Лол, вся Ваха - это ответ на простой вопрос: "Что будет если намешать в одну кучу великое множество сворованных с масскультуры, отдельных авторов и древних мифов концептов, дать им уникальный дизайн, и вообще не парится по поводу хоть сколько то серьёзного объяснения всего этого трэша?" По секрет скажу, что получается один из лучших фантастических сеттингов вообще. И это относится как к 40К, так и к ФБ. АоС пока ещё наращивает массу, но я в него верю.
Челик выше сказал про паутину, я же дополню, что сверхсвет через "твёрдую науку" это а) сложно пздц (а ведь Империум деграднул, так что новых тех такого уровня - нема) и б) жрёт энергии дохера (приведу как пример некронов. У них цела куча сверхсвета без варпа, тем не менее энергожор там страшный, один способ требует сожрать звезду, для другого нужен К'тан на поводке... Ты понял. А Империум такого тож не может, сложна, нипанятна)
Ох, как же я долго ждал, чтобы кинуть этот отрывок! Итак, это - кусок недавнего рассказа из серии Warhammer Horror, "The Bookkeeper's Skull". И лично я малость подохуел от пиздецовости ситуации. Отрывок на ангельском, но переводчик к твоим услугам.
I saw the stiff poses of my most treasured toys, lying in the shadows. They had wooden arms, legs and heads, uniforms of embroidered cloth, bodies of fur and flesh. Time and play had ruined most of them. Staring back at me were empty eye sockets and black, glassy optics. Tufts of stuffing peeked through worn torsos. Only one of them moved: Gambol, my clown. He stood out with his red hair, whitened skin, blue diamonds stitched over his eyes, and a broad, red smile tattooed upon his face. He rocked back and forth on his sutured haunches, the bells on his harlequin's uniform ringing gently as he scratched at the brass flesh-plug behind his ear. His voice was boyish, despite his adult size.
"Ruddie go?"
"Ruddie go," I said in our childlike pidgin.
He sniffed ostentatiously as a tear rolled down his pockmarked cheek.
"Who Gambol play with?" He pulled an exaggerated sad face and started to sob theatrically. "Gambol sad."
I could see that. When I was young, I had thought of him as my closest friend. Now, I was unmoved by these cheap displays of fake emotion. In truth, he was once some criminal or heretic that had been turned into a wealthy kid's plaything - his legs amputated, his brain hacked into and his neural pathways slaved to a simple spectrum of emotions. Growing up, I had occasionally wondered what crime he had committed to deserve such punishment, and whether something lurked still beneath his neural circuitry. Was there a malevolence in his bloodshot eyes?
Gambol scratched behind his ear again. His fingers came away bloody.
"Itches," he said, but his flesh plugs had always festered. "Gambol must not scratch," I told him. "Itches," he said again, and fresh blood covered his nails in a red glaze. He held them up for me to see.
I didn't know what he wanted me to do about it.
"Pain is a sign of life" I told him.
[...]
"I'll be back," I lied.
Gambol wiped his hand on his quartered livery. Suddenly he was bright and cheery. "Back? Gambol wait! When you back?"
"I don't know."
"Today?"
"No."
"Tomorrow?"
"No."
He flinched at my tone and opened his mouth in an exaggerated wail, his blue-diamond eyes squeezing another torrent of tears down his face. I should have shot him there and then to put him out of his fake misery. But I was in a hurry...I had been summoned.
"Gambol sad!" he called as I turned my back on him. They were his last ever words to me. I didn't bother answering, but shut the door, the click of the lock sealing my childhood firmly in the past.
... ну или "кое-кто" (и это вовсе не БЛ) воспринимает черты персонажей слишком резко. Если персонаж-лоялист не поехавшая мразь - значит всё, "хули он такой идеальный?!! РЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯ" Если персонаж-хаосит не воплощение совершенсва - значит всё, "ГВ выставляет хаоситов идиотами-мразями!!! РЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯ"
Народ видит тег - народ верит тегу. И па-ху-ю. Ну и да, чтобы понять кто на картинке надо либо оригинал поста искать, либо "кныжке четат", а они такое не любят.
По секрет скажу, что получается один из лучших фантастических сеттингов вообще. И это относится как к 40К, так и к ФБ. АоС пока ещё наращивает массу, но я в него верю.
I saw the stiff poses of my most treasured toys, lying in the shadows. They had wooden arms, legs and heads, uniforms of embroidered cloth, bodies of fur and flesh. Time and play had ruined most of them. Staring back at me were empty eye sockets and black, glassy optics. Tufts of stuffing peeked through worn torsos. Only one of them moved: Gambol, my clown. He stood out with his red hair, whitened skin, blue diamonds stitched over his eyes, and a broad, red smile tattooed upon his face. He rocked back and forth on his sutured haunches, the bells on his harlequin's uniform ringing gently as he scratched at the brass flesh-plug behind his ear. His voice was boyish, despite his adult size.
"Ruddie go?"
"Ruddie go," I said in our childlike pidgin.
He sniffed ostentatiously as a tear rolled down his pockmarked cheek.
"Who Gambol play with?" He pulled an exaggerated sad face and started to sob theatrically. "Gambol sad."
I could see that. When I was young, I had thought of him as my closest friend. Now, I was unmoved by these cheap displays of fake emotion. In truth, he was once some criminal or heretic that had been turned into a wealthy kid's plaything - his legs amputated, his brain hacked into and his neural pathways slaved to a simple spectrum of emotions. Growing up, I had occasionally wondered what crime he had committed to deserve such punishment, and whether something lurked still beneath his neural circuitry. Was there a malevolence in his bloodshot eyes?
Gambol scratched behind his ear again. His fingers came away bloody.
"Itches," he said, but his flesh plugs had always festered.
"Gambol must not scratch," I told him.
"Itches," he said again, and fresh blood covered his nails in a red glaze. He held them up for me to see.
I didn't know what he wanted me to do about it.
"Pain is a sign of life" I told him.
[...]
"I'll be back," I lied.
Gambol wiped his hand on his quartered livery. Suddenly he was bright and cheery. "Back? Gambol wait! When you back?"
"I don't know."
"Today?"
"No."
"Tomorrow?"
"No."
He flinched at my tone and opened his mouth in an exaggerated wail, his blue-diamond eyes squeezing another torrent of tears down his face. I should have shot him there and then to put him out of his fake misery. But I was in a hurry...I had been summoned.
"Gambol sad!" he called as I turned my back on him. They were his last ever words to me. I didn't bother answering, but shut the door, the click of the lock sealing my childhood firmly in the past.
Если персонаж-лоялист не поехавшая мразь - значит всё, "хули он такой идеальный?!! РЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯ"
Если персонаж-хаосит не воплощение совершенсва - значит всё, "ГВ выставляет хаоситов идиотами-мразями!!! РЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯЯ"