him and conquest, strode Abaddon the Despoiler himself, his Daemonblade screaming as it claimed the souls of a score of men, slashing through the staunch but futile defenses of his feeble foe. He had won. Finally, after all these centuries, he had triumphed, and begun to finish what that weakling Horus had started! And now, now it was time to put the icing on the cake, and finish off that arrogant son of a bitch Creed, as he routed like a coward nonetheless!

Beside him, his lieutenants roared in delight, cleaving through flesh and bone and steel alike, and his bodyguard made a mockery of Imperial pride. Demons from the warp, incarnations of the entropy of Khorne and Slaanesh hacked their way through droves of fleeing shock troopers, and a flanking force of the Night Lords penned in those who were left, trapping them in a great valley.

His final carnage began in a great valley, the product of a near miss by a melta torpedo. A miss that had spared the Imperials yesterday, but sealed their fates tonight! Abaddon flung himself into the fray, cleaving with full strokes the men who stood in between him and his prey, butchering wholesale with his men. The Cadians fought like men possessed, like monsters cornered. Abaddon's men were possessed, monsters in truth as well as metaphor, and so fought harder still. When the last corpse fell, it was Abaddon who laid it low, sending that cloak, that cigar spinning to the ground with a backhand from his mighty palm. The heavyset, gray-haired man lay flat upon the graying mud, and a pool of blood grew around him. Abaddon felt his breath quicken, and kicked the Castellan over, to see his face as the Daemonblade consumed his soul.

"I've won, Creed! I've beaten you, the Imperium is MINE for the taking! The galaxy shall burn! But not before I hear you beg, NOT BEFORE I HEAR YOU BEG!" His voice was torn with emotion, manic laughter struggled free of his throat.
The figure tipped over, to lay spread eagle on its back. Silent, broken, and dead. An old man, slain by a casual blow from an immortal warrior. Abaddon felt something leave him. The rush vanished. Creed was dead. He had won... Yes. He had defeated the hero of the Imperium, but Creed was dead. And without ever even knowing that Abaddon had won. The united leader of Chaos knelt down, and screamed at the square-jawed corpse, howling in anger, in the hopes that perhaps his fleeting soul could still hear his words. "I. HAVE. WON. CR-" He froze mid-word, as he realized that the crater was silent. He stood, and thought for a moment that his men were watching him. He was mistaken, for his marines, his warriors, his cultists... Even the demons, were staring open-mouthed, at the crest of the crater that they had swept into.

For one nanosecond. For one fleeting, cursory micron of an instant, Abaddon was confused.

And then he knew. He knew what he would see when he looked up to match their gaze. He knew what he would see when he looked up, and realized why Creed had led this defensive force personally, and why he had not boarded one of the Valkyries that had escaped, or a Chimera to flee. He looked up, to see the barrels of a thousand tanks, the crested figures of ten thousand men, the whirring shapes of countless hundreds of skimmers and fighters. He saw in the distance, the smoking ruin of his flagship drifting through orbit a hundred miles away, and heard all of a sudden the unjammed signals of panicked screaming coming in from every one of his officers and aides.

[[Image:EvenInDeathIStillCREEEEEED.jpg|thumb|right|''And he knew, without looking, the expression upon that fat old man's face, despite the shattered jaw and the broken neck.'']]

Abaddon saw, before his eyes, his Crusade crumble. And he knew, without looking, the expression upon that fat old man's face, despite the shattered jaw and the broken neck. And he felt his last emotion before the guns started firing, and the torpedoes struck, and the lascannon-bolts flew. Boiling up inside of him, he opened his mouth, and screamed.
And over the din of battle, though battle cannon roared and basilisk whistled, though lasgun cracked and Guardsmen cried out with tears in their eyes the name of their savior, no voice cried so loudly as Abaddon the Fool's, whose hatred of one man had cost him a victory that could have changed the galaxy, the one man whose name he now invoked. That magnificent bastard. That tactical geniu-

"CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!!!!!!"

===The Game===
The mortal moved his piece. Tzeentch, Lord of Change and Master of Destinies moved his. They were playing a game of chess. The stakes were high: if the mortal won, Tzeentch, all his daemons and followers would retreat to the Warp for all time and would never again attempt to harry the mighty Imperium of Man in any way be it directly or indirectly. If Tzeentch won (which, of course, he knew he would), the soul of the mortal went to Tzeentch. These stakes obviously seemed skewed in favor of the mortal, but there were several factors to consider.

The mortal moved another piece.

Tzeentch moved another piece.

Tzeentch had wanted this particular soul for what might have been 10 million years, or maybe 5 minutes. Who could tell in the Warp? The problem was, it was pledged to the accursed corpse-god on Terra. So Tzeentch had sought him out and challenged him.

