Dreadtober 2026, Combat.

 Combat

The Word Bearers emerged through the smoke beneath banners of flayed crimson. Blasphemous scripture covered their armour, broken by the profane visages of their false gods. Their chants rasped across the vox, a discordant litany that stirred something buried deep within the Dreadnought's fractured memory.

Traitors.

The word came without effort. It had waited in the darkness longer than he could comprehend.

He levelled his plasma cannon.

Turquoise light gathered within the weapon's coils, illuminating the smoke around its barrel. Then the cannon discharged. 

White-blue fire engulfed the advancing Legionaries, tearing through crimson plate and hurling broken bodies against the blackened walls of the ruined city. 

Ancient masonry shuddered beneath the blast, shedding dust and fragments into the street.

The Dreadnought advanced through the settling smoke.

His armoured feet ground broken stone beneath their weight. Auspex returns flickered across his vision, marking movement among the ruins, but another image intruded upon the battlefield.

A briefing chamber. 

A hololithic map suspended above a table.

Officers in black plate gathered around the representation of a world whose name had slipped beyond his grasp.

A voice issued orders, calm and precise, with the unquestioned authority of command.

The enemy will attempt to break through the eastern avenue.

He knew that voice. 

Or thought he did.

Incoming fire shattered the vision.

Bolter rounds hammered against his sarcophagus, leaving bright scars across its ancient armour. Warning runes flared across his vision as impacts reverberated through his chassis. 

He barely registered them.

He had endured worse.

He remembered skies burning beneath orbital bombardment. Cities collapsing beneath the guns of the enemy. Warriors advancing beneath black banners, their armour bearing the heraldry of a Legion that had known no master but the Son of the Emperor.

He remembered the thunder of bolters, the clash of blades, and the voices of his brothers rising above the din.

First Legion.

The thought surfaced with sudden, terrible clarity.

A Word Bearer emerged from a blasted doorway, its crozius raised as it chanted a prayer to its blasphemous gods. The Dreadnought turned, his storm bolter tracking the movement. 

Mass-reactive rounds tore into the traitor's chest and shoulder, shattering corrupted ceramite. The Legionary staggered, its prayer collapsing into a snarl, before the final volley hurled it backwards into the doorway.

Silence returned to the Dreadnought's weapon.

For a moment, the battlefield seemed distant.

He heard boots upon polished stone. The scrape of a sword leaving its scabbard. The rustle of robes beneath vaulted ceilings, where warriors stood in solemn ranks before an assembly of their peers.

He was among them.

He could not remember their faces, yet their presence stirred a grief so profound that something within his failing memory recoiled from it.

Then came another image.

A blade descending towards a brother.

His own body moving before thought could intervene.

The impact.

Agony, blinding and absolute, as the blow struck home. The world vanishing into darkness. Yet beyond the pain, one certainty endured.

The warrior behind him had lived.

He had placed himself between death and his charge.

He had fulfilled his oath.

The memory fractured before he could see the face of the one he had saved.

A low growl rumbled from his vox grille, half frustration, half something older and less easily named.

The battlefield offered no answers. Only enemies.

Ahead, the Word Bearers were falling back towards the far end of the avenue. 

Their retreat gathered around a knot of Terminators, towering warriors clad in crimson plate scarred by countless battles. Unnatural runes writhed across their armour, and the daemonic weapons in their hands whispered with voices that did not belong to the living.

The Terminators held their ground as their lesser brethren fled past them.

Then they raised their weapons.

A challenge.

The Dreadnought slowed.

He did not recognise the blades or the blasphemous markings carved into their armour.

The enemy had changed. Its symbols had multiplied, its weapons had become things of nightmare, and the passage of millennia had clothed treachery in new forms.

But the gesture was ancient.

He knew what it meant.

A warrior of the First Legion did not turn aside from such a challenge.

He charged.

The roadway shook beneath his advancing bulk.

The first Terminator met him with a two-handed sweep of its accursed blade. The weapon struck his sarcophagus with a shriek of tortured metal, driving him half a step sideways. A second blow followed, then a third, each impact reverberating through his chassis as the daemon bound within the blade howled in triumph.

The Dreadnought seized the traitor with his power claw.

Armoured fingers closed around its head, crushing ceramite beneath their grip. The daemon's shriek rose to a furious pitch as the Dreadnought lifted the Terminator from the ground and hurled it into the wall of a nearby building.

Before it could rise, the Dreadnought's storm bolter raked the ruin until the Terminator moved no longer.

Its companion came through the dust.

Their weapons collided. The impact rocked the Dreadnought's chassis, ancient servos straining as he forced the corrupted blade aside. He drove his armoured shoulder into the traitor, crushing it against the broken wall, then brought his power claw down.

The Terminator fell beneath the blow.

The Dreadnought stepped over its ruined form and pressed forward.

Advance. Strike. Turn. Fire.

His weapons answered each movement with an instinct that seemed older than conscious thought. His plasma cannon burned through the smoke, his storm bolter hammered at the enemy, and his power claw closed with the terrible certainty of an executioner's instrument.

He knew how to fight.

He knew how to kill.

Yet the battle was awakening something beyond the instincts of a warrior.

A sword held upright before a kneeling figure.

A black standard carried through the smoke.

A voice reciting his victories, not in boast, but in the solemn accounting of deeds performed in service to a greater cause.

The images gathered around a presence he could not yet name.

Then, at last, one name emerged from the darkness.

The Lion.

The name struck through his fractured memory with the force of a blade splitting open a sealed tomb.

He saw a figure standing beneath the banners of the First Legion. Tall, terrible, and utterly still. There was no need for raised voices or grand gestures. Those gathered around him stood as knights before their liege, their bearing disciplined, their weapons instruments of exquisite violence.

