hades_wench

вспомнила, что-то попадалось про Extinction - пролог к The Talon of Horus, 1-у роману в серии АДБ про карьерный рост Абаддона и черные будни ЧЛ. на фейсбуке автор как-то выкладывал кусок с описанием не очень цветущего "Духа мщения" из рассказа: The warship sits silent in space, her reactor cold, her engines dead. Battlements line her spine in a protrusion of castles and spires, with thousands of powerless gun turrets aiming up into the void. She drifts alone at the heart of an asteroid field, suffering occasional impacts against her scarred armour, each slow crash adding to the asymmetry of her scars. She once carved her name through the galaxy, at the vanguard of humanity's empire - a bloodthirsty herald of eminent domain. She once hung in the skies of Terra, laying waste to Mankind's cradle. Now she lies still, abandoned in Hell, hidden from those who covet her.

название обычного калтского города, который на краю гор. крутила и так, и этак, дошла до Нагорный-сити, содрогнулась, удалила :image030: мб, Высоты какие-нить? "они добрались до Высот..." или город Горный? не, фигня.

Истребитель жизни, ага, коль скоро есть прецедент. Пожиратели Миров же у нас еще есть, но это ведь не тираниды, да? они метафорически по-другому пожирают, а эти типы расправляются с биомассой в буквальном смысле, потому и близость была бы нежелательна. и еще вопрос: товарищи гильдейцы, что бы вы сделали с названием Highside-city? у меня сейчас в черновике предсказуемый вариант: не трогать. но вдруг...

Пожиратель (правда, без жизни) занят тиранидами. как-то два столь близких названия - не того.

как зовем Life Eater - вирус, учиняющий Экстерминатус?

проспойлерили Серого Ангела буквально одной строчкой: "Раскрывающийся текст"Caliban has been eerily silent since Horus rebelled, Loken and Qruze are sent to Caliban to find out where their loyalties lie.

уже обнародованное: The Crimson Fist частично предъявленное и переведенное: Принц воронья и дальше спойлеры с advanced review про Севатара и Керза: "Раскрывающийся текст" новелла длиной ок 140 стр. сюжет двусоставный: одна часть по то, как ПН довоевывают в Трамасском походе, вторая - про детство КК и как он подчинил Нострамо с объяснением его методов и философии. в истории самого Севатара будет про то, как он практически командует всем легионом и направляет его до окончания Ереси. его линия кончается на корабле ДА Invincible Reason, где его и еще многих ПН держат в плену, в то время как Конрад бродит по кораблю неведомо (для ДА) где. ревьюер полагает, что отсюда вырастут ноги у еще нескольких историй про ГГ и, возможно, часть АДБшного ромна про ПН времен Ереси под предварительным названием Midnight Souls. есть описание встречи Конрада и Имп., где последний, как и Фулгрим, хвалит его за управление Нострамо - идеальной подчиненной планетой. а так как Имп. всезнающ и невинность строить бесполезно, Конрад делает вывод, что его методы одобрены, а счасте народа - не тот вопрос, из-за которого стоит переживать. рассуждения насчет Севатара-псайкера читайте прямо в обзоре, т.к. это пока "я так вижу" чистой воды.

какая статья, помилуйте. Тихо Браге же. стыдно такого не знать.

вероятно, тот же, кто Tycho сходу перевел как Тайчо.

... что он на самом деле в сабже и выбрал. какая ирония. 2Анфариус и Хелбрехт персонально - идите-ка вы чатиться в... в личку, во.

i Уведомление: в теме много серого цвета. конкретнее и конструктивнее же.

between, p. 5.a.

в посте Кровавой графини. тем временем кусок номер 3.

не, все равно не сходится. он(-а/-о) еще и говорит про эту "железную оболочку", т.е. сам Арк, которая =/ это существо. оно останется, даже если корабль погибнет.

