Dreadtober 2026, Lost Names.

 

Lost Names

“Your Legion, Honoured-Brother,” Seraphiel began, “no longer exists as you remember it.”

The Dreadnought stood motionless within the open arming cage. Wisps of coolant vapour curled through the candlelight, dissipating against the black iron of his sarcophagus. Somewhere in the depths of the Rock, ancient machinery groaned. The vibration travelled through the deck plates and into his chassis, a distant tremor beneath his feet.

“Explain.”

“The First Legion endured the Heresy and remained loyal to the Emperor. In its aftermath, however, the Legiones Astartes were divided into Chapters, each entrusted with carrying forward the traditions and duties of the Legions from which they were formed.” Seraphiel lowered his head slightly. “You now serve the Dark Angels, Honoured-Brother. Heirs to the First Legion, and guardians of its traditions.”

“Successors?” The word rasped through the Dreadnought's vox grille. “I serve the First Legion.”

“You served the First Legion,” Malachai corrected gently. “Ten thousand years have passed since the Heresy. The Imperium you knew has changed beyond recognition. The Emperor remains upon His Golden Throne, and we remain His servants. But the Legion you remember has been gone for millennia.”

The Dreadnought did not answer.

His red optics burned steadily, casting narrow beams across the ancient markings on his sarcophagus. Somewhere within that armoured tomb, a mind reached through the ruins of its own past. A battlefield. The roar of engines. The voices of brothers whose names lay just beyond reach.

Then darkness.

Brief awakenings. Unfamiliar faces. Strange voices speaking of wars he could not remember fighting, and centuries he could not remember enduring. Each time, the world had moved on without him.

“Your injuries were extensive,” Seraphiel continued. “The damage to your body, combined with prolonged periods of stasis, has left your memories fragmented. There are gaps in the records, and gaps within you, Honoured-Brother. The Chapter's archives record six occasions on which you have been awakened.”

“Six.”

The Dreadnought repeated the number slowly, as though testing the weight of it. His immense power claw flexed, its pistons drawing tight with a metallic clack.

“And how many of those awakenings were spent explaining the state of the galaxy to me?”

“Not all of them, Honoured-Brother.”

“An answer designed to avoid the question.”

Seraphiel offered no reply. He had learned that silence was sometimes the most respectful service he could provide.

They left the arming cage and entered the vaulted passage beyond.

The Dreadnought's first step struck the deck with a thunderous clang. Dust sifted from the overhead arches. His second footfall sent a tremor through the metal flooring, followed by the deep groan of ancient servos bearing his immense weight. Servitors abandoned their labours as he passed, their pallid faces turning towards the towering war machine. Tiny indicator lights flickered within their cranial implants.

Seraphiel and Malachai marched at either side of him. Both were giants by the standards of ordinary men, armoured warriors whose very presence would have commanded a mortal's reverence. Yet beside the Dreadnought, they seemed diminished. His sarcophagus loomed above them, his weapons hanging at his sides like instruments of execution. With every stride, the deck plates shuddered beneath his feet.

The Chaplain's crozius tapped against his greave as he kept pace. Seraphiel's mechadendrites curled close to his armour, carefully avoiding the great machine's moving joints.

“Where are we going?” the Dreadnought demanded.

“To the strategium, Honoured-Brother. The Chapter is engaged in a campaign. Your awakening was authorised because your strength may be required.”

“Then tell me of the enemy. Their numbers, their disposition, their positions. What defences have they established? What is our plan for their destruction? Where is my squad?” His voice hardened, the familiar cadence of a commander emerging from beneath the confusion. “And why am I being escorted through corridors when there is a war to be fought?”

Malachai glanced towards Seraphiel, but the Techmarine answered.

“The situation will be explained at the strategium. You will have access to the available intelligence, and the Chapter's commanders will determine where you are most needed.”

“The Chapter's commanders.” A low growl rattled through the vox grille. “I was a commander.”

“Then I expect you will have much to contribute, Honoured-Brother.”

For a moment, the Dreadnought said nothing. Then he resumed his march, his pace quickening. Pressure valves hissed as the great pistons drove him forwards, each movement accompanied by the groan of machinery that had endured centuries beyond its intended service.

The passage opened into a gallery lined with statues of hooded warriors. Their faces were lost beneath stone cowls, their carved armour worn smooth by the passage of ages. Candlelight crept across their features, throwing long shadows against the walls. At the far end stood a set of great doors beneath the winged sword of the Dark Angels.

Malachai slowed.

“Honoured-Brother, there is one matter I would ask before we reach the strategium.”

The warmth had left the Chaplain's voice. His words were measured, his skull-faced helm tilted upwards towards the Dreadnought's burning optics.

“Do you remember your name?”

The Dreadnought took another step.

Then stopped.

The last echo of his footfall rolled away into the vaulted darkness. The machinery within his chassis settled with a series of small, tired clicks. Seraphiel halted beside him. Malachai stood at his other flank, waiting.

Within the Dreadnought, something stirred in the dark.

A name should have been simple. His brothers had spoken it across battlefields. It had been entered into the rolls of honour and carried into the fires of war. Yet when he reached for it, there was nothing.

He remembered that he had served.

That he had fought.

That he had endured.

But the name itself was gone.

“How many enemy formations are confirmed in the theatre?” he demanded.

Neither Space Marine moved.

“What is the strength of our forces? Where are the breach points? What has the enemy taken, and what remains to be recovered?” His voice had become cold and clipped, each question carrying the authority of an officer demanding a battlefield report. “If I am to be of use to this Chapter, then I would know where to apply my strength.”

Malachai regarded him for a long moment.

Then the Chaplain inclined his head.

“Of course, Honoured-Brother.”

He did not ask again.

The Dreadnought resumed his march. His footfalls shook the gallery, making the candle flames bow in their holders. Seraphiel fell into step beside him, offering neither question nor consolation.

