My Impressions of Great Britain

[Loonikus]

The first thing one notices upon their arrival in the twisted other-dimension is the smell. The air hangs pungent with not but a sickly musk of industrial runoff, wet decay, and human misery. A misery so foul, tainted and broken, so devoid of all hope of any recovery or even sanity that it permeates the very air within the entirety of whatever passes for borders in this twisted hell-realm. This stench alone is enough to drain the soul of even the most experienced traveler who has seen the worst human conditions the world has to offer, yet as soon as one enters this place they know that it is not quite of the same world, for no human suffering such as this could exist within the confines of any normal place. To draw in the air still leaves one breathless, as if all the life-giving oxygen in the air was stolen away and replaced with not but aerosolized bile, coagulated blood, and the stench of burned steel.

But the smell alone can not do justice to the terrible, unspeakably evil nature of this place. Such is its unearthly corruption that it assault all the human senses as well as the soul. To gaze upon the landscape is to gaze at a vision of hell more vivid than Dante Alighieri's worst nightmares. For miles, sweeping grey hinterlands lead to lifeless plateaus, while far below these grim steppes an even more soul-destroying vista awaits the eyes of the damned. Vast, unending expanses of industrial heartland sprawl in the deep valleys across the land: steel skeletons of factories, mountains of coal and rivers of slag lay stretch on for miles upon untold miles, sweltering torrents of molten metal cast a hellish red glow over the countless slave pits, skinning houses, and non-Euclidean architecture of massive temples dedicated in the blood of innocents to dark, unspeakable gods of forgotten days. Within these dark places of worship, debased acts of wanton savagery on a scale no mortal dares comprehend. Starved slaves, unfit for further work in the pits, are handed over to cackling demon possessed warlocks whom spirit their living sacrifices away to the darkest corners of these cathedrals where the dark cabal of dread priests have prepared the most painful and horrific tortures imaginable. These temples, part fortress and part cathedral, are physically painful to even gaze upon and stab into the sky like sharpened blades seeking to dismember their hapless victim. In their shadows great processions of chained slave gangs are marched to death in the hundreds by monstrous hulking forms clad in ancient vulcanized rubber suits. Although most of these slave masters wear blood and soot stained industrial respirators, those that do not have the pasty, putrid flesh of a stillborn and rotted bucked teeth. Yet for all the debased horror of the slave drivers, it pales in comparison to the human tragedy that are the slaves themselves. Each one appears as a walking corpse, so atrophied and starved they appear to have more in common with ancient unwrapped mummies than living human beings. Like mummies, they appear to have drapes of cloth hanging from their bodies like bandages, but upon closer inspection one realizes the terrible truth. They are not bandages, but flayed skin driven loose from their flesh from the tireless lashing of hook-ended whips. Most have lost themselves to insanity, their minds irredeemably shattered by the unimaginable horrors wrought on their body and soul, yet a few remain sharp enough to fully comprehend the terrible pain they endure.

These slave gangs, known as a "Labour Party", are marched around the dread city endlessly. They do not have barracks, for their dark master have no compulsion to give them rest, food, or any other essential for life. They are herded from work site to work site by the rubber-clad slave drivers, whom are armed with long rusty billhooks used to jab and pull at slaves who begin to fall behind. The labour parties are marched under the careful watch of blood stained watchtowers, covered with jagged razorwire and the entrails of those slaves foolish enough to attempt escape, to the various stifling factories and hellish quarries that punctuate the industrial hellscape. Here, massive foundries churn with molten steel and great pneumatic hammers beat away at dark iron anvils the size of shipping containers. Hundreds of slaves toil on every level of these massive factories, operating dark machines that seem to have a baleful will of their own. The heat in these places is nothing short of unbearable, and slaves die here in droves, whether by being crushed under massive forging machines, grinded to a bloody pulp by the massive lathes, or simply tossed into the rivers of molten slag for the momentary amusement of the iron clad lords of these sites. Escape from these factories and manufactories is impossible, for the salve drivers keep and iron watch over every slave at all times using a network of cameras, so that any slave who attempts to escape is quickly captured and flayed alive or fed to the wild beasts that inhabit the cesspit alleys that gorge themselves on industrial runoff and the carcasses of those who die in the factory.

