The Brotherhood of Necros

So it begins... I've never painted anything this size before — wish me luck!

This month, I'm pledging to paint 1 x Vampire Lord on Zombie Dragon and 1 x Casket of Souls (counts-as Coven Throne...) Here we go again!

They are watching us. From the moment we crossed over into this fecund place in search of it, I knew eyes on me, felt its attention shift, infinitesimal speck by speck, a vast consciousness like the hive mind of a colony of wardroth grubs turning its antlered head our way. Even now, it tracks us through the tumbling vales, and what it sees, it wishes to destroy. It dreams of ending us, of trampling us, of impaling us on those magnificent horns, of returning us to the soil and the wind. The mortal coil! Is this what it feels like, to be studied, to be read? Is this what my subjects experience, when I look for the secrets in their skin? We came for a book, but already I have gained something far greater: wisdom with which to fill a tome of my own! Of course, such a text will warrant the finest materials. A bolt of buckskin shall do nicely. Or, failing that, a ream of aelfhide. I shall weave a placeholder from their hair! Her song holds no sway in these old trees. They stir with a different sound. Stop running, child, and you may just hear it: the wind in the boughs, like the billowing of vast wings; its keening shriek, like that of a beast in pain. You may yet hear it, if you just stop running. You may yet sing with them. Yes, little princeling. Catch your breath and raise your voice and sing with the children of the night, even as they catch you. A choir of screams, in harmony! "Awake, O dead! Crawl from your mountain tombs. Once more, the dispossessed have cause to march upon the forests of the aelves: my cause! No root nor branch nor witch-forged blade will spill your blood this time..." * I hear it then: a tapping, the patter of fleshless fingertips between the stalactites. Overhead, blackness, impenetrable except for that sound and something else, almost inaudible, a keening pitch. Scree scatters before my boots, the darkness a precipice over which I dangle, every step my last. One more. Up ahead, a glimmer of light. One more. The entrance is in sight. One more. They are waiting for me, outside, unpacking the camp by torchlight and the glare of the zephyr spites. One more —Wait. Silence has descended over me like a fresh darkness. What of the tapping? Nothing, just that whine, needling into my ears, growing higher, cutting sharper. The dead wolf’s bite didn’t wound so deep. My groan echoes around me. The blackness swallows it utterly, then spits it back in a scrabble of scratches and the flutter of wing beats. I imagine a mainsail filling over and over with competing winds, impossibly vast in the shadows. Run run run —My every footfall kicks pebbles and stones, glottal pops marking my flight. One more step. A smell washes over me, a rotting tide. One more step. The entrance looms before me, my exit now, and I make out the silhouettes of my comrades, moving about camp. Is that their laughter I hear, or have I gone mad? One more step — * See how quickly they die, how easily they rise again? Necromancy, a written art, its secrets consecrated in blood, His Word made flesh. For the longest time, that was all I saw; runes and languages that sought to confound me even as I learned them. Never did I stop to study that on which they were written. Their medium: human skin, gut for binding, and flesh of a different kind, sprouted from the sodden earth, grown into great forests before being hewn and pulped. That flesh is silent now, but in fair Ghyran, it still sings, the very wind whispering with untold secrets, a shiver down my spine. So I walk that land, and beneath those trees I read again, my fingers teasing stories from the throats of sylphs and the aelves that dance with them, my tongue the sorrow that defines their tales. What more could the undying ask for than that: Nature, a book that never ends! Such a shame that they won’t stop screaming. How is one supposed to read, surrounded by such a racket? Read more about Tale of Instahammer Werble-1C267E295.MP4

This is my second year doing the hobby challenge 'Tales of Instahammer' and I'm absolutely loving it. If you've never heard of Tales before, the premise couldn't be simpler: each month there's a new theme and anyone participating paints up a new unit or leader that fits, the idea being that by the time the challenge ends in July, you've got a small, playable force painted up. Tales is everything I love about the hobby: it's inspiring, it gives me a routine/structure to follow (I LOVE a to-do list...) and it's a great excuse to chat with and get support from other avid hobbyists. We have a Facebook Group where we can share our WIPs, chat about the game, and get ideas. We're also very active on Instagram. As someone who isn't part of a gaming group (and doesn't know anyone else who actually collects or plays), there's a sense of community to Tales that really resonates with me. If you're reading this, I'm going to assume you know my theme for this year is Necrarch Soulblight vampires. I'm going to create an update post once a month to cover off what progress I've made and any accompanying fiction I've written. Below, you can see what's coming up over the next six months. Got a question? Ask away! And if you're on Instagram, do check out the hashtag #talesofinstahammer to see what everyone else is working on! Month #1: The Withering Month #2: TBD Month #3: TBD Month #4: TBD Month #5: TBD Month #6: TBD

Cheers, Lowki! Of course — it's an app called Werble. You can play around with loads of effects, some of which are free, some are paid (a couple of quid). As well as my vamps, I've used it to bring to life the Wild Hunt before now, too!

