Character Description Compendium: Forgeworld Quir

[MolotovKraken]

With the members of the Third legion and their allies spread through out swathes of books it can at times be quite a task to hunt down the descriptions of them, be it for art, conversions/kitbashes, lore discussions or any number of things. As such my hope with this thread is to make things a bit easier for fellow fans of the legion looking for such details.

This thread shall cover the The Forces of Forgeworld Quir under the command of Lady Spohr.


Lady Spohr- A renegade mechanicum Magos who rules over the forgeworld Quir. She was tall and heavy, built for war. Thick robes intricately woven with scenes from Martian legend hid her lower half while her upper half is encased a heavy golden cuirass bulging with cables pumps hoses and sensory nodes. Smoke issued from vents on her armour and thin sensor filaments extended outwards from her chest and shoulders with pulsing tips. She wore a loose belt of silver-plated skulls where her hips would have been, each skull is marked with a different cog wheel rune. Her head is a golden skull etched in binary and profusion of power cables which occasionally sparked spilling over her shoulders. Under her robes are legs and serpentine coils. She wore loose sleeves and a cowl. Her eyes were glowing lenses and the power cables around her skull occasionally sparked. She had claws.

Spohr Palanquin- An enclosed palanquin with six pneumatic limbs with heavy clawed feet, it was an ornate monstrosity dripping with unnecessary guilt and machine carved grotesquery's. It’s curtains made from achromatic flesh weave which shifted hues with every step which curled aside to reveal the Magos, Lady Spohr.

Spohr cyber soldiers- They were quipped with antique radium carbines and were heavily armoured. They were less meat and more machine, sealed in crustaceans like shells of organic looking metal. They wore masks in the shapes of daemon faces and coats branded with ruins of the full ruinous powers. They steamed with unnatural heat.

Spohr Castellan- It’s carapace was oil black and was draped in flesh weave. Nerve like tendril webs had spread and become bloated bursting through the armour plating like roots through stone. Steaming runes marked its chassis and clusters of tiny human faces sprouted like barnacles from the seals of its joints. It’s dome like cranium reshaped into an approximation of a bestial leer. It was equipped with claws and a combustor weapon on its carapace.

Lady Spohr honour guard- They wore shell-like ceremite carved with strange sigils beneath thick coats and cowls made of stolen flesh. Some wore grotesque masks while some had faces that were made more of metal than flesh. They were equipped with antique radium carbines.

 

[Sea Dragon]

For long I dreamt about making a fukky cinverted slaaneshi Mechanicum army, but it would be so costly, plus the time it would entail... That idea will remain an idea for now.

 

[MolotovKraken]

‘What of the others?’‘Gulos Palatides, a praefector of the Seventh Company. Or he was. He is the first of the Joybound now. He fancies himself a swordsman. Like Lucius. ’‘Don’t they all,’ Bile said. ‘I’ve heard of him. He led the remnants of the Seventh, Thirty-First and Twenty-Third Companies off Quir, after that rather disastrous raid on the black mills of the Mechanicum.’ He smirked. ‘Lady Spohr, the Magos-Queen of Quir, was quite put out with them. ’Oleander nodded. ‘That’s what brought him to the Radiant’s attention. He has all of the vices and precious few of the virtues, such as they were, of Fulgrim’s champion.’

