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...