Sachiel: Eighteen Years in the Making, a Retrospective.

 

Sachiel: Eighteen Years in the Making

So, he is finally named. The eagle-eyed amongst you may have noticed that the title of this piece refers to the URL of my humble blog, Sachiel Returns, which I started back in 2017.

But the character himself goes back much further than that. Sachiel (Sah-Shee-El) has had several incarnations over the years, always as a Dark Angel, ever since I first fell in love with the Chapter in my early days in the hobby..

The original Jes Goodwin-sculpted Asmodai leapt off the pages of the World of Hobby Games pamphlet that Games Workshop used to hand out in stores when you bought something in the late 1990s.

Thirteen-year-old Lewis thought he was the coolest model ever. Black, skull-faced armour and bone robes, even amongst the tanks and Knights that festooned the pages of that little treasure trove of hobby goodness.

The featured Dark Angels army on the rear cover of White Dwarf 223 was another major inspiration during those early days.

I always remember the ‘Master of the Ravenwing’ conversion here, which involved chopping a metal miniature in half. The idea seems like madness now.

(I wish GW would present hobbyists armies in this manner again it's all very slick and professional nowadays, it loses some of its charm).

Fast-forward a few years to 2008, when the fourth-edition Dark Angels Codex was released.

Twenty-three- or twenty-four-year-old Lewis (I can never remember exactly which) now had a career, was renting a house, and finally had his own hobby money. Naturally, I fell in love with the Chapter all over again.

This time, it was specifically the Chaplain in Terminator Armour that caught my attention. Released around this period, he inspired the creation of a 1,500-point Deathwing Assault army. Sadly, that force has since been lost to time.

The first incarnation of Sachiel was that very Chaplain, and he graced tabletops throughout fourth and fifth edition Warhammer 40,000.

He even made the jump into Dawn of War, becoming my username on the game's servers during its heyday around the Dark Crusade expansion.

Years later, I planned to bring him into a Horus Heresy 2.0 Dark Angels force alongside Corswain. 

Unfortunately, that project barely had time to breathe before Games Workshop changed the edition and rules, leaving the plans gathering dust.

But Sachiel wasn't quite finished yet.

Here we are, then, with the Interred Horus Heresy Captain, entombed within a Dreadnought and finally realised on the tabletop once more.

From a teenage hobbyist staring at a picture of Asmodai, through a Deathwing army and countless hours of Dawn of War, to a character who has survived multiple incarnations and editions of the game.

Eighteen years. Several iterations. One Dark Angel.

Dreadtober 2026, Returning Memories.

 

The Story So Far...

Throughout Dreadtober, I've been following the awakening of an ancient Dark Angels Dreadnought, and the gradual recovery of the memories buried within his fractured mind.

If you've missed any of the instalments, you can catch up with the story below, before joining us for its conclusion.

- Awakening

- Armament

- Lost Names

- Combat

*****

Sachiel Returns

The final Word Bearer stood before him.

The traitor clad in maroon and Black, its armour thick with ritual inscriptions and its helm crowned by a cluster of twisted horns. It raised its accursed weapon, and the daemon within shrieked with a voice that scraped against the Dreadnought's failing memory.

The sound became another sound.

A blade drawn in a darkened hall.

The closing of a great door.

The Lion's voice, speaking a command that had endured beyond the death of worlds.

The Dreadnought faltered.

His systems registered a momentary disruption. His vision fractured into overlapping images, the ruined avenue dissolving beneath the black stone of an ancient fortress. He saw himself standing before a circle of armoured warriors. Their blades were lowered. Their helms were bowed. They awaited his word.

He remembered the weight of command.

He remembered the oath.

The Word Bearer warrior lunged.

The Dreadnought met it head-on.

His power claw closed around the traitor's weapon arm, crushing the armour and wrenching the accursed blade from its grasp. He drove forward, forcing the heretic backwards across the shattered roadway. The traitor struck at him with its free hand, battering his sarcophagus, but the Dreadnought did not yield. He seized the Word Bearer by the torso and hurled it down.

The warrior struck the stone hard enough to fracture it.

For a heartbeat, he stood above his fallen enemy, his immense shadow cast across the cracked roadway. The traitor struggled to rise, its armour grinding against the rubble. Its gauntlet clawed at the stone. Its vox emitted a broken prayer to gods that had never deserved the devotion of mankind.

The Dreadnought raised his foot.

The memories came flooding back.

The black armour of the First Legion. The oath sworn beneath the Lion's gaze. The Twenty-Third Circle, its warriors trained to master the blade, hunt the enemy's champions, and stand beside their lord when lesser warriors faltered.

He remembered the burden of command. The cost of loyalty. The truth that a knight's honour was measured not by the songs sung in his name, but by the lives preserved through his sacrifice.