The Dreadnought knew them. He remembered the oaths that bound them, the traditions that shaped them, and the terrible responsibility entrusted to their hands.

He knew the price of the Legion's honour.

And he knew the figure at its heart.

His vision fractured.

The ancient hall dissolved into smoke and fire. The sound of distant voices gave way to the thunder of weapons, and the ruined avenue returned around him.

The Lion's name remained.

For the first time since his awakening, the Dreadnought understood that the darkness within his memory was not empty.

Something waited beyond it.

Something that had once been his.

*****

Dreadtober 2026: Week 3 Update

Another week of Dreadtober, and sadly, not much to report this time around, as it's been a busy one at work.

Fortunately, I've now got three weeks off using my remaining leave days, so I'm hoping to get some serious hobby time in!

As for the Dreadtober project, I mentioned at the beginning that I planned to 3D print a banner and some candles to add to the Venerable Dreadnought.

I'm pleased to report that they've now been printed and cured! They'll be primed and painted separately before being added to the Dreadnought later on.

As for the painting, I've managed to get the basecoat down on the Dread's legs, along with some additional detailing on the Plasma Cannon arm. Most of the painting progress, however, should come over the next few days.

So, while this week's update might be a little light, things should hopefully pick up considerably from here!

As always, check out the Dreadtober Blog to see everyone else's entries.

And until next time, have nice day...

The Ironhowl - Black Legion Veteran Tactical Squad.

 

The Ironhowl

"I'll hold this position with this." Ikedon brandished his plasma pistol, steam coiling from its muzzle vents. "And whichever of you miserable bastards is still standing."

Vanar grunted.

"You always were generous with other people's lives."

The next volley struck the tower.

The wall behind them collapsed.

They met the Loyalists head on.

The enemy had abandoned the courtyard and forced their way into the building through the breach. Their advance slowed among the wreckage, funnelling them into narrow passages where numbers counted for less and every doorway became a potential grave. Bolter fire flashed through the darkness, illuminating broken pipes, hanging cables, and the headless statues that lined the walls. Dust drifted across the black ceramite of the Ironhowl, settling into the seams of their armour and the worn engravings beneath its brass trim.

The Ironhowl gave ground by inches.

They had been doing this for a long time.

One warrior fired from behind a doorway, then crossed to another position while his brother covered him. Another dragged a wounded Marine behind a fallen pillar before returning to the firing line. They did not shout orders unless they had to. They knew the distances, the angles, and the small movements that meant a brother was about to shift position.

Their armour was a collection of old wars. Different marks of power plate, mismatched repairs, brass worn dull at the edges, and black ceramite scarred by weapons whose names had long since been forgotten. Nothing matched beyond the colour and the accumulated grime. Nothing needed to.

A Loyalist burst through the smoke, chainsword raised.

Ikedon shot him in the chest.

The warrior fell, but the man behind him stepped over the body and struck Ikedon across the shoulder. The impact drove him against the wall. Something buckled beneath his armour, and pain flared down his arm.

He cursed.

Not the gods, nor the Emperor, nor the dead who had made the universe such an unpleasant place to inhabit.

He cursed the Loyalist specifically, with a string of words that had been old when the Legion still called itself the Sixteenth.

Then he drove his bolt pistol beneath the man's chin and fired.

The Loyalist collapsed.

An officer emerged at the far end of the corridor, recognisable by the ornate markings on his armour and the elaborate crest rising from his helmet. He carried a power sword, its blade shimmering with a pale field of energy.

He advanced without hesitation.

Ikedon met him halfway.

The sword came down. Ikedon twisted aside, caught the officer's sword arm, and drove his forehead into the man's faceplate.

The impact sent a shock through his skull.

The officer stumbled.

Ikedon struck him again.

And again.

The third blow shattered the helmet's crest. The fourth sent the Loyalist to his knees. Ikedon wrenched the power sword from his grasp and drove its blade through the joint beneath his gorget.

The officer fell.

Ikedon stood over him, breathing hard.

Behind him, Vanar was shouting. Bolter fire cracked through the smoke. Someone screamed over the vox, then fell silent.

Ikedon retrieved his bolt pistol.

Five rounds.

He checked the corridor.

The Ironhowl were still holding.

Beyond the ruins, the main battle was moving westward. Columns of smoke rose above the manufactorum district, and distant artillery flashed against the low clouds. The sounds of fighting reached them in muted waves, too far away to distinguish individual weapons.

Zhal's advance had not stopped.

The Ironhowl had done their part.

"Gods damn this universe," Vanar growled.

Ikedon stepped over the body of the Imperial officer.

"That's the spirit."

*****

The Ironhowl: Squad Complete

With Dreadtober continuing to trundle along in the background, I fancied a slight break from the Dreadnought.

Spying a few unfinished Chaos Marines on the desk, I took advantage of a few spare hours a day and got them finished off, bringing the first squad of the Black Legion up to ten men strong.

The two completed this time were the half-bareheaded Marine and the autocannon-wielding Marine.

They follow the usual Black Legion scheme I've been working on: Corvus Black, an Agrax Earthshade wash, and highlights of Mechanicus Standard Grey. Nothing particularly complicated, but it's a scheme I'm happy with, and it'll give the Legion a consistent look as the numbers grow.

The banner carried by the squad champion is a 3D print from a selection of banner STLs I picked up cheaply. There'll be more of those as the Legion progresses, which should help give the various squads a little more individuality.

Other than adding tufts to finish off the bases, I'm still contemplating whether to add a symbol to the red banner. Perhaps part of a Chaos Star painted across it? I'll give that a little more thought before committing paint to it.

But, importantly, the Ironhowl are now ten strong and battle ready, ready to take the field when the Legion next marches to war.

Until next time, have nice day...

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.