World Eaters, Berzerker Squad, the Skullclaimers of Sevak Mordrek.

The assault ramp crashed into the shattered manufactorum floor with enough force to send cracks racing through the ferrocrete. 

Before the dust had even settled, Squad Mordrek surged forward into the ruins. Brass chains swung from their armour as they ran, rattling and clattering against scarred ceramite in a metallic chorus that accompanied their war cries. They moved like a living avalanche of red, bone-white and brass. Chainaxes roaring as they tore through the defenders before proper firing lines could even be formed. 

A planetary militia officer managed a single shouted order before Sevak Mordrek's axe struck him across the chest, splitting armour, flesh and bone alike, the return stroke seperated his head from his neck in a crimson fan, splattering the warriors behind him as the World Eaters plunged deeper into the slaughter.

The Skullclaimers fought with a singular purpose that even other World Eaters found disturbing. Every kill was not merely a death but a trophy waiting to be claimed. Heads were severed with practised precision and immediately hooked onto belts or dangling chains. Warriors hacked through crowds of defenders, pausing only long enough to wrench skulls free before pressing onward. Chainaxes blurred through the smoke-filled air, carving red arcs through bodies and leaving trails of gore hanging in their wake. By the time resistance began to collapse, dozens of fresh trophies already swung from the armour of the advancing Berzerkers. To an outside observer they appeared less like soldiers and more like executioners racing one another to fill an invisible tally.

Mordrek himself stood at the centre of the carnage, roaring with laughter as blood drenched his armour. His recently reattached arm functioned perfectly, the work of the warband's Apothecary hidden beneath fresh layers of scar tissue and crude surgical staples. He flexed the limb repeatedly between kills, revelling in the strength flowing through it. Each swing of his chainaxe felt heavier, more powerful than the last. 

The air itself seemed thick with Khorne's favour. Every skull taken, every life ended, fed an intoxicating sensation building within him. It felt as though a giant hand rested upon his shoulder, urging him onward. 

Mordrek welcomed it gladly. 

He had long ceased questioning whether such feelings were real or merely the madness of the Nails.

Around him the Skullclaimers fought with growing ferocity as that same bloody momentum swept through the squad. 

They genuinely believed themselves superior to the other Berzerker bands aboard the Wrath of Nuceria. 

The Red Wake obsessed over old grudges and void-war traditions. 

The Brass Hounds gloried in blunt-force slaughter. 

The Broken Nails wrapped themselves in unsettling rituals. 

Only the Skullclaimers, in their own eyes, truly understood the purpose of battle. Khorne cared not for excuses, boasts or clever plans. He cared for skulls. And no squad aboard the cruiser gathered more than they did. Every chain hanging from their armour served as proof of that fact.

*****

The World Eaters project continues with the second squad of Berzerkers now finished. I am enjoying painting the force and I am busy organising a game for them, which is driving impetus to keep painting.

So, Squad Mordrek - the Skullclaimers, hit the completed pile.
Whilst sticking with the dark red like before with the Red Wake, I introduced a fair bit of bone-white onto this unit, especially on their shoulder pads. But also on random panels across the squad members, like I did with the black panels on the previous squad.
Whilst this introduces individuality to the models and across the squads, it also plays a practical purpose. As there are FOURTY Berzerker models in the army, when they make it into close combat, it allows identifying of each unit quickly from three feet away, the average distance one views a game from after all.

So in theory, it should keep the game moving, as well as looking cool and playing into the Lore of the Butcher Horde, being made up of remnant units ripped from broken warbands and forged into a somewhat coherent, if dysfunctional fighting force.

The main bulk of everything finished so far, the Red Wake on the left, the Skullclaimers on the right and the Master of Executions* Vekkar Thrice-Slain, in the middle.

Next I have the screenshot of the army from the Progress app I am using to track progress, I cannot get a screenshot with the main percentage, but the app tells me I am now 33% through painting this army!

To put it in a visual perspective, I laid out the entire army and wrote out some nametags so that we can see who everyone is and where everyone belongs. You may have to zoom in to read them all.

Progress is being definitely made. I am working on writing the background to the game I want to do to field these boys for the first time once they're all done (Angron and Kharn the Betrayer may not take part in it, but they will eventually hit the field).
I haven't totalled up the points costs for this army yet, as I need to work it out for my favoured 5th edition 40k, but also for the 2019 edition of Apocalypse.
My Element Games group is planning a spectacle of a game involving our Chaos forces versus an Imperial force, if we can pull it off mind.

But that is not until next summer as we plan on not only making the armies for the game, but also the terrain for the battlefield as several sets at Element Games do look a little tired and we want to make a statement.

I'll be back next time with the Brass Hounds, the third Berzerker squad completed, and most of the meat of the army done.

Until next time, have nice day....

*****

As the last organised resistance collapsed, Mordrek climbed atop the wreckage of a burning transport vehicle and raised a freshly severed head high above the battlefield. His warriors gathered around him, their armour slick with blood and decorated with new trophies. The chain of skulls hanging from his waist rattled as he laughed. 