The Dreadnought brought his foot down.

The ceramite breastplate already weakened by the Power Claw, collapsed beneath the weight. Stone fractured around the impact as the ancient warrior leaned forward, his engines roaring.

The last Word Bearer was driven into the avenue, its armour crushed beneath the ancient warrior's tread. The daemon's shriek dwindled into static and silence.

And as the final memory locked into place, the Dreadnought's optics blazed red. He roared through his vox grille.

"I AM SACHIEL. THE HEADSMAN'S KNIGHT!

LOYAL SON OF THE LION OF CALIBAN!

MASTER OF THE TWENTY-THIRD CIRCLE!

CAPTAIN OF THE FIRST LEGION!"

His voice thundered between the shattered towers, amplified by ancient vox-projectors. Dust shook loose from broken arches as the surviving Word Bearers faltered before a name and lineage from an age they had believed consigned to legend.

Sachiel.

The name was his.

The titles were his.

The oath was his.

Nearby, Chaplain Malachai watched in silence.

He had witnessed the Dreadnought's confusion, his fury, and the terrible struggle of memories returning to a mind scarred by ten thousand years of war.

But now, a son of the Lion had returned.

Malachai lowered his head.

"Welcome home, Brother."

The Dreadnought turned towards the surviving Word Bearers, now retreating through the ruins. The coils of his plasma cannon began to glow.

"The First Legion," Sachiel declared, "has unfinished business."

*****

Dreadtober 2026

The end of Dreadtober 2026 is upon us, and I am thankful to report that the Dreadnought is complete!

It's been a great journey getting here, especially the lore writing. I confess that I didn't know where it would take me until inspiration struck with each new section.

The first two chapters, Awakening and Armament, were fairly self-evident. A Dreadnought has to go through those processes, and Games Workshop has described them several times before, so I took inspiration from those passages.

Lost Names and the chapters that followed, however, were where I wanted to bring something more personal to the Dreadnought. I wanted him to have a personality of his own.

Too many times, I see people referring to their "miniatures", rather than their characters. It's never "Lord Zhal leads the charge", or "Sachiel bursts through the wall", or "Master Azrael holds the line, galvanising his troops".

I wanted to give Sachiel an identity beyond the model itself. The slow reveal of a warrior who no longer remembers his name, the fragments of memory returning during combat, and finally the emotional payoff of discovering who he is. All of it also has a personal connection to my own collection.

That makes this project even more special, as Sachiel is one of my "Holy Grail" miniatures, as I mentioned in Part One.

Enough exposition. Onto the hobby, which is what you're here for!

The Sarcophagus

The main body was essentially complete, just awaiting its final highlights. The main outstanding details were the banner and candles, which I printed the last time I was at Duncan's.

These were relatively quick paint jobs, following the established colour palette, with the burgundy particularly prominent on the banner field.

I did consider a split Green and Bone banner, similar to the Angels of Vengeance colour scheme, but ultimately decided to stick with the colours already established on Sachiel.

The candles started with a bone basecoat, followed by successive drybrushes of pale off-whites. The flames were painted with a yellow Contrast paint, finished with a small dot of pure white to give them that final glow.

The Power Claw

Likewise, the Power Claw had everything in place, barring its final highlights, which were applied in white.

The chequered markings were built up in layers of Mephiston Red and Corvus Black, adding a little colour and visual interest to the otherwise dark weapon.

The Plasma Cannon

The Plasma Cannon was similarly at the same stage as the other sub-assemblies, needing only some general highlighting and a few finishing details.

The main focus here was, of course, the plasma power coils.

I wanted a bright blue to draw the eye, but my usual Aethermatic Blue wasn't producing quite the same effect that it does on regular plasma weapons.

So, with the Aethermatic Blue still wet, I picked up some Talassar Blue and applied it to the lower portions of the coils. I then blended the two colours together directly on the model until I achieved the tone and effect I was looking for.

I'm very happy with how this turned out, and it gives the weapon the striking appearance I wanted.

The Legs and Base

This was the biggest section of work this week.

I essentially had to take the entire legs from their previous stage to completion in the space of a week. The base was worked on alongside them, although that was a little easier, as it was already around 50% complete at the beginning of the week.

The colours used on the legs were the same as those elsewhere on the Dreadnought, so I won't go over those again. Instead, I'll concentrate on the unfortunate Word Bearer decorating the base.

He started with a coat of Khorne Red, followed by an Agrax Earthshade wash alongside the rest of the base. I then applied another layer of Khorne Red to bring the armour back up to colour, followed by a wash of Carroburg Crimson.

This helps differentiate him from any World Eaters in my collection who might stray a little too close to the Dreadnought!