Ahead, the doors of the strategium waited beneath the sigil of the Dark Angels. A Chapter that had inherited the wars, oaths and secrets of a Legion that no longer existed.

The ancient warrior marched towards them, certain of his purpose.

Only his name remained behind. 

*****

Dreadtober: Week Two Progress

Another week of Dreadtober, and more progress has been made!

Despite limited hobby time this week due to work, I have managed to sit down at my desk and put in some more hours on the Dreadnought. I am happy with where the project currently stands, and I am feeling confident about getting it completed by the deadline.

The main progress this week has been on the upper assemblies. The Sarcophagus, Plasma Cannon and Power Claw are now more or less ready for their final layers of paint and detailing.
All the parts have had their base colours applied, followed by a wash of Agrax Earthshade to bring a warmer tone to the otherwise stark black armour.

The metallics benefit particularly from this treatment, with the Earthshade helping to suggest weathering without requiring me to go to extraordinary lengths. 

Sometimes a little work with the right wash can do a lot of the heavy lifting.

On the base, I have also applied the base colours to the dirt, while the fallen Word Bearer has received his own basecoat and wash.

Yes, I decided to go with a Word Bearers Legion Marine for the traitor on the base. I thought this would provide a little visual variety once the Dreadnought's legs are completed, adding another splash of colour beneath the black-armoured war machine.

The Plasma Cannon

Looking at the Plasma Cannon, you can see the highlights left by Mechanicus Standard Grey against the Corax Black. These have now been washed down, giving the armour a warmer, slightly weathered appearance.

I find that the Agrax Earthshade leaves a somewhat shiny finish, so the next step will be to relayer the black with Corvus Black, bringing the colour back up while retaining the work already done. I will then pick out the sharpest corners with selected grey highlights, while the metallic components will receive their own highlights.

The biggest job remaining on this assembly is the plasma coils themselves. However, those will be left until last, once the rest of the cannon is finished.

The Powerplant

Moving around to the rear, we can see the exhausts and powerplant.

The scrapes across the metalwork were already present when I acquired the model from its previous owner. Rather than attempting to fill them in or repair the damage, I decided to lean into it and treat them as old battle damage.

They will receive a little more attention as the project continues, but I quite like the idea that some of the Dreadnought's scars were earned long before it reached my painting desk.

The Power Claw

Moving on to the Power Claw arm, this is now more or less at the same stage as the other upper assemblies.

One of the main differences here is that I am planning to add fine white line highlights to emphasise the shape of the bone-armoured sections. These should help define the edges and bring a little more contrast to the finished piece.

The black-and-red checkerboard panel is another detail I am particularly pleased to be including. It is a nod back towards the Dark Angels Legion iconography of the Horus Heresy, tying the model into that older visual identity.

For some reason, I have always really enjoyed painting checkerboard patterns freehand. I honestly couldn't tell you why, but I have been doing them for years on my Orks, so it is nice to bring that little bit of hobby tradition across to this project.

Looking Ahead

That brings us to the end of this week's Dreadtober update.

As I mentioned previously, I am more than happy with where the project currently stands in relation to the deadline. There is still work to do, of course, but the remaining tasks feel manageable.

For the torso and upper assemblies, it is now largely a case of picking out the remaining details, applying the final highlights and finishing the individual components.

In a week or so, I should also be able to collect the candles and banner that Duncan is printing for me. These will be added to the model to bring some extra character and detail to the finished piece.

The fallen Word Bearer will receive a few additional details of his own, although I am not planning to spend quite as much time on him. Once the Dreadnought's feet have been painted, I can return to the base and drybrush the ground with my usual selection of dirt colours.

There is still plenty to do, but the Dreadnought is steadily coming together, and I am looking forward to seeing how it all looks once the separate assemblies start to come together.

Until next time, have nice day...

Dreadtober 2026, Armament.

Armament 

The answer came not from Seraphiel, but from the distant hiss of pressurised air as the restraints disengaged. The cradle lowered, carrying the ancient warrior from the Sepulchre towards the arming cage. Ribbed hoses and thick bundles of cables trailed from his sarcophagus, their connections releasing one by one with metallic clicks and sudden bursts of vapour. Beyond the open doors, the arming servitors awaited their charge.

"The customary rites have changed little, Honoured-Brother," Seraphiel replied. "Though I fear the same cannot be said of the galaxy."

"Then perhaps you might begin by explaining it, rather than leaving me suspended in a cage."

"In due course, Honoured-Brother."

The arming cage swallowed the Dreadnought in a haze of steam and candlelight. Tech-adepts checked the great pistons of his legs, replenished his sacred lubricants and topped up the coolant reservoirs. Seraphiel moved between them, inspecting each connection with practised precision. The ancient warrior endured it in silence until a servitor began reciting the first of the prescribed maintenance litanies.

"The Litany of Reawakening is customary, Honoured-Brother."

"I am aware of what it is. I am saying it was unnecessary."

Seraphiel bowed his head and continued his work.

At the far end of the cage, Chaplain Malachai approached in robes of deepest black, his crozius held before him. He had been waiting for the ancient warrior's awakening, and now raised his voice in prayer. The words of the Chapter's rites echoed between the iron walls as servitors lit votive candles and fixed them to the sarcophagus. Their flames trembled in the rising vapour, illuminating the worn heraldry and the dark iron halo above the tomb.

The Dreadnought listened, his red optics following the Chaplain.

"In my time, we required no candles to prepare for battle."

"And yet, Honoured-Brother, the Chapter has preserved these traditions in your absence," Seraphiel answered, carefully to ensure he did no break the cadence of the prayer.

For a moment, the ancient warrior saw another chamber. Another Chaplain. The smell of hot metal and incense mingling beneath the gunmetal vaults of a Legion warship. A voice reciting blessings before the doors of a drop pod sealed shut.