Somewhere in the distance he could hear the vox traffic of other elements of the warband still fighting through the city, but his thoughts turned immediately to Targuul Draeg. The memory of their interrupted duel ignited fresh anger. Even now he imagined the other champion finding fault in something, grumbling about territory, trophies or perceived slights.

"Weakness," Mordrek snarled, squeezing the severed head until bone cracked beneath his gauntlet. "Always complaints. Always excuses."

The Skullclaimers roared their agreement.

Mordrek stretched his reattached arm again, revelling in the strength surging through it. The favour of Khorne felt undeniable, surrounding him like a storm visible only to the chosen. In his mind there could be only one explanation. 

Draeg complained because he lacked conviction. 

He challenged because he lacked certainty. 

He envied because he lacked worth. 

The Blood God rewarded action, not grievance. As the battlefield burned around him and chains laden with fresh skulls clattered against his armour, Mordrek became more certain than ever that the day would come when the Red Wake finally pushed too far. 

When that day arrived, he intended to add Targuul Draeg's skull to the longest chain he owned!

*****

*Yes, I know I already did a post about the converted Master of Executions, however he is going to get another short post, as I have rewritten his lore and tied him properly to this army. Rather then the scattershot, paint anything and work it all out later approach I was using before.

World Eaters, Berzerker Squad, the Red Wake of Targuul Draeg.

 

The light cruiser Wrath of Nuceria drifted in silence beneath the shadow of Nhalgor’s corpse-moon, its battered hull half-lost within the cold radiance spilling from the daemon world below. Brass iconography and chains swayed gently across its scarred armour plates as warp-lightning flickered soundlessly over the planet’s horizon, illuminating the cruiser’s wounds in brief flashes of pale violet. 

Once Imperial in shape and discipline, the vessel had become something feral over long centuries of slaughter. Gun decks had been converted into shrines of bone, whole sections sealed behind welded blast doors after daemonic incursions, and every corridor carried the smell of engine oil, blood and wet iron. Deep within the vessel, far beneath the command decks and macro batteries, the sound of chanting rose from the gladiator pits like the growl of some slumbering beast.

The pit galleries shook with violence. Chainaxes screamed against one another while the crowd of World Eaters hammered fists and weapons against the iron railings above. 

In the centre of the arena, Targuul Draeg and Sevak Mordrek tore into each other with the fury of starving animals. 

Both warriors were already soaked in blood, their armour dented and split from repeated blows, the remains of mortal pit-fighters crushed beneath their boots. One corpse still twitched near the arena wall, its torso opened to the spine by an earlier strike. 

Draeg drove forward with a boarding axe raised high, roaring curses through broken teeth, but Mordrek kicked the mangled corpse across the blood-slick floor. The dead mortal slammed into Draeg’s legs for a split second of distraction, enough for Mordrek’s chainblade to rake across his chestplate in a shower of sparks and torn ceramite.

The watching Berzerkers descended further into frenzy with every passing moment. Draeg’s Red Wake bellowed for their champion to take Mordrek’s head while the Skullclaimers answered with mocking chants and threats. Insults became shoving, shoving became punches, and then chainblades revved to life among the galleries. 

The first kill came quickly; a Skullclaimer smashed his helmet into a Red Wake warrior before driving a combat knife beneath his jaw. Suddenly the tiers erupted into slaughter. Brass railings collapsed beneath grappling legionaries, pistols barked at point-blank range, and mortals fled screaming through the galleries as gene-forged killers hacked one another apart above the duel still raging below.

Then everything stopped.

Not gradually. Instantly.

*****

A while ago Fraser gave me a World Eaters army, I'd played it a couple of time against his Battle Sisters when we wre trying 10th edition 40k for the few times that we played it, and then it just kind of sat there...

I had started renovating it and starting tk paint it and it got sidelined as I became distracted with other things, work and life gotmin the way yadda yadda yadda.

The World Eaters are some of my favourite characters from the Heresy novels, as they really fleshed their fall to Khorne out and adding much needed context other then "BLOOD! SKULLS!" etc.

If only the 40k writers could add some of that subtlety back into them, rather then just making them one dimensional psychopaths.

Having recently been ill with a chest infection and laid up for a week, I couldn't be bothered tk go through the boxes for stuff, so just grabbed the first thing from the painting tray which was half finished and spent a couple of days finishing off Squad Draeg. The results of which are below:

I stuck fairly close to the main World Eaters scheme with this unit. With just a few armour panels painted in alternate colours, the gold gets a really nice warm tone from using Berzerker Bloodshade over it all, adding shade and warmth, as well as red tinge which almost looks like dried blood*.

I also downloaded an ap called "Progress" which allows you to keep track of projects in a percentage based system.

You can see the bulk of the World Eaters here:

This is everything which Fraser gave me, and I've added a couple of things to the list which haven't been added to the Progress ap yet.

There is a lot of red on there, but apparently i am 20% through the project already, so that's a bonus.

Anyway, Until next time, have nice day....

*****

The roar of the pits died as though strangled by an unseen hand. Every helm turned toward the entrance tunnel leading into the arena floor. Heavy footsteps echoed slowly through the corridor, measured and deliberate, followed by the low mechanical growl of a damaged vox grille. 