дочитала, есть вопрос: "Раскрывающийся текст"<Are you the Speranza?> said Kotov. That is but the most recent of my names. I have had many in my long life. Akasha, Kaban, Beirurium, Veda, Grammaticus, Yggdrasil, Providentia... a thousand times a thousand more in all the long aeons I have existed. это что получается, тот самый Грамматикус - ИИ? процесс перелета и the far side of the Halo Scar мне напомнило что-то вроде этой хреновины. ждем второй части, первая понравилась.

Принц ворон № 2. завтра будет еще третий.

это концептуальный момент, что ж моск и не попарить. в вахе чертей нет, предлагаю "какой демон тут нассал, сэр?" как культурологический эквивалент. :smartass:

тот же Ангел Экстерминатус намекает, что рейтинг текстов БЛ вот так резко скакнул до R, так что детям придется экстренно взрослеть.

отталкиваясь от этого, мб что-то вроде "Адова ссака, сэр, что происходит?".

напоминалка: в отдельную тему ) ппкс, книга радует (я сейчас на 1/2). приснопамятный Хоук жжот: попав на Арк Механикус, первым делом сооружает самогонный аппарат.

синопсисы россыпью: The Betrayer: The Shadow Crusade has begun. While the Ultramarines reel from Kor Phaeron’s surprise attack on Calth, Lorgar leads the rest of the Word Bearers deep into the realm of Ultramar. Their unlikely allies, Angron and the World Eaters, seem blind to the true goals of the mission, preferring instead to ravage each new civilisation they come across – but where Lorgar might once have chastised his wayward brother, now he seems only to encourage the frenzied bloodletting. Worlds will burn, Legions will clash and a primarch will fall... and the fate of the entire galaxy hangs in the balance. Deathwatch, Steve Parker: Gathered from the many Chapters of the Space Marines, the Deathwatch are elite, charged with defending the Imperium of Man from aliens. Six Space Marines, strangers from different worlds, make up Talon Squad. On a distant world, a new terror has emerged, a murderous shadow that stalks the dark, and only the Deathwatch can stop it. Under the direction of a mysterious Inquisitor Lord, they must cleanse this planet or die in the attempt. The Death of Antagonis: The Black Dragons fall upon the world of Antagonis, summoned to combat the plague of undeath that has engulfed the planet. Allying themselves with Inquisitor Werner Lettinger and a force of Sisters of Battle, the Black Dragons endeavour to save the souls of the Imperial citizens who have succumbed to the contagion. But there is more than a mere infection at play – the dread forces of Chaos lie behind the outbreak, and the Black Dragons stand in the way of the Dark Gods’ victory. Baneblade, Guy Haley: By the blessing of the Omnissiah was the Mars Triumphant born – from the forges of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the mighty Baneblade super-heavy battle tank comes to bring death and destruction to the foes of the Imperium. As part of the Paragonian 7th Company, Honoured Lieutenant Marken Cortein Lo Bannick commands the venerable war machine in a bitter war against the orks in the Kalidar system. As the campaign grinds on it begins to take its toll upon his crew, and old clan prejudices from the regiment’s home world arise once more. In a war which cannot be won by force of arms alone, such division may prove to be their undoing. Path of the Incubus: The eternal city of Commorragh has been cast into turmoil by the Dysjunction, a cataclysmic disturbance in the very fabric of its existence. As the streets are inundated with horrors from beyond the veil the supreme overlord, Asdrubael Vect, battles to keep his enemies in check and maintain his stranglehold over the riven city. Kabal turns upon kabal, archon against archon as the fires of hell are unleashed. Redemption for Commorragh rests in the hands of a disgraced incubus warrior wrongly accused of triggering the Dysjunction itself. His efforts to reclaim his lost honour could save the city or damn it forever – assuming it can survive the daemonic invasion and the archons’ deadly battles for supremacy. Blood of Asaheim: There is friction amongst the ranks of the Space Wolves Chapter, as the proud Space Marines enter into an uneasy alliance with the devout Sisters of Battle on a war-torn Ecclesiarchy world. Firecaste: In the jungles of the Dolorosa Coil, a coalition of alien tau and human deserters have waged war upon the Imperium for countless years. Fresh Imperial Guard forces from the Arkhan Confederates are sent in to break the stalemate and annihilate the xenos. But greater forces are at work, and the Confederates soon find themselves broken and scattered. As they fight a desperate guerrilla war, their only hope may lie in the hands of a disgraced commissar, hell-bent on revenge.

