Saul, the Creepy Clown

"Another performance finished," thought Saul, wearily. He's been living the life of a travelling performer since he ran away from home all those years ago. He spent the evening performing, then spent most of the night cleaning up after the performance; only to rise early to pack up and move on to the next town. It was a hard life. But it kept him busy--it helped him not to think about those...urges. The ones that pops used to beat him for. "I hope that sonovabitch died painfully," he brooded. 

Snapping back to reality, Saul got back to scrubbing the grease paint off. The ugly light bulb overhead hurt his eyes as it reflected off of the paint. After all these years, that shit had started to stain his skin. "Can't be good for me," he mused as he glared at the red reflection of his cheeks in the mirror. "One of these days, I'm going to finally give this traveling up..."

Brother Ignatius of the Dark Angels, Fourth Company

“Cloud Runner gazed on the wreckage of his home and felt like weeping. He closed his eyes and took three breaths, but when he looked again, nothing had changed. He turned back towards the dropship Deathwing.

Weasel-Fierce had just descended from the ramp. He gazed round ferally at what once had been Cloud Runner’s village and brought his storm bolter into attack position. A grin split his skull-like face.

‘Dark Angels, be wary. Death has walked here,’ he said. The sun glistened off Weasel-Fierce’s black Terminator armour. With his white hair and Y-shaped scar-tattoos, he looked like the Eater of Bones come back to claim the world.”

-William King, Deathwing

Sigvald the Magnificent

"Sickly, sinful, spectacles stand, shuffle, shamble and saunter shamelessly in mine scandalized sight! I suggest a solution... Surely such sedition should sour and succumb to Sigvald - the salacious, scandalous and sensational servant of Slaanesh! Son of Succubi, scion of sordid acts and slayer of squalid serfs! See how I stroll, stride, swagger and swirl, spin, slash and stab at stupid, senseless scum! Soon they shall swoon, shall seek solace and death from sundry torments wrought on them by my strategic, severing, scintillating shower of shimmering strikes! Send for the sword - summon Sliverslash!"

-Prince Sigvald, addressing his warhost (from Total War:Warhammer)

Finished the Fyrd

And let the heriots be as it is fitting to the degree. An eorl's such as thereto belongs, that is, eight horses, four saddled and four unsaddled, and four helmets and four coats of mail, and eight spears and as many shields, and four swords and 200 mancuses of gold. And after that, a king's thegn's, of those who are nearest to him; four horses, two saddled and two undo saddled, and two swords and four spears and as many shields, and a helmet and a coat of mail and fifty mancuses of gold. And of the medial thegns, a horse and his trappings and his arms; or his healsfang in Wessex; and in Mercia two pounds, and in East Anglia two pounds. And the heriot of a king's thegn among the Danes, who has his soken, four pounds. And if he have further relation to the king, two horses, one saddled and the other unsaddled, and one sword and two spears and two shields and fifty mancuses of gold; and he who is of less means, two pounds.

-From the Laws of Cnut

My Anglo-Danish army in all it's glory

Susie Sue, the Banshee

In the swamps that surround Ottersricht, they say there are places even the mutants won't go--places where the dead return to steal the souls of the living!

-Jurgen Oppenheimer, Ottersricht merchant