I didn't go too far with the details, as he was then drybrushed with Baneblade Brown and Ushabti Bone to match the rest of my collection.

Around 90% of my collection uses this basing colour scheme, ensuring that everything looks at home when the various forces meet on my tabletop. It's a small thing, but I do like having that visual consistency across the collection.

The Finished Model

And here he stands!

Sachiel, fully painted, assembled and finally ready to take his place amongst the Dark Angels.

As mentioned before, he is one of my "Holy Grail" miniatures, and I was delighted to have managed to pick him up for a song, simply because his previous owner wasn't familiar with working with Forge World resin.

Dreadtober 2026

As I write this, the final day of Dreadtober 2026 is tomorrow, 31 October.

Marc, who organises the event, will be bringing together everyone's entries from across the internet and adding links to the various projects on the Dreadtober Blog.

I encourage you all to pop over and have a look at the other work that has been completed throughout the month. There are some fantastic projects out there, and it's well worth taking the time to see what everyone else has been working on.

My own Dreadnought has been a long time coming, and I'm incredibly pleased to finally have him finished.

But there is a little more to Sachiel than just the miniature itself.

Sachiel: Eighteen Years in the Making

For those interested, I've written a separate piece about the history of the character, from his original inspiration through his various incarnations, to the Dreadnought you see here today.

You can read it here:

Sachiel: Eighteen Years in the Making

It's a rather personal look back at my own hobby history, and how one Dark Angel has managed to survive eighteen years, several editions and more than a few abandoned projects.

And with that, Dreadtober 2026 draws to a close.

It's been a thoroughly enjoyable project, and I'm particularly pleased with how the lore and hobby sides have come together. The Dreadnought is finished, the story has been told, and Sachiel has finally found his way home.

Until next time, have nice day...

The Gloam Wardens - Black Legion Tactical Squad.

 The Gloam Wardens

Line Squad | Sworn to Lord Zhal Vohren

The first shell struck the hab-block three floors above them.

Concrete burst across the street in a grey cloud, scattering masonry over the wreckage of an Imperial Chimera. Somewhere behind the barricade, a man screamed for a medic.

Morvec Sath registered the sound before returning his attention to the tactical display projected across his gauntlet.

“Second floor. Left-hand window. Autocannon.”

The heavy bolter answered him. Mass-reactive shells tore through the window, obliterating the frame and chewing a ragged hole into the wall.

Las-fire snapped against the rubble before them.

“Left flank,” said Hadrak.

“I have eyes.”

“Both of them, brother. A rare advantage.”

Sath turned his helmet a fraction.

“Continue talking and I shall see whether your remaining one can be removed without anaesthetic.”

“Then I shall endeavour to make my time count.”

A brief ripple of amusement passed through the squad's vox. It was quiet, almost imperceptible beneath the gunfire, but it was there.

The Imperial commander had evidently decided that remaining behind the barricade was no longer an option. A whistle sounded from somewhere beyond it, followed by a desperate counterattack. Two squads of infantry surged through the smoke, bayonets fixed, shouting the names of their officers and the God-Emperor.

The Gloam Wardens received them without moving.

Their bolters spoke in measured volleys. Men fell in rows. Survivors stumbled over the dead, only to discover that the black-armoured giants had not surrendered a single step of ground.

“Brother Hadrak. Keep their heads down. The rest of you, maintain your intervals.”

“And if they surrender?” asked one of the Legionaries.

Sath studied the barricade.

“We have neither the time nor the inclination for prisoners.”

The heavy bolter opened fire. Its thunder rolled down the avenue, catching two Guardsmen as they broke from cover. Mass-reactive shells tore them apart before they had taken three steps.

“Determined fellows,” Hadrak remarked.

“Poorly advised,” said Veyr.

“Perhaps their commander promised them a medal.”

“Then we are doing him a kindness. There will be fewer men left to disappoint him.”

The vox filled with laughter, brief and dry.

Then Sath heard the unmistakable crack of a sniper rifle.

The round struck the side of his helmet, throwing sparks across his vision. His head turned with the impact, but his armour held. For a moment he remained motionless, allowing his vision to clear while the rest of the squad adjusted their firing arcs.

“Sniper,” he said.

“An excellent shot,” Hadrak observed.

“Veyr.”

“Already looking.”

The plasma gunner adjusted his aim. A pale silhouette shifted behind the broken parapet of a nearby tower.

The gun fired.

The upper storey vanished in a blossom of blue-white energy and tumbling masonry.

Sath advanced.

The Wardens followed in their established formation, stepping over the fallen without a glance. Their fire continued as they moved, each Legionary covering the next with the practised efficiency of warriors who had fought together for centuries.