несколько кусков из Pariah, первой книги в таки 3-й трилогии с участием Беквин, с сайта БЛ и из превью-каталога. синопсис: "Раскрывающийся текст" Volume One of the Bequin Trilogy In the city of Queen Mab, nothing is quite as it seems. Pariah, spy and Inquisitorial agent, Alizebeth Bequin is all of these things and yet none of them. An enigma, even to herself, she is caught between Inquisitors Gregor Eisenhorn and Gideon Ravenor, former allies now enemies who are playing a shadow game against a mysterious and deadly foe. Coveted by the Archenemy, pursued by the Inquisition, Bequin becomes embroiled in a dark plot of which she knows not her role or purpose. Helped by a disparate group of allies, she must unravel the secrets of her life and past if she is to survive a coming battle in which the line between friends and foes is fatally blurred. из блога БЛ: "Раскрывающийся текст"This, I think, will be my life story, and it will start here. You will not learn much from me, or you will learn everything. I have not yet decided which. I know one thing, and that is that my life has too many stories within it. It is made out of stories, like a rope is wound from smaller strands, or a mosaic is made of little coloured tiles. I am made of stories. I must leave many of them out, otherwise the one that matters will not make a bit of sense. Some day, if I am alive, I might be persuaded to tell some of the stories I have omitted. But they are lies and fabulations and, anyway, I do not expect to live. My family’s name was Bequin, and this is the name I have always used when I am being myself. I was given to understand that proof of this heritage could be found in a marshland cemetery, for my family was a marshland family, but I never thought to check this, or visit the gravestone. This, I realise, makes me seem foolishly trusting. I am not. Besides, if I had seized, one day, upon the notion of taking a holloway down to Toilgate and entering the marsh beyond, I am sure that a gravestone would have been waiting for me in the waterlogged plot when I arrived, flecked with the lichen of ages though it had not stood there the previous sunset. It is said that I am very like my mother. That I was raised an orphan means that I cannot corroborate this either. My status as an orphan explains my situation. I was a ward of the city from a very young age, brought to the Scholam Orbus on Highgate Hill and raised there, and then transferred on my twelfth birthday to the Maze Undue, whose rambling accommodations adjoined the scholam. This was due to my selection as a promising candidate. Most of the scholam’s wards left the school and went down to the city when they turned twelve and were legally old enough to work. Promising candidates, one or two every few years, were transferred to the Maze Undue. I had, therefore, lived all of the life I could remember there on the hill, in one leaky, drafty building, or the other backing onto it. My name is Beta Bequin. The forename is an affectionate contraction of my full name, Alizebeth, and not an uncial label. отрывок из превью: "Раскрывающийся текст"I heard the crack, the crack of metal on flesh, the sound of an axe smacking a ripe tuber. Saur's head was snapped aside, his body rotating after it. Blood flew. It was in his dirty white hair. He crashed backwards into the railings of the upper ring, and knocked over a spit bucket. He half-fell, yet somehow kept his feet, but he was done. The stranger was following in, the salinter going for the throat while the guard was dropped. You have to remember the speed. You have to appreciate, as I tell you this, that virtually no time at all had passed since I first entered the room and saw them fighting. Three, four seconds, enough time for them to trade two dozen blows. I had come in with just enough time to grasp the basic situation and see Saur fall. I never liked Thaddeus Saur. It's safe to say my feelings towards the cruel bastard were stronger and more negative than that. But he was of the Maze Undue, and so was I, and this could not be permitted. I started