Vekkar Thrice-Slain emerged from the darkness carrying his executioner axe low in one hand, blood-red eye lenses scanning the pit without hurry. The Master of Executions descended the steps alone. His Butcher’s Nails pulsed visibly through the cables hammered into his skull, yet unlike the others there was no uncontrolled rage in him. Only restraint stretched so tightly it had become terrifying. Even the maddened Berzerkers instinctively backed away from the edge of the pit as he entered.

Draeg roared and charged regardless, too deep within the Nails to halt himself fully, while Mordrek lunged from the opposite side with his chainblade shrieking. Vekkar moved between them with impossible speed for so heavily armoured a warrior. His axe rose once. A wet double impact echoed through the chamber. Both champions staggered past him before collapsing to their knees, their weapon arms severed cleanly at the elbow. Draeg screamed curses into the blood-soaked sand while Mordrek simply stared at the stump pumping dark arterial blood across the arena floor. Their chainweapons fell beside one another still revving uselessly in the dirt.

Silence lingered for several long seconds as blood pooled around the two champions. Vekkar stood motionless between them, axe dripping steadily, his breathing rasping through the vox speakers like an animal preparing to kill again if challenged. 

No one moved. 

No one dared. 

Above the arena, terrified mortal attendants scrambled into action while a hunched overseer finally found his voice and screamed toward the upper galleries, “Apothecary! Apothecary to the pits!” 

The cry echoed through the chamber as Draeg and Mordrek glared at one another through pain and humiliation, neither willing to bow, neither able to continue, while the Master of Executions watched them both in absolute silence.

*I have been over my feelings about adding blood and gore to models before in other places on tbe blog and suffice to say I won't be adding stupid amounts to this project either. 

It looks stupid, often ruins decent paint jobs, and the fact is really that we don't need to see it on models, we all KNOW what the weapons are meant to do to a body,  I don't need to model that to have fun.

Death Korps of Krieg, 2nd Squadron, 7th Lancers.

 

RECOVERED PERSONAL LEDGER
OWNER: Death Rider Officer, 5th Squadron, Krieg
STATUS: Deceased (Confirmed)
RECOVERY: Post-Action Sweep, +2 Days
CONDITION: Blood-stained, water-damaged. Entries legible.

I keep this record as required, but also so the order of things is not lost.

We were moving before first light. Siege-time 04:14, by my chronometer.
The guns had not yet lifted and the air was already thick with dust and ash. My mount, DR442, favoured its left foreleg after the night’s shelling, but it did not fail me. I judged it fit to advance.

Lord Marshal Dreir passed us without a word and took the front. He did not look back. He did not need to. The Sabre of Sacrifice was drawn, clean in the half-light. Seeing it was enough. We closed ranks and followed.

Enemy fire began as we cleared the line. Poorly aimed. Too fast. They were afraid. Rounds struck stone and iron more often than flesh. One rider to my left was hit hard and thrown clear. I marked the loss and rode on. There was no space for hesitation.

At 04:18 the firing thickened. Tracer crossed the street like wire. Two sections were slowed by rubble and shell craters. They did not rejoin us. The formation held regardless.

The charge met them at 04:22.

The sound of it was as expected—hooves on broken stone, shouting cut short, the dull impact of bodies. They broke almost immediately. Some tried to run. Others froze. Neither choice mattered.

I struck twice before I remember clearly. After that it was movement and weight and heat. Sabres rose and fell. Mounts crushed men against walls and wreckage. The enemy felt brittle, as if already dead.

I saw the Lord Marshal ahead of us, riding straight through the centre. He gave no commands. The Sabre of Sacrifice burned in the smoke and cut without pause. Men came apart beneath it. The blade never faltered.

By 04:30 the avenue was ours. Fires burned unchecked. Smoke hid the sky. The street was so choked with bodies that we were forced to pick our way through at a walk. Infantry came up behind us and took shelter where they could, using the fallen as cover. This was sensible.

At the far end of the avenue, the Lord Marshal halted and turned back toward us.
He sat there, unmoving, for perhaps a minute.
I do not know why I remember this.

Orders came shortly after. We were to pull back and entrench. Those of us still mounted regrouped. I dismounted when told and checked DR442. The leg had worsened. It still stood.

Shovels were issued at 04:44.

The ground was hard and broken. In places there was nothing to dig into. We used what was available. Enemy and Krieg alike. There was no difference once the work began.

I took my turn and dug until my arms shook. I did not remove my helmet. The bombardment had begun again and the earth was jumping under us.

If this ledger is found, then the position has likely fallen once more. That is acceptable. We advanced when ordered and held when told. The line will be taken again.

I close this entry here.

---

ARCHIVAL NOTE:
The ledger was recovered from the officer’s coat during corpse-clearance operations. The rider was found within a partially collapsed firing position. Mount DR442 was located nearby, killed by shrapnel.
Cause of death: sustained artillery bombardment.
The position was abandoned forty-eight hours later.

NO FURTHER ACTION REQUIRED

*****

Back on the Death Korps wagon, and the first five of ten plastic Death Riders are completed and based for the urban warfare army.