‘Get me Subject P-12,’ he said, more harshly than he’d intended. The vat-born hurried to obey, scrambling over the material storage cylinders arranged along the far end of the laboratorium. The cylinders had been built to his specifications by an adept of his acquaintance – the Lady Spohr of Quir. The Dark Mechanicus had their uses, especially when it came to replacing his failing Crusade-era medicae equipment. He smiled, thinking of warm evenings spent on the Lady Spohr’s brass veranda, far above the smog-sea which hid the black flesh-mills of Quir. They’d had a number of fascinating discussions on the arts of material preservation, in his time there. ‘A rare creature,’ he said. The muttering vat-born dragged the body he’d requested from its storage unit. It was covered in preservative fluids, and had dozens of intravenous nodes implanted. The hardest part of his task was keeping the supplies fresh. That was what the cylinders were for. There was much that could be done with carrion, but for his work to proceed, he required fresh materials. Living bodies provided more opportunities for research than dead ones. ‘Get him on the table,’ Bile said, as he studied the diagnostic readouts. Bile had acquired the psyker after an attack on one of the Black Ships of the Imperium. He snorted at the thought. If there was a greater example of wasted potential in the galaxy he had yet to find it. The Loyalists fed a million souls to the Corpse-Emperor, all in an effort to stave off the inevitable.

The black mills of Quir never slept. Volcanic furnaces constantly vomited clouds of grey ash up through sky-scraping chimneys. The thunder of mining equipment echoed forever up from abyssal quarries. Everywhere was the cacophony of industry run wild. It echoed even unto the uppermost reaches of the stratosphere, and the half-finished orbital docking ring that girdled Quir like a halo of metal. But it wasn’t merely that hellish clamour which caused Fabius Bile to wince in discomfort as he descended the ramp to the landing platform. Rather, it was the sound of raw voices, raised in song. The atonal din caused the thin air to reverberate, and made Bile’s remaining teeth itch down to their cancerous roots. His fingers clenched about the skull of brass that topped the sceptre he leaned on. It glowed faintly with an unnatural sheen. Power thrummed through it, menacing and covetous. There was an intelligence there, if rudimentary, and it desired to be put to use. The sceptre was an amplifier, and its slightest touch could elicit a raging torrent of agony in even the strongest subject. He’d named it Torment, in a fit of whimsy. Bile had no doubt that a similar compulsion had motivated this unwelcome display.

Hunched, malformed shapes clad in the ragged remnants of ancestral hazard suits stood on the rust-riddled landing platform before him. No two of the factory workers were alike. Some were mostly human, save for an unsightly deformity, while others were barely bipedal. A few sported feathers or scales. Many had coiling, cephalopod-like tentacles rather than hands. One lumbering brute bore a rack of antlers that would have put a Fenrisian elk to shame. They were arrayed in two rows to either side of the disembarkation ramp, like soldiers awaiting the arrival of a visiting dignitary. The mutants swayed in time to the orchestral piece echoing down from the gargoyle-shaped vox-casters mounted high above the landing platform. The bursts of music drew forth a crude hymn from the ravaged throats of the gathered workers. Cybernetic cherubs swooped overhead, brass-and-steel wings hissing. The tiny creatures shrilled at one another in corrupted binary as they swept incense-spewing censers back and forth above the gathering, further adding to the baroque ridiculousness of it all. Bile stood for a moment, taking it all in. Hololithic readouts shimmered into view before his eyes as his power armour’s sensors scanned his immediate surroundings. Familiar genetic patterns sprawled lazily across the data, each one marked with the tell tale spiral of his signature. His lips stretched in a thin smile. These creatures were his children, in all the ways that mattered. He had grown their ancestors in vats, pulled them screaming from the darkness and delivered them up to their destiny. To see their descendants now evoked in him a rare flicker of pity, if only for the squandered potential. And yet, they thrived. They were strong, in their way. Durable. Adaptable, if lacking in the ability to carry a tune. Fit for purpose. That was all the Lady Spohr, Magos-Queen of Quir, asked of them. Spohr was a strange one, even by the standards of renegade Mechanicus adepts. Like all queens, she demanded fitting tribute from her supplicants. If she was displeased with her gift, things could get out of hand very quickly. The rotting remains of those who’d disappointed her hung from the chimneys of her factories. No one lived to repeat such foolishness. Each time he came to Quir looking for repairs to his ancient and dilapidated medicae equipment, he had to bring something new and utterly unique. Things that no other supplicant could offer her. It was almost a game. He had crafted her workers, woven a fleshweave, even cloned her original organic form, for purposes she had not divulged. But she had been growing bored with his arts even then. Still, he would persevere. He had a responsibility. That was his work. To improve upon the flawed designs of those who had come before, and seed the stars with a New Man – one adapted to the grimdarkness of the current millennium. The weight of such a destiny threatened to crush him, at times. But he would press on, whatever the cost. The task must be completed.