forward. I shouted out a great cry, and snatched a buckler from the pegs. My cuff was turned to dead, so the force of my bluntness came with me and my shout. It can be like a slap to have a pariah come at you, aggressive, un-limited. To even a non sensitive, a regular human, the psykanic null of a blank mind be disturbing, if only fleetingly. He recoiled. The stranger recoiled. It was enough of a surprise to stop him cutting out Saur's throat. My interruption wasn't going to stop there. I hurled the buckler like a discus. The small, circular shield missed him, but he was obliged to duck. Saur was far from finished. He kicked out, savagely, and caught the stranger on the inside of his thigh with his heel, throwing the man sideways, clumsily. The stranger landed, hands on the canvas, but was ready as Saur propelled himself forward and kicked the mentor's legs away. Saur slammed onto his back. And I was, all this time, still running at him. I turned the run into a flying kick. He rolled under me, flat to the floor, and sprung up as I landed and turned. I think he wanted to say something to me, but he didn't know what. Perhaps he wanted to tell me to flee, to back away from a fight I had no part in, but he couldn't. If he wanted Saur dead, he had to kill me too, or the whole house would come down on his head. I could sense his conflict. Unarmed as I was, I drove at him, using his reluctance against him. Fighting Saur was one thing, but he didn't want to engage a young woman. His response was half-hearted. He tried to shove me away. He tried to spare me his blade, though it was still in his hand. I think he hoped to clip me with the hilt or pommel and perhaps knock me out. I would not let him off so easily. I grasped his wrist, turned it and, with my other hand, punched the pressure point in his upper arm. The salinter flew out of his deadened fingers. "Who are you?" I demanded. With both hands, he rammed me aside. I staggered and fell, knocking down a rack of wooden exercise staves. I got up, gripping one stave and kicking the others out of my way. The stranger was backing from me, his hands up. I think he was intending to cut his losses and flee. He doubled up as Saur'scutro tore into him from behind. The short swordwent through his coat, through his robes, through his under-jack and mesh, and sliced into his wrist. Saur ripped the blade free,and blood squirted out across the canvas. The stranger stumbled away, his head wobbling like a drunkard, his feet unsure, his eyes confused. He had both hands clamped to his waist, but even tight together, they could not plug the hole in him. Blood poured out, like red wine from a jug. His hands and sleeves were soaked with it. His mouth opened and closed, without managing to form words. He fell down on his back. Saur just stood there, watching him bleed out, the bloodied cutro low at his side. Blood formed a huge, dark red mirror on the canvas around the stranger. The mirror crept out. Blood soaked his coat and robes, covered his hands and flecked his face. He stared at the ceiling, mouth fluttered open and shut, his legs twitching. I bent over him. Perhaps he didn't have to die, I thought. We could hold him, bind his injury, call for the city watch. I tried to apply pressure to his ghastly wound, but it was open, and as big as a dog's mouth. My hands were no better at stemming the flow of blood than his had been. He suddenly, finally, saw me instead of the ceiling and the lights. He blinked, refocused. Tiny beads of blood had lodged in his eyelashes. "What is this? Who are you?" I asked. He said a word. It came out of him like a gasp, more breath than sound. It was a word I had not heard before. He said, "Cognitae". There was a bang, right in my ear, and it made me jump because it was sudden and close and painfully loud. A bark of pressure clouted me along with the noise. I flinched as bloody back-spatter hit my face, throat and chest. I had his blood in my eyes. Mentor Saur put another round through the stranger's face for good measure, then holstered his snub pistol.