These models nearly got thrown through the wall when assembling because of the reins which have to be attached to the horses mouth and then threaded through narrow gaps to the riders hand, provided you've gotten the correct part numbers off of the sprues.

In keeping with my organisational theme for the army*, the Death Riders get blue as their spot colour, on their shoulder plates and the little banners from the lances.

Here is the first half of the squadron:

The Squadrons Sergeant, armed with a Power Sword, I followed the painting of the mount when I completed Lord Marshal Drier at the beginning of the year, with the washes which were wet blended upon the mount:

Two of the Lancers:

The remaining Lancer, and the Squadron Standard Bearer:

With the second set of five Death Riders to make, I am considering converting a couple of specialists, maybe a vox man, and a medic/vet for the squadrons members (both human and mount?)

Recently as well, these men hit the field, the Death Korps 512th taking on the Marovian 42nd of my friend Dave. His fantastically painted Cadian army, which still does the business, even after 14 or 15 years since he painted the army, it's featured a few more times on the blog in the last.

But the Death Riders ended up charging his overly aggressive Ogryns, managing to take down one on the charge, then getting mulched by the abhumans, leaving the Lord Commissar there to face the wrath:

They look good on the table, which is the important thing though.

I am working on the first half of Red Platoon next, once they're done I'm thinking of taking a break from infantry to deal with one of a squadron of three Leman Russ Battle Tanks.

Until next time, have nice day...

*Each organisational element gets their own company colour for markings:

Command: Silver.

Infantry: Red, Orange and Yellow.

Engineers and Heavy Weapons: Black.

Cavalry: Blue.

Armour: White.

So everything is organised as an actual army and organisation chart.

Lure of the Gods - Part 2, Valkia the Bloody.

She was a blade given wings, a living decree of slaughter cast into the sky by Khorne. Valkia the Bloody soared above the warhost, her form clad in dark, rune-etched armour that clung like a second skin, her spear held low as though she might at any moment plunge from the heavens and skewer the unworthy. Her wings beat in slow, thunderous strokes, scattering the air with the stink of iron and old blood, while around her wheeled a shrieking flock of furies—daemonic wretches whose clawed limbs stretched hungrily toward the world below. Valkia’s gaze swept the marching host with cold disdain. She felt no pride, no warmth, only the measured anticipation of violence yet to come. These warriors were offerings, nothing more—coin to be spent in the great tally of skulls. If they died well, she might remember them. If not, they would vanish into the endless anonymity of the slain.

From her height, the army revealed its true shape: not a single force, but a writhing mass of rival hungers bound together by conquest. To the east marched a host marked by impossible colours and shifting forms, their armour shimmering with hues that hurt the eye—a warband sworn to Tzeentch, their ranks unnaturally ordered, their banners flickering as though caught between moments. Beyond them, vast and grim, advanced the core of the invasion—a great host pledged to no single god, its banners bearing the mark of Chaos Undivided, marching beneath the iron will of the warhost’s unseen master. Around and between these pillars drifted other cults and lesser warbands, flickers of movement and colour that even Valkia’s keen sight could not fully unravel. She cared little for them. Let them scheme, let them bargain and betray. In the end, all would feed the same red end.

Her attention sharpened as motion broke the rhythm below—a violent, surging force that even from the sky could not be ignored. There, a wedge of daemonic cavalry tore across the field, Juggernauts of Khorne pounding the earth with each thunderous stride. Brass hides gleamed like fresh-spilled blood in the sun, their maws belching fire, their horns carving furrows in the ground as they charged. Upon their backs rode heavily armoured warriors, chosen of the Blood God, their forms rigid with purpose as they drove onward without pause or mercy. An unfortunate band of undivided marauders strayed into their path—there was no slowing, no warning. The Juggernauts crashed through them, bodies breaking beneath iron-shod hooves, men crushed into the mud as though they had never been. Valkia watched, and for the briefest moment something like approval flickered across her features. Not for the dead, nor for the riders—but for the purity of it. The charge did not falter. It never would.

*****

The Lure of the Gods continues apace and a vaunted legend of the Chaos Wastes arrives in the army.

I have had this miniature since she was released in fine cast, way back around 2011-12(?).

She's been dug out and based, pulled off that base and rebased, and then most recently pulled off another round base and added to this 30mm square base, to use in The Old World.

Her Shield disappeared a long time ago, but I feel she looks better without it to be honest.

Her Spear and open hand are taken from an Elf kit, a Dark Eldar maybe, and that's about the extent of fixing her after years of languishing.

There is however, a metal pin sticking up through the base up to her bent knee to keep her together on the thin resin section.

Again I don't think that's bad for an almost 15 year old Finecast Miniature.

Painting followed the same scheme as.the Marauders from he last entry, and the flames from the Word Bearers Praetor I posted a bit back.

Her wings were an experiment with shades over a Pallid Wych Flesh basecoat.

Starting closest to her arms, I began with Seraphim Sepia, then wet blended it into Carroburg Crimson and ending with Druchii Violet, again wet blended on the wings.