Then the memory faded.

A servitor wheeled the plasma cannon into position. Its heavy coupling locked against the waiting mount, and Seraphiel personally oversaw the attachment of the power feeds. Fresh plasma canisters were secured within the weapon's housing, each one checked before the final seals were fastened. Coolant lines connected with sharp hisses, and a faint turquoise glow stirred deep within the coils as the weapon's spirit answered its first waking communion.

The Dreadnought's optics burned brighter.

For an instant, the arming cage vanished. He stood beneath a blackened sky, his cannon blazing. Burning plasma bolts streaked across a field of shattered stone, striking traitor armour and reducing men and machines to incandescent fragments. The enemy line buckled beneath the fury of his fire. He remembered the heat, the recoil, the certainty of the target.

Next came the power claw. Its great fingers were inspected, their actuators tested before the weapon was secured to the armature. Hydraulic lines locked into place, and the pistons flexed with a deep metallic groan. The ancient warrior watched the claw open and close, its talons catching the candlelight.

Another memory stirred.

Green-skinned brutes howling beneath a blood-red sun. The thunder of crude weapons against his armour. An immense Ork looming over him, only for the Dreadnought's claw to close around its torso. Bone, iron and alien flesh crumpled beneath the crushing force. He remembered the satisfaction of driving forward, unyielding, while the greenskins broke around him.

The claw closed once more.

"Your Power Claw is fully operational, Honoured-Brother."

"I should hope so. It was built to crush the enemy, not admire it."

Finally, the underslung storm bolter was loaded. Fresh magazines were seated, the ammunition feeds secured, and the weapon's targeting systems brought online. Seraphiel checked the final connections while Malachai concluded his prayers, the Chaplain's voice rising above the steady hum of awakening machinery.

The storm bolter spoke.

A short, thunderous burst rattled through the arming cage as the weapon completed its function test. The sound struck something deep within the ancient warrior. He remembered advancing through smoke and falling ash, the storm bolter roaring with righteous fury as traitors and xenos alike vanished beneath a relentless hail of fire. He remembered his brothers advancing at his flanks, their banners raised against the darkness.

Then came another image, fleeting and indistinct: a figure before him, a voice lost beneath the gunfire, and the terrible impact of a blow he had chosen to receive.

The memory slipped away before he could grasp it.

Seraphiel stepped back as the last cables were disconnected. Steam drifted from the arming cage, and the votive flames shivered in the wake of the departing servitors. Chaplain Malachai lowered his crozius and offered the ancient warrior a final blessing.

"The Chapter has need of you once more, Honoured-Brother."

The Dreadnought's optics settled upon him.

"Then let us not waste another moment."

His great pistons locked into position. The weapons settled beside him, their machine spirits roused and eager. Above the candle flames, his iron halo caught the light as the arming cage doors began to open.

"Now," the ancient warrior growled through the vox, "tell me what has become of my Legion."

*****

So, Dreadtober marches on, and the first weekly check-in always seems to creep up far too quickly. Somehow, I never quite seem to have made as much progress as I wanted to by the time it rolls around.

The current state of my Dreadnought is thus.

As you can see, I've made some progress, but we're still very much in the "part-painted and looks like shit" phase of the project.

The Bone

The bone-coloured armour is nearly done. I think all that's left is a fine white line highlight and some chipping with Rhinox Hide to really make those edges stand out and finish the effect.

I've gone a little outside my usual painting method with this one. Rather than starting with my normal approach, I laid down a basecoat of Wraithbone before applying an overall coat of Speedpaint Pallid Bone.

The main colour was then built up using Pallid Wych Flesh from GW, applied with a circular drybrush motion to gradually develop the colour and coverage.

It's a slightly different approach for me, but I'm pretty happy with how it's coming together.

Black Is Never Really Black

The black on the sarcophagus has been an interesting little experiment.

I've discovered that the trick to painting black is not to paint black.

I'm using Corvus Black as the basecoat. It's actually a very dark grey, almost charcoal in appearance, which gives me a much better starting point for highlighting than a true black would.

The edges have been picked out with Mechanicus Standard Grey, and the plan is to give everything an all-over wash of Agrax Earthshade. This should tie the colours together and bring a warmer tone to the highlights.

After that, I'll go back over the armour plates with Corvus Black, much as I do with my Black Legion, to tidy everything up and establish a consistent colour across the armour.

Hopefully, this will give the sarcophagus that dark, near-black finish without losing all the definition in the shadows.

Decisions, Decisions...

The banners have been basecoated with Wraithbone and are ready for their next layer.

The two contenders at the moment are Sigvald Burgundy and Dark Angels Green. Either would give the banners a colour of their own and help distinguish them from the main body of the Dreadnought.

I haven't made my mind up yet, so I'll leave that decision for another day.

Perhaps I'll see which one takes my fancy when I next sit down at the painting desk.

The Base

Moving down to the base, the first coat of Mournfang Brown is on.

This provides the dirt colour that I use consistently across my armies, helping to tie them together visually. The Tyranids and Death Korps are the exceptions, as both were built around urban bases for a separate project.

There's still plenty to do here, but at least the groundwork has begun.

One decision remains, however: what exactly am I going to do with the unfortunate Chaos Space Marine beneath the Dreadnought's foot?

I'm leaning towards painting him as a Word Bearer, but I'm not entirely convinced yet.

Suggestions are welcome!

Until Next Week...

And that's where we are for this week's check-in.

Progress has been made, the bone armour is nearing completion, and the black is beginning to take shape. There's still a fair bit to do before this ancient warrior is ready to stride back onto the battlefield, but we're getting there.

We'll check in again in a week's time and see how much further I've managed to get.

Until next time, have nice day!

The Feudal Japanese Project - Part 7. Hojo clan Horsemen.