2 трэка из *уже не помню* готовы. в мае отложила перед сессией, да так и... как всегда, кароч. :-

*перечитала* а мне нравится. вот эти куски - возьму, пожалуй, насчет всей книги - посмотрим, как будут дела в РЛ.

второй кусок из блога Макнилла потерялся: The forward elements of the capering host were drawing near, and coils of hallucinogenic fogs writhed between the legs of the riotous assembly. It moved with a life of its own, eager to explore its creators' bodies and taste their sweat, their breath and their dirt. The screams that reached to the skies were delirious and joyous, agonised and ecstatic, a braying wall of sound that echoed from the sides of the valley like the raving of a million madman. Scarifier priests spun and leapt throughout the dancing horde, their hooked chains and envenomed blades whipping and stabbing with gleeful abandon to cause pain and excruciation. Where their poisoned tips pierced an artery, the grateful victim would be seized by mad choreomaniacal fits. Roaring observers aped their lethal convulsions and the dancing mania spread ever wider, becoming more and more elaborate until the original victim's madly-pumping heart emptied their body and a new dance began elsewhere. Mass psychogenic hysteria gripped the thousands of men and women, who screamed and laughed and cried like mourners or celebrants. They fought, they fornicated; moving to the rapid, pulsing beat of a driving imperative that none among the Iron Warriors could know. They carried towering banners, streaming gonfalons and serrated pennants ablaze with imagery that was at once obscene and alluring, repugnant and inviting. Forrix recognised none of the heraldry, feeling a gut-deep revulsion at the graceful sweeps of the symbols worked into the textured banners. A meld of curves and voluptuous arcs penetrated by hard lines with barbed arrowheads atop their length. Nor were all the members of the host equal; kings and queens and princes were feted in all their finery; silks and steel, velvet and leather. Their crowns were bone, their orbs the skulls of willing sacrifices, and the sceptres the woven finger bones of the handless handmaidens attending them. And just as there were the gaudy courts of royal madness, so too were there regicides by the dozen as pretenders tore them down and took their bloodied crowns for themselves. As degenerate as the dancing host's behaviour was, it was nothing compared to the physical malformations wrought on the flesh of its number. Some disfigurements appeared to be congenital, others the work of swords or maces in ritualised combat, but the vast majority appeared to have been engineered by scalpels, bone saws and genetic modification. Men with anatomies reversed by horrific surgery capered on their hands, with legs sutured to their shoulders and faces in their bellies. Vat-grown cherub-grubs led packs of wild, spine-backed creatures, like the bastard by-blows of loathsome centipedes and giant scorpions. Women cavorted naked with scented oils slathering their bared breasts. Many of these women were gifted with breasts beyond the number decreed by nature, and these violet-hued individuals were attended by howling slaves and weeping devotees. Amid the heaving, spasming march of the decadent host, some were content to dance, some to debase, others to violate, yet more to scream their throats bloody as they drove their bodies to lunatic extremes of excess. They howled with the hybrid monsters and the most desperate for sensation set themselves ablaze and laughed as the flames consumed them. Forrix took his helmet from the mag-lock on his thigh as the rapturous mass of degenerates drew near and the acrid tang of perfumes began to discomfit him. 'I saw some strange things on Isstvan, but this is...' began Forrix, snapping his helm into the gorget seals as vocabulary failed him. No mere words could give name or reason to this behaviour, no codes of honour could reconcile this madness with the militaristic perfection and arrogant swagger the Emperor's Children had once possessed. 'What has happened to you, my brother?' wondered Perturabo, his face betraying no hint of the terrible anger that must surely be raging within his heart. 'Where are the legion warriors?' asked Falk. Forrix scanned the heaving mass of frenetic humanity as they spilled over the outermost earthworks; cavorting through razorwire-edged killing grounds, across spiked ditches and past iron-faced gun emplacements. What would take months of bloody siege to break through was overcome in moments by the vanguard of the Emperor's Children. At some unheard signal, the host fell utterly silent, halting in its maddened march a stone's throw from the Iron Warriors. Clouds of kicked up dust mingled with the twitching curtain of narcotic smoke issuing from hidden censers. After so cacophonous a din, the silence felt impossibly loud, and Forrix scanned the sweating, breathless host for some sign of what was coming next. That sign came as the lunatics abased themselves on the sand, prostrating themselves as supplicant savages before burning flora. Soltarn Vull Bronn dropped to one knee, placing his palm on the earth. 