A better photo of her spear and the colour mixing on her wings.

Tabletop wise, because she isn't in the game, I field her as the following:

Valkia the Bloody - 250 points.

Exalted Champion, Heavy Armour, Mark of Chaos, Daemonic Mount, Hellforged Axe, Spellshield and Enchanting Aura.

The Hellforged Axe gives her a bunch of extra attacks which are magical, flaming and have Armourbane. The Daemonic Mount gives her the flying ability and an extra couple of attacks.

The Spellshield gives her a ward save against magical attacks and spells, and the Enchanting Aura gives her Always Strikes First.

Everything is very fitting for her lorewise and fits the feel of the old character. She's just a little spendy at 250 points by herself, but such is life.

She's a hit hard and hit first character and if the enemy is still standing afterwards, then she can tank their attacks pretty reliably.

Currently I am working on a unit of Chaos Warriors, I may decide to work up a second unit of KHORNE Marauders as I have the models, or even one of Furies if I can get ahold of the models reasonably.

Out next Element Games meet up isn't until mid May, so I'm hoping to have a few more units finished before then.

The march of Chaos continues ever onwards.

Until next time, have nice day...

Lure of the Gods - Part 1, Khornate Marauders.

 

They came south in a red tide, one knot of killers among many beneath the unseen will of their Marauder King, a name spat with reverence and fear around the fire but never spoken lightly. This band called themselves the Gorebound, oath-sworn to Khorne and hungry for the skulls of softer lands. Their furs were stiff with old blood, their shields hacked from a dozen raids, their laughter edged with something feral and expectant. Among the three marauder hosts that rode within the warband, the Gorebound were the most fractious—quick to boast, quicker to draw steel—but even they knew enough to give space to the ironclad Warriors and the King’s chosen. There were hierarchies here, written in scars and enforced in sudden, terminal violence.

At their fore strode Kargun Red-Spear, Deathbringer of the Gorebound, a broad-shouldered reaver whose weapon had been hammered from a looted southern pike and reforged into something brutal and inelegant. He fought from the front ranks on foot, disdaining the saddle in favour of the crush, where his reach could drag enemies down into the press. His beard was bound in copper rings taken from fallen champions, and his eyes burned with a constant, low fury that never quite found release. Kargun did not waste words; he let the tally of his kills speak, and none in the tribe could match the quiet, methodical savagery with which he harvested skulls for the Blood God.

Beside him marched Hroda Chain-Banner, the standard bearer, dragging aloft a pole crowned with a snarling brass rune of Khorne, hung with lengths of chain and skulls that clattered with every step. The banner stank of iron and rot, and men fought harder beneath it, as though the god’s gaze pressed down through its crude icon.

The warhorn fell to Skeln Red-Breath, a scarred marauder whose lungs seemed touched by something unclean. When he sounded the horn, it was not merely a call to advance—it was a bellow that clawed at the mind, a sound that drove men to reckless fury or froze them where they stood. Veins bulged along his neck with every blast, his eyes rolling white as the warband surged in answer.

Close by lingered Yrsa Blood-Whisper, the tribe’s shaman, her presence a tolerated blasphemy in a host that worshipped slaughter above all else. She spoke to the spirits of the slain and painted her visions in arterial red, guiding the warband toward battles where the blood would flow thickest. Garruk trusted her only as far as her visions pleased the god they served.

Behind these figures came the mass of the marauders themselves—bare-armed killers with axes and flails, their flesh marked by ritual scars and fresh wounds alike. They fought not as a disciplined army, but as a tide driven forward by rage and the promise of worthy death. They marched and bickered alongside the other two marauder bands, trading insults and threats that sometimes spilled into brief, vicious duels before discipline—of a sort—reasserted itself. Yet when the Warriors drew near, all three bands fell silent, their bravado guttering in the shadow of those towering killers. And when the skies split with the beating of daemonic wings, even Kargun paused. High above, wreathed in the promise of carnage, soared Valkia the Bloody, consort of the Blood God, her passage a shriek of brass and slaughter. The Gorebound fell to their knees or howled her name to the heavens, exultant and terrified in equal measure. To be seen by her was to be marked, they believed—either for glory beyond mortal reckoning, or a death so violent it would echo in the halls of Khorne forever.

*****

I mentioned at the beginning of the year that we had had a few tester games of The Old World and had quite enjoyed the system and wanted to play more regularly, I also mentioned that one of my Hobby Goals for the year was to get at least 1,500 points of Warriors of Chaos finished and up to snuff for the tabletop so our games didn't look so shit all the time.

Well, this is the first part of the ongoing "Lure of the Gods" series I am starting as I catalogue what units I get finished, or detail any particularly noteworthy builds/conversions/etc which I think may be useful to keep track of moving forwards.

So, what have I actually done?

I have started with this unit of eighteen Khorne aligned Marauder Warriors using the Age of Sigmar Bloodreavers as the choice as i had about sixty of them in my collection (I bought up a bunch of cheap first edition starter sets when Age of Sigmar was first released).

There are eighteen Marauders, because there is a Sorceror on foot in the front rank (second from the left)and there will be either an Aspiring Champion or a Battle Standard Bearer in the gap in the front rank.