 

The valley was quiet when the Hojo cavalry entered it.

Morning mist clung to the river, silver beneath the first light of the sun. Six riders passed beneath the trees, then twelve, then more, until the narrow road seemed filled with black banners.

Their sashimono moved gently in the mountain wind.

There was no hurry.

The horses were well kept and the men had slept. Some spoke quietly amongst themselves; others rode in silence, hands resting upon sword hilts worn smooth by years of use. A village appeared ahead, its roofs gathered beside the river like fallen leaves.

For a brief while, there was peace.

Then the watchman on the ridge raised his hand.

The column stopped.

Far beyond the village, something moved upon the opposite slope.

Indigo.

White.

The Uesugi.

The silence broke.

Men swung into their saddles. Harness buckles snapped shut. Spears were lifted. Sword blades flashed briefly in the morning sun as the black banners rose above the forming ranks.

The horses knew before the men did.

They stamped and snorted, eager now.

The order came.

The Hojo cavalry moved.

And the mountain pass filled with thunder.

*****

I'll admit it. I was feeling a little down on the Samurai project.

After the rather disappointing Element Games trip where the Samurai never actually managed to take the field, followed by another trip being cancelled when a medical procedure was unexpectedly moved up the queue, enthusiasm for the project had taken something of a beating.

And, obviously, you NEVER turn down a medical procedure when the opportunity finally comes along.

So the Samurai had been sitting somewhat neglected for a while.

Then, while watching the Plastic Crack Podcast, Dom mentioned that he'd recently tried the Daimyo rules from Osprey.

His group had apparently had a pretty good time with them, and he recommended I give them a try. From what he was describing, they sounded remarkably close to what I'd been looking for with the big Samurai game.

Well...

The book arrived as a birthday present:

I sat down one quiet evening and started reading.

And, well...

He may have been right.

The rules tick pretty much every box I was looking for from this project. They're straightforward enough to get a big game moving, but still have enough going on to make the battlefield feel like an actual battle rather than two blocks of miniatures taking turns hitting each other with sticks.

There is, however, one small problem.

Unit sizes.

Daimyo uses fixed unit sizes:

• Small infantry units are 8 models.
• Large infantry units are 12 models.
• Small cavalry units are 6 models.
• Large cavalry units are 8 models.

My own collection isn't organised quite that neatly, with the individual models based separately rather than on multi-bases.

I'm sure there is a solution to this somewhere.

Perhaps two individual models could count as one Strength Point, or perhaps I'll simply find a sensible way to house-rule the unit sizes once I've played a few games.

For now, though, I'm not going to let that stop me.

Because this unit is finished.

Samurai Cavalry.

I deliberately went with the plain sashimono on these models and used a historical Hojo sashimono design.

The same assortment of colours was used here as with the previous Samurai unit.

One of the things I particularly enjoy about painting this force is that the colour scheme doesn't need to be particularly uniform.

Historically, Samurai weren't necessarily turning up for battle in a perfectly matching set of armour fresh from the same production line. Men would bring the armour they had available, repaired and maintained over time, and the result could be a wonderfully varied collection of colours.

Certain lacquer colours were more common, particularly black, brown and red, while the silk cords, clothing and kimono worn underneath provided much of the brighter colour.

I've deliberately dropped one or two of the more unusual patterns and colours from the models, as those would have been relatively uncommon, the Kyoushuneko models I printed have more sections of silk cords showing, so I've gone with the majority colour of that for some of them. But I've kept enough variation to stop the force looking like it has been assembled from one enormous Samurai armour catalogue.

And this is where the sashimono becomes particularly important.

With armour varying from warrior to warrior, the banner tells everyone on the battlefield who these men fight for.

Friend or foe.

Lord or enemy.

The black Hojo banners make the answer rather obvious.

I've actually had these models finished for a couple of months now and have only just got around to putting them up here.

I just didn't have the enthusiasm to post for a while.

Thankfully, things are beginning to pick up again.

The Daimyo rules have given the Samurai project something I've been missing: a reason to actually get them onto the table.

There are also several 40k projects in the works, including the continuing Dreadtober 2026 project, and there's a new historical period appearing on the horizon too.

That's going to be a joint project amongst the group, so there should be plenty coming from that direction as well.

My next post will be the Dreadtober 2026 update.

After that, I'll be sure to get some more Samurai onto the blog, along with some thoughts on Daimyo once I've had the opportunity to put the rules properly through their paces.

The project isn't finished.

It just needed a little time to find its feet again.

*****

Hooves fade into dusk.

The war banners lose their wind;

steel cools in stillness.

I dismount from waking life—

a rider no more.

*****

Until next time, have a nice day...

95th Rifles - Commission Work by A Cardboard Fortress.

 

Sharpe watched the French column come on.

He and the Chosen Men lay hidden in a shallow fold of ground on the flank, screened by dry grass and the rise of the field. From there Sharpe could see the French clearly. They came in a deep column, blue coats packed close together, white crossbelts bright beneath the Spanish sun, bayonets glittering above their heads. The drums beat steadily as the officers urged the men forward.

Ahead of them stood a British battalion.

It looked too thin. Ridiculously thin. Two ranks of redcoats stood shoulder to shoulder against the mass of the French column, with gaps already showing where men had fallen. The colours hung behind the line and officers hurried along the ranks, dressing the men and shouting them into position. Sharpe could not help wondering how such a small line could possibly stop what was coming towards it.

The French column filled the field beyond. Blue coats packed together, white crossbelts bright in the sunlight, bayonets glittering above the heads of thousands of men. It was a great moving mass, deep and deliberate, while the British battalion looked like a thin red thread stretched across its path.

Harper crouched beside Sharpe.

"They'll need every man they've got."

"They'll need three volleys," Sharpe said. "A good battalion can give you three shots a minute."