'Get up, damn you,' snapped Forrix. 'Iron Warriors bend the knee to no-one.' Vull Bronn ignored him and cocked his head to one side, as though listening to a voice only he could hear. 'He's here,' said Bronn. 'The Phoenician. He's coming.' Forrix looked up as the flesh host before him parted, pushing themselves back with their bellies scraping the sand to make a wide corridor between them. Through the swirls of pink and mauve clouds, Forrix could see the outline of something huge and swaying approaching. Vague silhouettes of power-armoured warriors marched alongside it, their forms granting some hope that the III Legion had not abandoned all pretence of being a fighting force. Fifty warriors in the shimmering purple of the Emperor's Children emerged from the smoke, and their appearance drew a gasp of shock from the assembled Iron Warriors. Slashes of vivid pigment were spattered over their armour, the myriad contrasting hues and clashing colours offending the eye with their garish disregard for the legion's heraldry. Jagged spikes jutted from pauldrons and their helmets were byzantine winged affairs, with amplification hoods and intensifiers worked into the visors. They carried a banner of stiff pink that Forrix could tell was fashioned from human skin, its texture and stench all too familiar to him. A runic form was emblazoned at its heart, the recurring motif he had seen worked in various forms upon the armour and flesh of the maddened horde, but distilled into its purest form. Borne by legion warriors, the symbol offended Forrix less than it had before, and he found himself drawn towards its beguiling curves and graceful loops. Anger touched him, and he threw off whatever glamours were worked into its form. Glamours? Where had that come from? A word of ancient usage that was meaningless in this age of reason and technological certitude. Whatever toxin burned in the censers was a powerful psychotropic indeed if it could drag such an archaic term from the mind of an Iron Warrior. Like the mortals before them, these warriors parted to form an honour guard, and behind them came a screaming, wailing mass of legionaries whose weapons were unlike anything Forrix had ever seen in a battle barge's armoury. Like oversized axes they were fitted with all manner of amplification devices, tonal distorters and artefacts whose function Forrix could not even begin to guess. Thrumming bass notes of raw kinetic force throbbed in their long necks, and Forrix wondered if such weapons might be employed in the reduction of a fortress wall. These warriors went without helms, and their faces were a horror of distended jaws with eternally screaming mouths and gaping wounds in the skull where their ears had been surgically adapted to collect and render sound into its purest elements. And then the primarch of the Emperor's Children stood revealed, his entrance as dramatic and sudden and shocking as he had no doubt intended. Atop a vast palanquin of living beings fused, sewn and warped together, the Phoenician emerged from the sentient clouds of fumes. A squad of warriors in Cataphractii armour bore this flesh palanquin on the vast shoulder guards of their armour, the spikes and sharpened edges of their pauldrons drawing blood and screams of pleasure in equal measure. Fulgrim's frost-white hair spilled from beneath a helm of dazzling silver, and his entire body was wrapped in a cloak of shocking purple and golden feathers. Motion rippled beneath the cloak, like a metamorphic larva on the verge of hatching into the most beautiful creature imaginable. Fulgrim waited until his Phoenix Guard halted before throwing open his cloak to reveal his sculpturally perfect body. His elegantly curved pectorals, rolling deltoids and ridged abdominals were bare of armour and gleamed with fragrant oils. His limbs writhed and fresh tattoos of coiling serpents; tattoos that even now began to fade as his superhuman biology undid the damage to his epidermis. Perturabo stepped towards the living platform as Fulgrim descended on a ramp of shields held out by his warriors. Forrix saw a warrior in perfect balance, who understood his body and its articulation to the highest degree. His every step was carefully placed, giving the lie to his flamboyant appearance. 'Brother Fulgrim,' said Perturabo, 'Welcome.'