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アングロン…だめかぁ

武器の寡婦作り指定したけどあれは斧じゃろがい！あぃぃ！

#Kriegshammer

Veröffentlicht: Nov 3, 2026

青い森製作所

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character: angron, copyright: warhammer_40k 1boy, solo, angron, daemon primarch, warhammer 40k, red skin, red eyes, hair tubes, pointy ears, large spread wings, huge wings, membranous bat wings, holding sword, sword raised high overhead, two-handed grip on hilt, overhead swing, mid-swing, swinging sword down, about to strike, dynamic pose, from below, low angle, foreshortening, dutch angle, wide shot, armor, gold armor, cuirass, pauldrons, vambraces, armored boots, poleyn, snarling open mouth, gritted teeth, angry, furious, glaring, looking down, cape, motion blur on blade, sky, storm clouds, lightning, fire, embers, smoke, apocalyptic battlefield, rubble, dust, dramatic lighting, backlighting, rim light, dark red and gold palette, ominous, epic From a low worm's-eye angle, tilted off the vertical into a slight dutch angle, the daemon primarch fills the upper two-thirds of the frame: a colossal red-skinned giant of a warrior, his enormous membranous bat wings flung wide to their full span and beating hard enough that their leading edges bow upward and the fleshy membrane near the far tip ripples back on itself. His head is thrown back and tipped slightly toward the lens so the underside of his jaw, the broad flattened nose and the rows of brass-capped hair tubes hanging along his scalp catch the light, one pointed ear slicing forward past the cheek; his red eyes are narrowed and glaring down the line of the descending strike, lips peeled back from clenched teeth in a snarl of effort. Both hands are clamped around the hilt of a huge chain-edged blade above and behind his head, the pommel end just clearing the crown of his skull, elbows flared out, wrists cocked to the point where the swing has been arrested for a heartbeat before the drive down; the blade has already begun its arc, scored with a smear of motion along its trailing edge, and a thin curl of blood and ash streams off the tip into the wind. His torso twists so the near shoulder pauldron rides high and the far one drops, gold-trimmed cuirass plates scaled and battle-scarred, vambraces strapped tight over corded forearms, armored boots planted wide on cracked rubble, the near foot forward and grinding a slab to dust, the far heel dug in and lifting a spray of grit behind it. The cape at his back whips sideways, clear of the wings. He stands alone on a broken ridge of shattered masonry and shattered ground, foreground stones flung large and soft-edged by the low camera, midground dust rolling in a low bank around his ankles, background a churned horizon under a ceiling of black storm cloud torn open by forks of lightning. The light comes from behind and above him: cold blue lightning strikes flare inside the cloud bank, throwing his whole silhouette forward as a hard rim of white on the shoulder plates, wing bones and blade edge, while the embers and burning wreckage far below give a second, weaker orange glow that climbs the underside of his jaw, the inner membrane of the wings and the dust clouds -- everything between those two sources falling into deep red-black shadow. Palette held to blood red, tarnished gold, charred black and storm blue-white, nothing else admitted. His shadow, stretched by the backlight, falls long across the rubble toward the viewer and slides as the wings beat. Apocalyptic, furious.

アングロン…だめかぁ

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