The French came closer.

The first British volley crashed out.

Flame ran along the red line and smoke rolled across the field. The front of the French column disappeared. Men fell, others stumbled over them, but the column closed its ranks and continued forward.

"First," Sharpe said.

The British were already reloading.

The second volley came sooner.

It struck the French at closer range and this time the effect was unmistakable. The column slowed. Its front ranks crumpled and the men behind them checked their advance, forced to step around the dead. Officers shouted and waved their swords, trying to restore the pace, but the great mass of blue coats no longer moved with the same steady confidence.

Sharpe watched the British line. They had seen it too.

For a moment the redcoats cheered.

Then the officers began shouting for the men to reload. The third volley had to come quickly.

Sharpe saw the first cartridge bitten open. Powder was poured. Balls were rammed home, but there was no longer the calm precision of the earlier loading. A soldier slammed the butt of his musket against the ground rather than waste time working the ramrod. Another caught his hand against a bayonet and skinned his knuckles. A man fumbled his cartridge and cursed as he bent to find it.

The French were coming again.

The column had lost its momentum, but it had not stopped.

Sharpe understood the danger. The British were frightened now. Not broken, not yet, but frightened enough to hurry. The French were frightened too, for they had seen their own ranks torn apart and had felt the weight of British musketry.

Both sides were reaching the same moment. The next few seconds would decide which one lost its nerve.

The third volley fired, the sound was enormous.

The French column disappeared behind smoke and Sharpe saw men thrown sideways by the impact. The leading ranks collapsed into one another, and for the first time the column seemed to stop altogether.

The British line cheered.

But Sharpe did not.

He saw the redcoats trying to reload again and knew there would be no time. The French were too close now. Men were already lowering their muskets for the bayonet. Officers were shouting. The battalion had fired its three volleys and had done everything musketry could do.

Now came the killing.

Sharpe rose.

"Chosen Men."

They looked towards him.

Sharpe drew his sword and pointed towards the French flank.

"With me."

He did not wait for another order.

The Chosen Men charged.

They came out of the grass at the precise moment when the French were least able to respond. The column was trying to recover from the third volley, its front ranks struggling to reform while the British battalion held them in place. Sharpe's rifles struck the exposed flank like a blow from a hammer.

The Chosen Men fired once at almost point-blank range.

Then they went in.

Sharpe found himself among the French before he had time to think. There was no room for the elegant use of a sword now. A bayonet thrust towards his stomach and he knocked the musket aside, stepping forward to drive his blade beneath the man's ribs. Another Frenchman swung his musket and caught Sharpe across the shoulder with the butt.

The blow staggered him.

For a second his legs nearly went from under him.

The Frenchman raised the musket again.

Harper appeared beside Sharpe.

The big Irishman seized the French soldier by his crossbelt and smashed his own musket into the man's face. The Frenchman collapsed, and Harper hauled Sharpe upright.

"You all right, sir?"

Sharpe rolled his shoulder.

"I will be."

They went forward together. 

There was no formation now, only men fighting in knots among the wreckage of the French column. Rifles became clubs. Bayonets stabbed at close range. Men grappled with one another, punching, kicking and clawing for an advantage. Sharpe and Harper stayed almost shoulder to shoulder, moving through the crush, each covering the other whenever a Frenchman tried to get behind them.

Then Sharpe saw the eagle.

It stood above the fighting, bright against the smoke, guarded by a knot of French officers who had gathered around it.

"Harper!"

"I see it."

They fought their way towards the standard.

A French officer stepped between Sharpe and the eagle. His sword came down hard. Sharpe caught the blow and drove forward, but another Frenchman struck at him from the side. Harper's rifle smashed into the man's ribs, and Sharpe used the opening to thrust beneath the officer's guard.

The Frenchman fell.

Harper seized the eagle.

For a moment he stood there with it clutched in both hands, his face blackened with powder and blood.

The French saw him, their eagle was gone and something broke.

Men who had endured the volleys and the rifle attack began looking backwards. Officers shouted for them to close ranks, but the column was no longer a column. It was a crowd of men fighting to survive.

Sharpe looked towards the British battalion. The redcoats were still standing, though their line had begun to move forward now, bayonets fixed.

Harper lifted the captured eagle.

"Captain?"

Sharpe looked beyond him.

The field was still full of Frenchmen. Guns were firing somewhere through the smoke, cavalry was moving on another part of the battlefield, and the heat pressed down upon everything.

"No time to admire it," Sharpe said.

Harper grinned.

Sharpe raised his sword.

"Come on."

They went forward with the Chosen Men, disappearing once more into the smoke and dust, because the French were still fighting and Salamanca was nowhere near won.

*****

Having taken a little piss with Dave in my previous post about the Useful Tools, I thought I should probably share a post about the actual commission work he did under his A Cardboard Fortress blog on Facebook.

Because, despite all the abuse, Dave is actually a very good painter.

No, seriously.

As mentioned in the previous post, and as you can probably gather from the text above, Sharpe and the 95th Rifles were the subject of this particular small commission.

Wargames Atlantic have been making the "Legends" series which focuses on the characters of the novels, and is based around the actors from the TV show.

Which has no doubt driven up interest in not only the period but the character as well. Unless you're a big historical fiction reader or entrenched in the Napoleonic era. Chances are you'll only have come across Sharpe due to the TV show.

My own collection of Sharpe hardbacks have pride of place on my bookshelf, surrounded by Black Library and my other historical fiction collections.

I do wonder if they're going to make a miniature of Lady Isabella Farthingdale.

Despite Sharpe's Eagle being my fsvourite of the series, the above fiction is my own writing based upon Bernard Cornwell's depiction of the battle. Everyone remembers Sharpe's Enemy, after all. Either for the return of Obadiah Hakeswill, or, perhaps more memorably, for Elizabeth Hurley's rather... uplifting performance.