As steel girders, cut stone and brazen brass leave the hell factories, the supplies stream into the dread city via screeching railcars. Throughout the wasteland of bloodied stone and rusted iron, they are used to construct ever more fortresses and bastions, trenches and artillery pits, and dark alters to unfathomable powers. The entire realm is a hideous, dread-ringed outpost of malice that is rightly abhorred by all living things. Tarnished steeples and stained walls, deathly weed-tangled spires and empty halls were filled with all manner of loathsome creatures. Maddened slaves and servants, iron clad warrior patrols with SA80's held tight to their chests, and chanting priests who mark holy places with the darkest most fowl pollutants of the realms under-sewers and are clothed in cloaks of flayed human skin all call the twisting nightmare labyrinth their home. Although all the inhabitants of this cursed place go about their own mad business, they are all subject the demonic will of the lands one master. The Queen of Hosts had built a fortress at the heart of this dread realm, and of all the sights, smells, sounds and other sensations that screamed of the evils of this place, her bastion required none of them to eat away at a mans very soul and obliterate all hope. Within a cratered moonscape of twisted debris and wreckage stands the most diabolical bastion ever conceived by man, angel, or demon. It is a fortress built of dark madness and stands in defiance of all reason. Its steepled towers and mighty bastions wound the sky, its massive gateway a snarling void. Its walls, at least a quarter of a mile high, are darkened bloodstained stone, veined with unnatural colors that should not exist and burn the retina upon merely glancing at them. Rampart after rampart of spiked reinforced stonework raise up from the annihilated cityscape that surrounded the fortress of the Queen of Hosts, an unimaginable and equally unassailable redoubt of horror garrisoned with untold numbers of fanatical warriors of the Queen.

And such a garrison is needed, for in the realm only the strongest survive. The queens most powerful subjects, known as the House of Lords, constantly made war with each other and the fortress itself to prove their worth to their Queen, for the Queen knows no mortal man could ever penetrate her lair and the Lords know it pleases her greatly to see the slaughter that takes place before her walls. Fanatical warriors and slave armies throw themselves at the keep only to be torn to pulped masses by the unholy firepower of the fortress defenders. Great siege works can be seen in the ruined plain before the fortress, great trenches twist and wind around the long destroyed buildings and rusting war machines like carrion worms in a corpse. Mighty plumes of smoke and fire can always be seen erupting from the walls of the fortress, caused by the massive siege guns of the Lords armies. Yet despite the terrible tally these guns inflicted, the scale of the ungodly fortress is so grand that they are but pinpricks. Thousands, possibly tens of thousands, of warriors surround the fortress, raising Union Jacks made of human skin on bloodied spears in their camps. The warriors themselves bear many similarities to the slave masters within the confines of the realm-wide nightmare city, with putrefied flesh, crooked fangs, and shocks of blood red hair. These armies of the Lords are seen by their master as nothing but chaff, human sacrifices to be thrown at the walls so that the Queen might revel in the slaughter and bestow unto him her dark blessing.

[Scott]

they use funny words over there, like 'telly'

[420weedscopes]

who cares

[Vekter]

WHATA FUCK MAN xD i just fall of my chair kuz i couldnt and i CANT stop laugh xDXDXDXDXDDDDDDDDDDDDXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD OMGOSH DDDDDXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD DDDDDD LOOOOOOOOOLLLLL THIS IS A SHIT XDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDXDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD A BIG ONE XDDDDDDDD A GRAT ONE XXXXXXDDDD CONGRATS MAN XD U FRUSTRATED U FRUSTRATED BRO U SO MAD WHY ARE YOU SO MAAAAD I CAN POST ANYTHING I WANT THAT IS HOW IT SAYS IN THE RULES I DONT CARE ABOUT YOUR FAGGOTRY RULES Y SO MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD

[Thunder11]

Hello and welcome to Britain, would you like some tea?

[invisty]

Wrong forum

[Falamazeer]

Did you get this from something, or did you write it yourself? because if this is in a book, I want to read that book. all of it. now.

[Loonikus]

Did you get this from something, or did you write it yourself? because if this is in a book, I want to read that book. all of it. now.