The mortal moved.

Tzeentch moved.

Also Tzeentch, as Master of Fates, knew that he would win. He had to. He had been planning for this game for centuries before the mortal in question was ever born. He had watched, planned, schemed, and acted to ensure that the mortal would learn a certain chess strategy, one that he just "happened" to have a perfect counter to.

Another move by the mortal.

Another move by Tzeentch.

Finally, the idea of a Chaos God focusing so much on a single soul, or making such an enormous bargain was inconceivable, a fact that had never once changed, not even for Warmaster Horus. What was Tzeentch, if not the Lord of Change? So went the reasoning (if the thought process of a Chaos God can be called such) of Tzeentch.

The mortal went on for several turns.

Tzeentch went on for several turns.

Finally, the mortal got a smug look on his face. Tzeentch's beak curled into something resembling a smile.He held his head up high. The mortal moved a piece. Tzeentch spoke, in a voice that was ever shifting and could drive men mad.

"Mortal, do you not know who I am? Let me tell you. I am Tzeentch. The Changer of Ways. The Master of Fate. The Lord of Change. The Controller of Destinies. I have existed before the stars, and I will exist long after they have died. No mere mortal could possibly-"

Then Tzeentch spared a glance at the board.

"What is that pawn doing there?"

Tzeentch stared, utterly dumbstruck. His eyes bulged and his beak dropped. He saw the reason for the mortal's smugness.

[[Image:CreedvTzeentch.png|thumb|right|''Tzeentch let out a cry of rage. It was a cry that echoed throughout the Warp, driving Imperial psykers insane and Chaos sorcerers more insane.'']]It was checkmate.

A very small part of Tzeentch was glad. After all, being unintentionally defeated was certainly a change for him. Also, no longer interfering in the affairs of the mortal galaxy was definitely a change.

However, that was just a very small part.

Tzeentch let out a cry of rage. It was a cry that echoed throughout the Warp, driving Imperial psykers insane and Chaos sorcerers more insane. It was a cry containing a subconscious command. All across the galaxy, the daemons of Tzeentch vanished from the material world, never to return. His mortal followers began retreating, heading towards the Eye of Terror. All the Gods, daemons, and mortal followers of Chaos took notice. In the Warp near Terra, the mighty soul of the God-Emperor of Mankind himself took notice. He smiled, for he knew what it meant. It was a cry that was to echo in the Warp throughout eternity, long after the stars themselves died. It was the cry of a defeated god.

"CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!"

==A Record of Historic Significance==
There is an example of real-world tactical genius that took place during granpappy's WWII, though it was performed not by a manly cigar-chomping motherfucker but rather by a man named Jasper Maskelyne, a British stage magician who was recruited by Britain's MI9 to assist with camouflage development. One account (which has had trouble being verified admittedly, but then many files are still classified from that era) claimed that he was able to hide an entire desert convoy by deploying ultra-bright "dazzle-lights" which blinded recon planes being used by the enemy. However, many of his claims have been thoroughly scrutinized and most seem to be tall tales.

Whatever the story may be the lesson to learn from it is never ask Creed to pull a rabbit out of his hat. He will instead pull a [[Slaanesh|Baneblade out of your ass.]]

There is also the story about how the Allies managed to dupe Germans into believing they were going to land their invasion at [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pas_de_Calais Pas-de-Calais], at the narrowest point of the British Channel, codenamed [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Fortitude Operation Fortitude]. They built entire fake bases, complete with wireless traffic, nonsense but believable orders, and dummy transport aircraft, and placed General Patton at the "head" of this fake [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/First_United_States_Army_Group 1st US Army Group]. They also made use of captured German double agents, codenamed [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Double-Cross_System Double-Cross] ([[Alpha_Legion|XX]]) System, along with diplomatic channels with neutral countries, to feed Nazis more misinformation, and used [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ultra_(cryptography) Ultra] decryption to confirm they had fallen for it. Indeed, Hitler himself ordered to hold up some German divisions as a reserve for this fictional Calais landing, and Rommel gave the reinforcement of the [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atlantic_Wall Atlantic Wall] defenses in that region top priority. It was so believable that when [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Neptune Operation Neptune] commenced and D-Day landings began, the Germans thought it was a diversion, not the main attack, and so did not commit their reserves until the Allies had already established a full front in Normandy.

So it can be said that the Allies managed to CREEEEEEED their troops into France.