Back to wargaming...

We believe these particular models came from the now-discontinued British Rifles box that Wargames Atlantic previously produced. They make a rather nice little representation of the Chosen Men, particularly with the character models giving the unit some personality rather than simply being a collection of generic riflemen.

The full section, painted and "almost" professionally photographed:

The man himself in the center, Harper on the right:

And thr other riflemen:

As you can see, Dave has done a very good job with them. They have the sort of character that makes me immediately want to put them on a table and start throwing dice.

I could quite easily see these being used for a Napoleonic skirmish game, with Sharpe, Harper and the Chosen Men operating as a small elite unit amongst the larger armies, much like the fiction.

Of course, many of the battles depicted in the television series would technically be considered skirmishes by the standards of the period. But that is largely a consequence of television rather than history. A production simply cannot put thousands upon thousands of extras onto a battlefield every time two armies meet.

What the series did manage to capture, however, was the impression of the larger battle happening around these small groups of men. That makes the Chosen Men particularly well suited to skirmish gaming. A handful of figures can have their own little story while the larger battle rages somewhere beyond the table.

I look forward to seeing what Dave takes on for his next commission. He seems to have a habit of choosing a completely different period or range of miniatures each time, so there is usually something interesting to look at.

And, despite the earlier abuse, I have to admit these turned out rather well.

Until next time, have  nice day.

Useful tool time.

Useful Tools

I recently turned 42.

My birthday, thank you.

Anyway, I was talking with Dave recently, and he mentioned that he'd bought himself a set of magnifier glasses. Apparently, he needed them for painting commissions.

"Had to borrow the wife's glasses for details "

"Getting old buddy, you'll loose your gingerness soon and be grey"

Although, clearly, we're now at the age where discussions about painting equipment have started to include optical aids.

He'd been struggling with some of the finer details on Richard Sharpe and the 95th Rifles, produced by Wargames Atlantic and painted as a commission.

The magnifier glasses reminded me that I'd bought a pair myself a little while ago.

Although, in my case, I wasn't particularly interested in the magnification.

The ones I bought have a bright white LED light mounted centrally.

Which means that wherever I look while wearing them, the light is pointing exactly where I'm looking.

This is actually incredibly useful.

My workspace has always suffered from lighting problems. Even now, with three separate lights attached to my desk, there are still occasions when I'm trying to paint something and discover that my own head has managed to cast a perfectly positioned shadow over the model.

The magnifier glasses solve that problem rather nicely.

They have several levels of magnification, ranging from 0.75× all the way up to 4×.

I've not really used the magnification yet.

I've not needed to.

But it's there.

If I ever do need it.

Like Dave.

Useful tools are always good.

You never know when you'll need them.

Until next time, have a nice day...

3D Print Seller's - A Cautionary Tale.

There was a moment recently when I opened a postage box and discovered a puddle of uncured resin inside.

Not slightly under-cured resin.

Not a model that needed another hour in the UV curing station.

A puddle.

Actual, liquid, uncured UV resin, trapped inside a hollow miniature and leaking into the box it had been posted in.

And, naturally, I had already put my hands in it.

Fortunately, I knew exactly what I was dealing with.

But imagine if you didn't.

Imagine if you'd bought a pretty little 3D printed tank online, opened the box with your kids around, handled it with your bare hands, put it on the painting desk, and thought nothing of it.

Or imagine you'd spent twenty hours painting that tank, only for it to crack six months later and start leaking uncured resin onto your display cabinet.

This is why I'm writing this.

Because there are some absolutely fantastic 3D printing sellers out there.

There are also some who are cutting corners in ways that go far beyond producing a shitty-looking miniature.

And I found one of them hiding at the bottom of a box.

Recently, I visited Fraser.

He had some stuff for me in trade and, because Fraser apparently possesses an almost supernatural ability to avoid doing anything which requires even a modicum of organisation, I'm now selling some of his stuff on eBay for him.

Why?

A: He can't be bothered.

B: He just won't do it.

Simple.

With my birthday having just passed, I was originally meant to be spending the day rolling dice at Element Games. Unfortunately, the rising cost of diesel meant combining a trip to see the Mrs' family with a visit to Fraser instead.

Whilst I was there, he handed me a box containing a collection of random 3D prints he'd bought online.

And let's just say...

It was terrible.

There were some Goblins(?), I assume. The print quality was awful. The details were incredibly soft and difficult to make out, and the seller had apparently used a very rubbery resin which made the whole thing unpleasant to handle.

I don't have sensory issues, but certain materials just make me go:

Ugh.

Rubbery squishy materials, especially Mushrooms...

I don't know what it is about mushrooms, but the combination of the texture and the general sensation of touching one makes my brain immediately file the experience under "Absolutely fucking not."

And unfortunately, this resin had that sort of texture.

Fraser had also apparently had a box of Knights from Highland Miniatures and had already binned them before I arrived.

Fucking idiot.

Just to be absolutely clear, that isn't a criticism of Highland Miniatures. Their STL sculpts are fantastic when they are printed properly.

To be fair to Fraser, I ended up binning about half of the Goblins(?) myself. The details were so soft that they were practically unusable.

Then I started digging through the bubble wrap.

And I could smell resin.

The Mrs, who had wandered past my workstation, could smell it too.

"Oh dear."

There was a Druid lady kit buried somewhere in the box, including both a 28mm and a 54mm version.

The 28mm one was fine. A quick thirty-second blast in the UV curing station and she was ready to go.

And I understand why sellers don't necessarily want to fully cure certain models before posting them. Thin swords, spears, banners and other delicate components can become incredibly brittle if they're fully cured, and nobody wants to receive a model whose sword has snapped off somewhere between the seller's house and the Royal Mail depot.

But there really needs to be better communication about this.