Spoiler:

I wrote it, but I did draw heavy inspiration (and maybe one or two stolen sentences) from Graham McNeills Dead Sky, Black Sun. I strongly suggest picking up his Ultramarines Omnibus as well as his Iron Warriors Omnibus, especially since the former contains Dead Sky, Black Sun, which by the way has a ton of Dantes Inferno tier shit in it that is more disturbing than anything Great Britain has to offer. I mean really, everyone knows the Warp in WH40k isn't a fun place to be, but McNeill does a 10/10 job at describing just how fucked up of a place it really is.

Kind of like Great Britain.

[Remie Richards]

You're just jelly.

[Not-Dorsidarf]

You're just jelly.

Can confirm infernal fires from incinerated souls of slaves piled and used like cordwood are lovely today. Ah, summer in the British Isles

[nsos]

u wrote all of this but u really just described wales

[Cik]

would make a pretty good travel agent/10

[mosquitoman]

I like how he spent time and effort to write a few paragraphs and share some in-depth thoughts on UK, and yet every single response to this is either a meme or a "witty" oneliner.

The general population has been debrained and reduced to a herd grunting, snorting animals incapable of coherent communication. Just take a moment to appreciate that SS13 players are, on average, probably on the right side of the bell curve, so all other used-by-facebook rubes are even less than that.

I'd share some opinions about OP and my own views on UK but those are forbidden here so why even bother.

[Jacquerel]

I like how he spent time and effort to write a few paragraphs and share some in-depth thoughts on UK, and yet every single response to this is either a meme or a "witty" oneliner.

The general population has been debrained and reduced to a herd grunting, snorting animals incapable of coherent communication. Just take a moment to appreciate that SS13 players are, on average, probably on the right side of the bell curve, so all other used-by-facebook rubes are even less than that.

I'd share some opinions about OP and my own views on UK but those are forbidden here so why even bother.

lol

[Incomptinence]

"Thou knaves arte meme speakers!"
Thus spoke the meme name man. Then the finger of blame turned upon itself and skewered him through the chest. Not blood no but his shifting flesh bubbling out of the puncture spilled onto the ground forming pancake like "appendages".
The new being trundled of like a loyal dog for their deformity could neither slow nor pain them since after all was the ground under their feet a falsehood and the only object of matter was the love of the gods? It skipped home leaving chunks of itself behind hell bound on homosexual coitus with it's own mother. After plunging through several tepid creaks soaking it's bloodless wounds it arrived at an empty home. The mockery of architecture was a savages' hut comprised of twigs and straw and they found the had no mother at all for none was needed for a falsehood. Something roared nothing at the empty sky but it was soon forgotten for slaves of unreason have no need for words when loyalty is all that matters to a dog.

[Maccus]

I like how he spent time and effort to write a few paragraphs and share some in-depth thoughts on UK, and yet every single response to this is either a meme or a "witty" oneliner.

The general population has been debrained and reduced to a herd grunting, snorting animals incapable of coherent communication. Just take a moment to appreciate that SS13 players are, on average, probably on the right side of the bell curve, so all other used-by-facebook rubes are even less than that.

I'd share some opinions about OP and my own views on UK but those are forbidden here so why even bother.

xD

[ColonicAcid]

now thats just plain bait

you aint even trying

typical tbh

[Incomptinence]

I don't care if it is bait. Everything he says is some sort of bait it is almost as if dear sweet Paprika has come back already to start fights for no reason.

[Anonmare]

gr8 b8 m8 no d-b8 i r8 it an 8 i h8 2 b in an ir8 st8 but its my f8
hey m8 i apreci8 that u r8 it gr8 u wanna d8 and mayb masturb8 i can ask n8 and we can meet at the g8 dont b l8
gr8 b8 m8 i r8 it an 8/8 plz don’t h8
gr8 b8 m8 cant even h8 so I r8 8 outta 8
Gr8 b8 m8. I rel8, str8 appreci8, and congratul8. I r8 this b8 an 8/8. Plz no h8., I’m str8 ir8. Cre8 more, can’t w8. We should convers8, I won’t ber8, my number is 88888888, ask for N8. No calls l8 or out of st8. If on a d8, ask K8 to loc8. Even with a full pl8, I always have time to communic8 so don’t hesit8.

[peoplearestrange]

You're just jelly.

Actually we call it Jam over here.



:V

[420weedscopes]

:V

she knows this