Seen from above:

Traditionally most Marauder units have been painted with very pale white skin and blonde hair, these are meant to be the Norse Vikings of Warhammer afterall, but I decided I wanted to try the skin tones to utilise the brilliant flesh colours GW produce now.

Bloodreaver Flesh.

Catachan Flesh.

Guilliman Flesh.

The armour plates Re black and highlighted with Leadbelcher, this will become the standard across the entire army, and then each God Favoured section with has splashes of a colour associated with their deity.

And a couple of glamour photos:

If you look at the Champions Spear wraps, the talismans on the Sorceror and the various straps and loincloths on the models, the spot colour is Sigvald Burgundy, washed with Earthshade.

This gives me a second spot colour which will tie the army together across the different ideas for armour colour I have.

Some closeups of the various ranks:

The Front Rank, with Command and Sorceror:

The Second Rank:

The Third Rank:

The Fourth Rank:

I'll be honest in that I have absolutely no idea if the army I am building will be reasonable on the tabletop.

(Yes it is nice to win, but I'd much rather have a very cool looking army first).

I have a few things coming up for this army soon, so the Lure of the Gods will return.

Until next time, have nice day...

The Solar Watch, part 7 - Shield Captain Aurelian Valoris Threxian Kallastor.

 

What had once been a cathedral of command and control, tiered cogitator banks, brass-railed balconies, the hanging sigils of the Administratum, was now a hollowed wound of black glass and fused metal. 

The blast had not simply destroyed; it had unmade. Surfaces ran like wax. Stone had flowed. Steel had wept.

Ash drifted in slow, lazy spirals through the airless chamber, disturbed only by the heavy, deliberate tread of auramite boots.

They stood at the centre of it.
Golden figures in a dead place.
The Custodians.

At the forefront, Shield-Captain Aurelian Valoris Threxian Kallastor stood motionless, his guardian spear grounded before him, both hands resting upon its haft. His helm was mag-locked at his waist, his bare head lifted slightly, watching the kneeling figure at the center of their formation.

Around him, his forces held a perimeter without needing to be told. Wardens stood like statues of judgement. Venetarii hovered in silent arcs above the fractured galleries, their wings whispering faintly in the stillness. The Vexilus-Praetor planted the standard into a seam of cracked obsidian, where it stood unmoving, despite the faint, unnatural wind that coiled through the ruin.

And at the heart of it, Prima-Legate Kalimak Augustus Solthnar.

The black-armoured giant was utterly still, knelt with one gauntleted hand pressed flat against the warped floor. The obsidian sheen of his Allarus plate drank the light around him, broken only by veins of molten gold that seemed to pulse faintly beneath its surface. His head was bowed.

Listening. Invisibily Reaching.

The air around him trembled. 

Not to mortal senses. But to those present—those forged to stand in the Emperor’s shadow—it was undeniable. A pressure. A distortion. Like the moment before a storm breaks.

Aurelian watched him, unblinking.
“Report,” the Shield-Captain said at last.

Solthnar did not immediately respond.
When he did, his voice came as a layered thing. One tone was his own—deep, measured, absolute. The other… was not. It echoed beneath the first, like something vast speaking through a narrow channel.

“He lives,” Solthnar said.
A ripple passed through the assembled Custodians. Subtle. Contained. But there.
Aurelian did not move.

“Clarify.”

Solthnar slowly rose to his full height. As he did, the air seemed to ease, like a held breath released.

“Yor’Tar Dawne was present at the moment of detonation,” he said. “At the epicentre.”
His helm turned slightly, as if regarding something only he could see—some imprint left behind in the immaterial.

“He did not die.”

Aurelian’s eyes narrowed, fractionally.
“Impossible.”

"No,” Solthnar replied. “Worse.”
A pause, then the second voice spoke.
“He was taken.”

The word lingered in the ruined chamber like a toxin.
Aurelian’s grip tightened, just enough for the auramite of his gauntlet to creak softly against the haft of his spear.
“Explain.”

Solthnar stepped forward, the heavy tread of his Terminator plate echoing like distant thunder.
“This was not a detonation in the conventional sense,” he said. “It was a breach event. A forced translation point. The destruction you see—” he gestured with one clawed gauntlet to the vitrified expanse around them “—is residue. Displacement. The consequence of something being pulled through.”

“And Dawne?” Aurelian asked.

Solthnar’s gaze lifted.
“Anchored.”
Silence followed.
Cold. Absolute.
“He resisted,” Solthnar continued. “He fought. I can see the imprint of it—the psychic backlash. He wounded whatever reached for him. But in doing so…” He paused.
“He gave it purchase.”

Aurelian took a single step forward.
“Speak plainly, Legate.”

Solthnar met his gaze fully now. There was something in his eyes—not doubt. Not fear.
Recognition.
“Yor’Tar Dawne is no longer within realspace,” he said. “But neither is he lost.”
A beat.
“He has been drawn into the interstice. The space between.”

A murmur of static crackled across the vox-net as several Custodians instinctively tightened their formation.
Aurelian did not react.
“Then he is as good as dead.”