If you're sending someone a resin print that isn't fully cured, tell them.

Give them instructions.

Tell them to leave it somewhere safe in sunlight for a few hours if they don't have curing equipment.

I've done exactly this when I've sent prints to Dave in the past. I've literally put notes in the boxes saying:

"90% cured. Please leave in direct sunlight for a few hours to finish curing. If you can still smell chemicals afterwards, it needs longer."

I'm conscious that my friend has a younger son, and I don't particularly fancy accidentally contributing to a household having uncured resin lying around.

But I could still smell resin.

So I kept digging.

And eventually I found the source.

At the bottom of the box was the base for the 54mm Druid.

It was hollow.

And inside it was wet, uncured resin.

It had apparently been printed, washed to whatever extent the seller considered sufficient, and then thrown straight into the box.

FUCK.

At this point I had resin on my hands.

There was resin on the box.

There was a bit of resin on my desk.

Fortunately, because I've been printing with resin myself for years, I knew exactly what I was dealing with. I stopped handling everything, washed my hands properly, got gloves and cleaned everything up.

Nothing had to be thrown away.

But it was one hell of a moment when I tipped that box over and discovered it.

There is a massive difference between:

"This model isn't fully cured because the seller doesn't want the delicate parts to become brittle during postage."

and

"I've just printed this thing and I'm going to chuck it in a box while there's still liquid resin inside it."

The first is understandable.

The second is just fucking lazy.

And that's really the point of this post.

I'm not here to bash people who sell 3D printed miniatures.

I'm not even here to bash cheap 3D prints.

Not everyone has the disposable income, space, time or inclination to buy a printer and set up an entire resin-printing station at home.

There are plenty of excellent printers and sellers out there producing fantastic models.

But there are also sellers who seem to be operating on the principle of:

Print it as quickly as possible.
Use the cheapest resin possible.
Don't waste time curing it properly.
Get it into the box.
Get paid.

And that is where things become a problem.

You can usually spot some of the symptoms.

Poor detail.

Visible layer lines.

Bad supports.

Cheap, excessively flexible resin.

Models that have clearly been printed at a speed which prioritises quantity over quality.

And, perhaps most importantly, hollowed models without appropriate drainage and venting.

Because if you've hollowed a miniature to save resin but haven't provided suitable openings for the uncured resin and fumes inside to escape, you've created a little resin-filled time bomb.

And eventually that can become a problem.

Properly prepared resin prints should not randomly "explode" resin all over your display cabinet.

Yet exploding or leaking hollow prints are one of the complaints I see repeatedly from people buying resin miniatures online.

I've even seen people discussing this in relation to 15mm WWII tanks from Forged in Battle following their move from traditional resin casting to resin printing.

You can have a beautifully painted model sitting on a shelf for months.

Then one day:

Crack.

The model splits.

And suddenly you've got sticky, uncured resin leaking out of something you've spent hours painting.

That's not just annoying.

It's potentially hazardous.

Uncured UV resin isn't something you want children or pets getting into, and it certainly isn't something that should be leaking out of a miniature because somebody couldn't be bothered to finish processing it properly.

So, if you're buying 3D printed miniatures online, especially from sellers offering suspiciously cheap models, be aware of what you're buying.

Ask questions if necessary.

If a model is hollow, ask whether it has been properly cleaned and cured.

If it isn't fully cured for transport, ask what the seller recommends you do when it arrives.

And when you open the box, pay attention to the smell.

If something smells strongly of uncured resin, don't just shrug and start handling it.

Stop.

Put some gloves on.

Get it somewhere safe.

And find out what you're dealing with.

There are plenty of fantastic 3D printing businesses and hobbyists out there who take this stuff seriously.

This isn't aimed at them.

It's aimed at the people who are cutting corners to save a few minutes, a few pence of resin and a bit of labour, while somebody else gets to deal with the consequences.

Because there's a difference between selling someone a cheap miniature...

...and sending them a bottle of uncured chemical resin disguised as one.

Anyway.

That's my public service announcement for today.

Until next time, have a nice day.

And check your miniatures for leaks.

You'd be surprised what lurks beneath the base.

Until next time, have nice day...

Dreadtober 2026, Awakening.

Awakening 

The Forge of The Rock was never silent.

Deep within the Fortress-Monastery, beneath layers of ancient stone and adamantium, its great furnaces burned without end. Hammers rang against anvils, pistons thundered, chains groaned beneath immense loads, and the machine spirits of a thousand engines murmured their endless litany. The sound followed Techmarine Seraphiel as he walked, the familiar rhythm of the Forge accompanying his passage through the ancient corridors.

His red robes moved softly around him, their hems brushing against the iron deck. The servo-arm mounted upon his back shifted with quiet mechanical clicks, while his Omnissian Axe rested across one shoulder. The weapon was more than a weapon. It was his tool, his badge of office, and the authority by which he was permitted to commune with the machines of the Chapter.

Seraphiel passed beneath an archway of black stone, and the ringing of the Forge began to diminish behind him. One hammer fell silent, then another. The distant roar of the furnaces became little more than a vibration beneath his feet, until even that faded.

Then there was nothing.

Seraphiel stopped before the doors of the Sepulchre.

They opened without ceremony.

He stepped inside, and the silence became absolute. No hammering. No engines. No chanting servitors. Only the measured sound of his own footsteps carried through the darkness.

The Dreadnoughts rested here.

Ancient warriors entombed within iron sarcophagi, their names recorded in the annals of the Chapter and their deeds preserved in the memories of those who still remembered them. Some were covered in dust. Others bore the scars of battles fought centuries before Seraphiel's birth. All were silent.

He stopped before one.

The sarcophagus was immense. Its armour was dark beneath the accumulated dust, the remnants of ancient heraldry barely visible upon its surface. An iron halo rose behind the sealed tomb, its edges dulled by age.