They did not seek individual victories. They did not break formation to pursue fleeing enemies. Every shot served a purpose. Every movement prepared the next.

“Champion,” Veyr reported, “command identifies a second defensive line beyond the crossroads. Infantry reserves, armour support and a command post. They appear to have mistaken our present activities for the main assault. Shall we request support?”

Sath surveyed the ruined avenue.

“No.”

“Very good.” Veyr paused. “What response should I give?”

“Tell them we are making good progress.”

“And if they ask for details?”

“Tell them the enemy is cooperating.”

Another ripple of laughter passed through the squad.

“That is ambitious, Champion,” Hadrak voxed.

Sath permitted himself the faintest smile beneath his helm.

There were times when he wondered whether his brothers understood the larger purpose of their service.

The Pale Wolf gathered followers, tested their worth and sought to carve his own legend from the corpse of the Imperium. Sath understood that ambition. He shared it.

But he had no intention of remaining a squad champion forever.

One day, the Gloam Wardens would become the nucleus of a warband bearing his name. He would command his own warriors, gather his own trophies and claim victories that could not be attributed to another lord's favour. He would walk the Eightfold Path in his own right, seeking the power and infamy that might one day make him immortal.

For now, he served the Pale Wolf. He fought beside his brothers. He learned.

Beyond the smoke, beyond the broken defences and the dying cries of the Emperor's servants, Morvec Sath could already picture the distant outline of a throne.

It was not yet his.

He had centuries to claim it.

He was in no hurry.

*****

The Gloam Wardens: Squad Complete

Another round of painting has brought a few more “easy victories”, with three more Chaos Space Marines finally finished and off the painting table.

As usual, they follow the established Black Legion colour scheme. It's easy to replicate, relatively straightforward to paint and looks great en masse. Just take a look at the end of this post!

The full squad now looks like this.

One of the newly finished warriors is the chap with the hooked horns on the far left of the photograph. I do enjoy mixing boltguns with chainsword and bolt pistol combinations within my squads. Not only does it add a bit of visual variety, but it also reminds us that Chaos Space Marine squads aren't necessarily organised into the dedicated, single-purpose battlefield roles we tend to associate with their Loyalist counterparts.

Champion Morvec Sath is also sporting a new addition. Standing on the left, he's had a banner attached to his backpack to make up for the one he was missing.

Of course, this also makes an already imposing Chaos Space Marine even taller. Depending on which source you consult, an Astartes stands somewhere around nine feet tall, so perhaps Sath now measures eleven feet in-universe!

Every building must have vaulted ceilings in the 41st Millennium.

The other two finished warriors are the flamer operator and the Legionary on the far right, once again armed with a chainsword and bolt pistol.

I still have the plasma gunner from the accompanying fiction to finish, although he's only been built so far. When I get around to the third Tactical Squad, which will have a rather more aggressive character, I'll swap the plasma gun and flamer between the two units.

That should give the squads a little more individuality, both on the tabletop and in the accompanying fiction.

The Black Legion grows

I also took the opportunity to lay out the modest Black Legion warband as it stands.

The two Tactical Squads occupy the flanks, with the Lupercal's Eyes Havocs in the centre. The three character models I've painted so far stand between them.

From left to right, we have my converted “Definitely Not Huron Blackheart”, a 3D-printed 30k Ezekyle Abaddon, and an Aspiring Champion in Mark III armour.

Originally, my converted Not-Huron was going to be the Chaos Lord in charge of this Black Crusade. However, in true Chaotic fashion, the character has grown somewhat as I've been writing up ideas and making notes about the warband's background.

As a result, I feel compelled to convert a new model for the Lord himself. Not-Huron will instead become his trusted Lieutenant, serving as one of the key figures within the warband's command echelon.

It's funny how these projects develop. Sometimes the lore follows the models; other times, the lore demands entirely new models!

Next up: The Blackmarked

Next on the painting table are Lord Zhal Vohren's Chosen, the Blackmarked.

These are warriors who have drawn the attention of their lord, for better or worse. Whether that attention will prove to be a blessing or a curse remains to be seen.

There are still several units to build and paint before Zhal's warband is complete:

• The Blackmarked Chosen.
• Another Tactical Squad.
• A large squad of Unproven Inductii.
• A Terminator Squad “gifted” by Abaddon.
• The command echelon of characters I've been planning.

And that's before I start thinking about the other forces and allied warbands that will eventually gather beneath the Black Legion's banners.

All told, there's still a fair bit to do!

Nevertheless, the Black Legion grows once again, one squad at a time. And when the crusade finally breaks into realspace, the Imperium will shake to its very core.

Until next time, have a nice day!

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

Veteran Squad | Sworn to Lord Zhal Vohren

"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...