“No,” Solthnar said again, more sharply this time. “He is contested.”
That word landed differently.

Aurelian studied him.
“By what?”

For the first time, Solthnar hesitated.
It was infinitesimal. A fraction of a second. But to the Custodes, it was as loud as a gunshot.
When he answered, the second voice beneath his own seemed to deepen.
“Something that should not be here,” he said. “Something that remembers the Siege.”
The temperature in the chamber seemed to drop, frost crawled along surfaces from around Solthnar's armoured feet..

Aurelian’s expression hardened.
“Then this is a continuation,” he said. “Not an isolated incursion.”

“Yes.”
They stood in silence for a moment, two giants at the edge of comprehension.

Then Aurelian turned away.
“Formations will adjust,” he said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the chamber. “We are not committing full strength to this ruin.”

That drew a reaction.
Solthnar stepped forward, the servos of his armour snarling softly.
“You would withdraw?” he said. There was no disbelief in his tone—only a rising, dangerous intensity. “At the point of convergence?”

“I would refuse the enemy’s design,” Aurelian replied, without turning.

“This is the breach site,” Solthnar pressed. “The anchor point. Every thread leads here.”

“Then it is a lure.”

The two turned to face one another fully now.
Gold and black.
Auramite and obsidian.
Two expressions of the Emperor’s will—aligned in purpose, divergent in method.

“You presume much,” Solthnar said.

“I infer,” Aurelian replied. “From ten thousand years of war.”

“And I know,” Solthnar snapped, a flicker of that other voice bleeding through, “what stirs beyond the veil. This is not a game of positioning, Shield-Captain. This is a wound. You do not ignore a wound.”

“No,” Aurelian said evenly. “You cauterise it.”

A beat.
“Or you allow the infection to draw your hand.”
The words hung between them like drawn blades.
Around them, the Custodians stood utterly still. No one intervened. No one could.
This was not a dispute of rank.
This was doctrine.

Solthnar took another step forward.
“The Ordo Sinister felt this before your augurs stirred,” he said. “We traced the convulsion to this world. The pattern is here.”

“And yet,” Aurelian countered, “the architect is not.”
Silence.
Aurelian inclined his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge the Legate—not as subordinate, but as equal.
“Herath fled Terra to come here,” he said. “Why? To die beneath our blades? No. To complete something.”
His gaze swept the ruined chamber.
“This hive was sacrificed. Deliberately. A signal flare in the immaterium. A declaration.”
He looked back to Solthnar.
“If we commit everything to this corpse of a city, we do precisely what the enemy intends.”

Solthnar said nothing.
But the tension in him shifted.
Minutely.
“What would you propose?” he asked at last.

Aurelian did not hesitate.
“We divide the blade.”
He turned, gesturing with his spear.
“Strike element to descend. Hunt Herath. Confirm the status of Dawne if possible.” His gaze flicked briefly to the Allarus. “They will not fail.”
A slight inclination of helms acknowledged the order.
“Containment force establishes perimeter. Nothing leaves this site. Nothing emerges.”
The Wardens tightened formation, the Vexilus banner snapping once in the unseen wind.

“And you?” Solthnar asked.

Aurelian met his gaze.
“I do not fight where the enemy expects me to.”
A pause.
“I hunt the next breach.”

For a long moment, Solthnar said nothing.
Then, slowly, he inclined his head.
Not submission.
Not agreement.
Acceptance.
“Very well, Shield-Captain Aurelian Valoris Threxian Kallastor,” he said. “We will proceed… your way.”
The second voice whispered beneath the first:
“For now.”

Aurelian gave a single, sharp nod.
“Then we are agreed.”
He turned, his voice rising to command once more.
“Prepare for immediate redeployment. Venetarii—ascend. We take to the upper strata.”

Solthnar paused.
Just for a fraction of a second, as though listening.
A flicker of something—brief, distant, wrong—passed across his senses.
His eyes narrowed.

*****

More Adeptus Custodes....unheard of really.

The Solar Watch reached a milestone recently as i had a week of leave off from work and set down to finish off a few things which have been staring at me part painted*.

We visited Element Games Stockport again and Fraser asked for the army back.

I set too finishing the last bits I needed to, to make the force playable in total.

So, the main focus was Shield Captain Aurelian Valoris Threxian Kallastor.

A Forge World model and a very nice casting at that i must admit.

Once I had gotten into the swing of painting the Solar Watch again, he was very enjoyable to paint and I finished him as the other guys were attempting to play a very ambitious game of Horus Heresy 3rd edition**.

He uses all the techniques I've described through the other posts about the Custodes.

The off-white armour, red and gold detailing, a regal purple cloak to mark him out from his company.

The onnly thing I couldn't do at Element was to add Grass Tufts to the base, but the next time I'm over st Frasers I can do that in less then five minutes.

A close up of his face,  which I was pleased with for how simple it was.

A layer of Palid Wych Flesh and then a wash with Flesh shade and a tiny bit of Earthshade in the deepest recesses like his eyes and mouth.