Seraphiel lowered his Omnissian Axe and placed one hand upon the ancient casing.

"Honoured-Brother."

Nothing answered.

He began the rites.

Words were spoken in the sacred tongue of Mars as ancient commands passed through his mechadendrites. Cables were connected, seals inspected, and the machine spirit petitioned. The rites continued until, at last, Seraphiel raised the Omnissian Axe and touched its blade against the sarcophagus.

The first spark leapt across the metal.

Then another.

Deep within the tomb, something answered.

A single red optic flickered to life.

Seraphiel remained perfectly still.

Another ignited, then another, until two points of crimson light emerged from the shadows. They grew brighter, their glow spreading across the ancient armour and catching the edges of worn plates. Dust hanging motionless in the cold air became visible as the darkness slowly retreated.

Systems awakened. Ancient mechanisms groaned into motion. Hydraulics hissed and power conduits crackled as something enormous drew breath once more.

Seraphiel bowed his head.

"Awaken, Honoured-Brother."

The Dreadnought moved.

The sound was terrible. Metal screamed against metal as ancient pistons drove into motion, and the sarcophagus shuddered beneath the force of systems returning to life after centuries of slumber. The two red optics burned brighter, illuminating the chamber, the Techmarine standing before him, and the darkness beyond.

The vox grille crackled.

Static whispered through the Sepulchre before a voice emerged from somewhere beneath centuries of dust and iron.

"How... long?"

Seraphiel looked up at the glowing optics.

"Too long, Honoured-Brother."

Silence followed. The red lights remained fixed upon him.

"I know not your voice."

The ancient machine shifted within its cradle, old pistons groaning as power returned to systems that had slept for generations.

"I know not your face."

Seraphiel remained silent.

The optics brightened.

"I do not remember you, young upstart."

There was something different in the ancient voice now. Not anger, but the unmistakable irritation of a warrior who had been disturbed from his rest and had little patience for whoever had done the disturbing.

"I do not suffer fools."

The sarcophagus strained against its restraints. Metal screamed as the Dreadnought forced itself upright.

His voice came again, louder now, carrying through the Sepulchre with the authority of something that had once commanded warriors beneath very different stars.

"Do not make me ask a third time."

The great machine leaned forward.

"How long this time?"

*****

Dreadtober 2026 is about to begin, and preparation work on my entry has begun.

I managed to find one of my miniature collecting Holy Grails for a surprisingly decent price on eBay.

Released by Forge World in 2007, their Dark Angels Deathwing Venerable Dreadnought was one of my favourite models they ever produced. It also combined two things that, at the time, made it almost impossible for me to resist: an older Forge World design and my favourite Chapter.

This was back when the Dark Angels were still labouring under their 4th/5th edition codex, which was... let's be charitable and call it limited compared to what would come later.

Codex creep. Always a thing.

When he arrived, he had been roughly sprayed with grey primer, some of which had already flaked away from the plasma cannon.

The first job was therefore stripping and cleaning him, followed by a bath in warm soapy water. Once he was clean, I began separating the model into sub-assemblies so that I could actually reach the awkward parts when it came time to paint him.

The base was a little more..."interesting".

A Chaos Space Marine had been half-pressed into what I can only describe as model railway ballast embedded in interior filler.

Spackle, for the Yanks.

The Mk.IV feet had also been pressed firmly into the same material and were, for all practical purposes, part of the base. There was no sensible way of removing them without risking damage to the model, so I decided to work with what I had.

Some careful work with clippers and files, followed by cork rocks and my usual mixture of sharp builders' sand, has produced something much more presentable. The legs are now glued into position and the base is ready for painting.

The torso arrived with the ribbons, loincloth and iron halo unattached.

I have plans to add a few more details to the sarcophagus, including some 3D-printed candles and a banner, although those will have to wait until the second half of the month before I can print them.

The arms have been their own little modelling project.

The plasma cannon is thankfully a single main piece, but the power claw is an assembly in itself. Each individual claw is separate, followed by the fist, wrist, elbow and finally the shoulder connection.

It is very much a product of its time.

Le sigh...

The question now is what colour he will be.

The obvious choice is the classic Deathwing bone-white armour, which would suit the model perfectly.

Alternatively, I could go for the more traditional Dark Angels Green, with bone-coloured details.

Or there is a third option.

Legion Black.

The First Legion's black armour would suit this old Forge World design remarkably well, particularly with bone and Calibanite green details picked out across the model.

But there is now a fourth option.

Deathwing Companion.

Black armour, red details, and either dark green or deep purple robes, with a single section of the armour painted bone-white.

The idea would be that, long before his interment, he served as the sworn protector of an important officer of the First Legion. During a battle, he took a potentially fatal blow intended for his charge and survived.

The injuries eventually left him with little of his original body intact, and what remained of the warrior was interred within the sarcophagus of a Dreadnought.

But the ancient tradition of the Deathwing demanded that the sacrifice be remembered.

A section of his armour was therefore painted bone-white, marking the blow he had taken in defence of his charge.

Not the colour of the entire warrior.

Not the livery of the modern Deathwing.

A single mark of honour, earned in blood.

There is an almost eerily appropriate precedent for this in Idravain Mors, a Deathwing veteran who took a shot intended for his commander, later shielded his Praetor again from Konrad Curze, and was eventually recovered from the battlefield and interred within a Dreadnought sarcophagus.

I'm currently undecided, but I'm leaning towards the Deathwing Companion scheme.

Black armour.

Red details.

Dark robes.

And one section of ancient armour, bone-white.

Perhaps, somewhere beneath all that iron and machinery, there is still a warrior who remembers exactly why it was painted that way.

For now, the important thing is that one of my Forge World Holy Grail miniatures is finally sitting on the painting desk.

And Dreadtober 2026 has begun.

Until next time, have nice day...