===Fall of Cadia===
Creed loses a hand fighting Abaddon. And nearly loses his life as the armless wonder chokes him. But an expertly infiltrated Celestine back stabs the Failure, and Creed lives. Despite Creed losing, you have to think about it this way; a human stood up to a Space Marine, in Terminator Armor, with the full power of Chaos powering him. *cough* Ollanious Pius *cough*

Creed stays behind with the rest of the 8th Cadian force to hold off the tide of Daemons as Cadia collapses into pieces. Later, he wanders through the destroyed landscape, succumbing to his wounds. Trazyn notices that a wild Creed appeared, and captures him in a pokeball. (Not the best end, but without Trazyn, Creed would've died in the Eye of Terror.) NOTE: This is not yet confirmed, although everyone thinks that Trazyn took him. Many also think that 'A metal giant in a scaled cloak' could also be Vulkan. Offering Creed immortality? Regardless, we shall know in the future if GW decides to bring him back for one last epic fight (probably future Siege of Terra).

Or it is Trazyn who is saving Creed to get his hands on Abaddon in the future, after all, he is currently playing the role of saviour, and it is stated Abaddon is the prize he wants for his collection...

==See Also==
*[[Vance Motherfucking Stubbs]] - <s>Who is tactically incompetent.</s> NONSENSE!!! There is nothing said about those one hundred [[Baneblade|Baneblades]] being lost. {{BLAM|That's heretical propaganda}}. The tanks were shipped all across the [[Imperium|Imperium's]] borders. ''(And then lost)''.
*[[Castor]] - His second cousin.
*[[Cadia]] - Where that motherfucker lives.
*[[Baneblade]] - His greatest asset
*[[Vlad von Carstein]] - His pupil in Warhammer Fantasy.
*[[Sly Marbo]] - Can "out-CREEEEEEEED!" Creed.
*[[Colour Sergeant Jarran Kell]] - His bodyguard and bro.

==External Links==
*[[Abaddon at the Therapist]]
*[http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/4544432/ sup/tg/ archive of the First Coming of Creed.]
*[http://www.facebook.com/pages/Flanking-the-enemy-hidden-behind-some-moss/Ursarkar-E-Creed/167568501474?created&v=info#/pages/Flanking-the-enemy-hidden-behind-some-moss/Ursarkar-E-Creed/167568501474?ref=nf He has infiltrated Facebook ! He is also a social genius !]
And twitter! @creeeeeeeeeeeed

==Gallery==
<gallery>
Image:TacticalSexyness.jpg|The tactical sexyness of one goddamn motherfucking tactical genius.
Image:1242252059504.jpg|Creed pulling off a Yo Dawg meme.
Image:Creedrules.jpg|Creed's "Tactical Genius" special rule.
Image:CREEEED.png|AVE IMPERATOR MOTHERFUCKERS!
Image:creeeeeeeed.jpg|Abaddon getting ready for another black crusade.
Image:Tacticageniuspool.jpg|Pool is closed due to Tactical Genius.
Image:1242230736718.jpg|Cigar chomping, manly motherfucker.
Image:1242252825237.jpg|If you think this is impossible even by 40K standards then you're doing it wrong.
Image:Ursakar_Hefner.jpg|Creed, after tactical geniusing himself into position of Judge in the annual Imperial Swimsuit contest.
Image:Creeeeeeed.jpg|Some speculate a Tactical Genius placed Demolishers in the servers.
Image:Creed-loliflanku.jpg| Problem, Failbbadon?
File:Warhammer-imperial-guard.jpg| Canon CREEEED!
Image:1242225473355.jpg|If I See That Fucking Warhound One More Time...
Image:CREEEED.jpg|Even heretics resent scouting Warlords...
Image:1242253576880.jpg|...then again it's their fault for turning away from the [[Emperor|Emprah]] and all.
Image:goodnewscreed.jpg|Good news everyone... BANEBLADES!
Image:CREEEEEEEEEE.jpg|Another crusade foiled.
Image:Thrawncreed.jpg|Some speculate Admiral Thrawn may be Creed.
Image:Creed.gif|TACTICAL GENIUS
Image:1242230900950.jpg|YOU HAS NO ARMS! YOUR TACTICS ARE INVALID!
Image:CreedvTzeentch.png| Where are your Gods now, Heretic?
Image:1243030681317.jpg|Kirby may be a possible lead on who Creed really is...
Image:1243333513695.jpg|"I WAS COPULATING WITH A DAMNABLE SLAANESHI WHORE?!?!?!".
Image:Cred.jpg|CREEEEEEED
Image:Currie.jpg|The Real Creed?
Image:Creedchoke.jpg|Creed choking someone.
Image:Tacticalgenius.png|How it went down
Image:TacticalSwarmlord.png|The reason Tyranids can never take allies.
File:Hammerspace_Titan.jpg| CREEEEEEED!!!
File:And then Creed.png| THE PONIES ARE HERETICS AND SHALL NEVER RULE HERE!
</gallery>

{{IG-Characters}}
[[Category: Awesome]][[Category:Meme]][[Category:Stories]]