 

[MolotovKraken]

They left the cages behind and continued on to the edge of the platform. A heavy rail, decorated with machine-precise carvings of an obscene nature, separated them from the smog-choked skies. Bile looked out over the horizon, bracing himself against the high winds that tore at the edges of the platform. Below, a massive ore-hauler, its hull dotted with tumorous malformations, surfaced from the smog-bank with a rumble of engines and rose towards the ring of atmospheric processing centres. It was accompanied in its flight by a flock of smaller bat-like shapes, which shrieked and spun almost playfully through the air. The strange flock dispersed and swept back down into the smog as the ore-hauler gained altitude. The processed and refined ore it carried would be transported out of the upper atmosphere and to the ever-growing circumference of the orbital docking ring. Quir, like its mistress, was a work in progress. That urge to tinker was a familiar one. He felt it himself, whenever he considered his own physiology. Unlike Spohr, however, his efforts yielded precious few improvements. At best, they held things in stasis. For now ,that would have to do. His obsolescence could not be avoided, but his work would live on. That was all that mattered. would live on. That was all that mattered. ‘Your heart rate has elevated by a percentile of point nine nine nine. Are you ill?’ Bile coughed into his fist. Blood speckled his gauntlet. He could feel his hearts straining in their traces, and the weight of something cancerous growing in his abdomen. ‘No more so than usual,’ he said. He peered at her. ‘Do you ever wonder what might have been?’ ‘I endeavour to weigh all potentialities microsecond to microsecond.’ She paused, head cocked. He felt an itch in his cortex, and knew she was initiating a neural congress with a node somewhere on the planet below. A hiss of binary slipped from behind the golden rictus, pattering across his ears like the whisper of rain. The moment passed as swiftly as it had come.‘ That which cannot be calculated is irrelevant. That which cannot aid in calculation is also irrelevant.’

His hand dropped to the Xyclos needler holstered on his hip. He drew it smoothly and fired. Even the smallest scratch from one of the needler’s thin darts could induce madness or death. Providing that the target was organic, of course. This one, unfortunately, was not. Colours ran like condensation, revealing the hulking form of what had once been a Kastelan robot. The machine was almost three times his size. Its oil-black carapace was draped in a shroud of writhing fleshweave, which had camouflaged the machine. Bile frowned, annoyed at himself. Spohr had reverse-engineered his gift, making it over into something more useful. ‘Ingenious,’ he muttered, lowering his needler. It would do him no good against a foe such as this. Between the omnipresent din and the fleshweave, he’d been blind to its presence.

 

[Unicronicorn]

For long I dreamt about making a fukky cinverted slaaneshi Mechanicum army, but it would be so costly, plus the time it would entail... That idea will remain an idea for now.

All things considered, until Dark Mechanicum inevitably come out, you could run a CSM army as the Sensorians warband with the Soulforged Warpack detachment to match the vibe. A lot of modern daemon engines do a good job of looking very "mechanicum"-esque, and there's no reason you couldn't proxy some Skiitari as a unit of cultists. Hell, could even run a Tech-priest as a Warpsmith!

 

[Sea Dragon]

All things considered, until Dark Mechanicum inevitably come out, you could run a CSM army as the Sensorians warband with the Soulforged Warpack detachment to match the vibe. A lot of modern daemon engines do a good job of looking very "mechanicum"-esque, and there's no reason you couldn't proxy some Skiitari as a unit of cultists. Hell, could even run a Tech-priest as a Warpsmith!

Yeah, great idea! I specially love the skitarii models, would love to convert some into a luxurious slaaneshi theme.