His hair and the metallic patch on the side of his head was giving me Josh Brolin vibes from Deadpool 2 when he played Cable, if the model would have had a Bionic Eye, I would have painted it a bright yellow to really double down on tbe image.

Finally, before we left Element, I grabbed a few pieces of terrain and organised a couple of army photos, as seen here.

The main bulk of the army with the Shield-Captain, Sword-Champions, Allarus Terminators and a squad of Custodian Guard.

Another small squad of Custodian Guard, a Vexilus-Praetor and a Squad of Custodian Wardens.

And Legate-Prima Solthnar on the far right, contrasting in his Black Armour.

The force isn't quite finished, as there are two more Allarus Terminators and two more Custodian Guard to finish when I next visit.

But the bulk of the remainder, six Ventarii, I still have to work on, so they'll be the focus of the next post on this force.

I also hope to get a few photos of the army without the light bleed from Element Games next time as well.

Until next time, have nice day...

*more varied posts to come soon...I hope.

**I am hoping to take part in a smaller game of 3rd edition HH next time, in a 'learn the rules' type affair.

Once we've done that I'll post my thoughts about it compared to my beloved 1st edition.

Word Bearers Praetor Malach Varn.

 “Ashes of Iax”

The sky above Iax burned the colour of old bruises.

Praetor Malach Varn strode through drifting ash, and the fields of once-perfect Ultramar lay trampled beneath the boots of the XVII Legion. The agri-spires that had fed a hundred systems were aflame, their sacrifices rendered up to thirsting gods of darkness.

His Tartaros Terminator armour growled with each step.

Not the clean whirr of loyalist plate—but a predatory, grinding snarl, as if the ceramite itself resented stillness. Pistons flexed like sinew beneath crimson lacquer. Scripture crawled across every plate in burning runes, lit by the brazier mounted upon his shoulders. Its fire guttered but did not diminish, fed by oils rendered from sacrifices offered before planetfall.

Before him stood the sons of Guilliman.
A shieldwall of Ultramarines advanced through the orchard ruins— Tactical squads formed disciplined firing ranks while a Contemptor Dreadnought strode at their centre, its fists crackling with power fields.

“Word Bearers,” came the vox-hail, calm and clipped. “In the name of the XIII Legion, for the crimes against Calth and Ultramar, stand down and be judged.”

Varn laughed. The sound boomed from his helm grille, layered with a second voice beneath it—something older and wet with mirth, as the brazier burst into renewed flame in challenge.
“Judgement has already come,” he replied.

*****

Having a Horus Heresy moment finishing off this Word Bearers Praetor for a friend.

He'd done most of the work but didn't want to attempt the flames and was going to paint them black as smoke, I offered and the result is here.

When I next visit Duncan, probably for our next Element Games Stockport meet up, I'll have to make sure to take a few photos of his entire Word Bearers Legion, as he's got quite a bit finished.

*****

The Ultramarines opened fire.

Bolter shells struck his armour in disciplined volleys. Ceramite flared, scripture ignited and burned brighter where rounds impacted. The Tartaros plate snarled as it absorbed the punishment, servos howling as Varn surged forward through the storm.

His combi-bolter barked in reply—mass-reactive detonations punching through blue armour, precise and unhurried. An Ultramarine fell.

At thirty metres, he triggered the melta.

Sunfire lanced out. The Contemptor’s torso became incandescent ruin. Adamantium ran like wax; the Dreadnought staggered, reactor screaming, before collapsing into the orchard in a wash of molten slag.

Still the XIII held formation.

Varn met them at the irrigation canal.

His crozius fell.

Warp-flame roared outward in a hungry arc. An Ultramarine sergeant raised his power sword to parry; the blade shattered on impact, and the crozius crushed helm and skull in a single, contemptuous blow. The brazier-fire flared in answer, as if fed by the death.

A second Ultramarine drove a combat blade into the joint at Varn’s waist. The Tartaros armour shrieked in outrage. Varn seized the warrior by the throat and lifted him one-handed. 

He crushed the loyalist’s gorget and cast the body aside.

The remaining Ultramarines closed, disciplined to the last. A bolt round found a candle and extinguished it, a second found a dent in his armour, for a moment, the Praetor staggered.

Wax and blood mixed beneath his boots.

Then the crozius blazed white-hot.

The flames leapt from weapon to brazier, from brazier to the scriptures carved across his plate. The runes ignited like a constellation. The air grew thick, trembling with unseen syllables.

The Ultramarines hesitated.

That was enough.

Fire exploded outward in a halo of empyric heat. Blue armour blackened and split. Three warriors fell at once, their forms wreathed in unearthly flame that did not consume flesh so much as unmake it.

Silence settled over the orchard.

The agri-fields burned.

Praetor Malach Varn stood amidst the dead, armour grinding as he turned toward the distant spires of Iax’s primary hive. The brazier atop his shoulders guttered low, then flared anew as if inhaling the smoke of the battlefield.

“Let Guilliman reap what he has sown,” he murmured.

Behind him, the Word Bearers advanced through fire and ash, chanting litanies that rolled across the dying fields of Ultramar like a second, darker harvest.

*****

Until next time, have nice day...