Thanks! It's a Druchii Violet wash over a base of Corax White. Some of the details are then picked out in Corax White again.

For this week's #WIPWednesday, we approach the Casket of Khepra and its keepers... The Ancient One discovered this casket centuries past when wandering the vast deserts of Neferatia. Its cracked stone and ruined glyphs belie the hive of danger held within. On first opening the casket, The Ancient One was devoured almost to the bone by the ravenous swarm that erupted from inside. Today, three Keepers are charged with maintaining timeless vigil over the casket and its roiling contents, a thankless task that involves blessing the artefact, praying to it and, on occasion, feeding it. When the Brotherhood has cause to make battle, its disciples do so in the knowledge that the casket comes with them, and from its sepulchral depths the children of Khepra do emerge to block out the sun, bound to their keepers’ wills, a clicking, chittering swarm beneath which the hearts and minds of men crumble, like so many brittle husks... On the tabletop, this will be a second counts-as Coven Throne or Bloodseeker Palanquin. I'm having a huge amount of fun interpreting these Leaders around the theme of my army and can't wait to get some paint on this for February. Related read: WIP Wednesday: Caspar's Coven Instagram: @brotherhoodofnecros More about me: Joining the ranks

Here’s Abel the Unwritten, a counts-as Coven Throne 💀, and my three Fell Bats. (Run, aelfling, run!) 🦇 If you like the lore/stories side of the hobby, here is a little fiction I wrote inspired by them. Enjoy! Werble-1C267E295.MP4

'The Withering' They are watching us. From the moment we crossed over into this fecund place in search of it, I knew eyes on me, felt its attention shift, infinitesimal speck by speck, a vast consciousness like the hive mind of a colony of wardroth grubs turning its antlered head our way. Even now, it tracks us through the tumbling vales, and what it sees, it wishes to destroy. It dreams of ending us, of trampling us, of impaling us on those magnificent horns, of returning us to the soil and the wind. The mortal coil! Is this what it feels like, to be studied, to be read? Is this what my subjects experience, when I look for the secrets in their skin? We came for a book, but already I have gained something far greater: wisdom with which to fill a tome of my own! Of course, such a text will warrant the finest materials. A bolt of buckskin shall do nicely. Or, failing that, a ream of aelfhide. I shall weave a placeholder from their hair! Her song holds no sway in these old trees. They stir with a different sound. Stop running, child, and you may just hear it: the wind in the boughs, like the billowing of vast wings; its keening shriek, like that of a beast in pain. You may yet hear it, if you just stop running. You may yet sing with them. Yes, little princeling. Catch your breath and raise your voice and sing with the children of the night, even as they catch you. A choir of screams, in harmony! "Awake, O dead! Crawl from your mountain tombs. Once more, the dispossessed have cause to march upon the forests of the aelves: my cause! No root nor branch nor witch-forged blade will spill your blood this time..." * I hear it then: a tapping, the patter of fleshless fingertips between the stalactites. Overhead, blackness, impenetrable except for that sound and something else, almost inaudible, a keening pitch. Scree scatters before my boots, the darkness a precipice over which I dangle, every step my last. One more. Up ahead, a glimmer of light. One more. The entrance is in sight. One more. They are waiting for me, outside, unpacking the camp by torchlight and the glare of the zephyr spites. One more —Wait. Silence has descended over me like a fresh darkness. What of the tapping? Nothing, just that whine, needling into my ears, growing higher, cutting sharper. The dead wolf’s bite didn’t wound so deep. My groan echoes around me. The blackness swallows it utterly, then spits it back in a scrabble of scratches and the flutter of wing beats. I imagine a mainsail filling over and over with competing winds, impossibly vast in the shadows. Run run run —My every footfall kicks pebbles and stones, glottal pops marking my flight. One more step. A smell washes over me, a rotting tide. One more step. The entrance looms before me, my exit now, and I make out the silhouettes of my comrades, moving about camp. Is that their laughter I hear, or have I gone mad? One more step — * See how quickly they die, how easily they rise again? Necromancy, a written art, its secrets consecrated in blood, His Word made flesh. For the longest time, that was all I saw; runes and languages that sought to confound me even as I learned them. Never did I stop to study that on which they were written. Their medium: human skin, gut for binding, and flesh of a different kind, sprouted from the sodden earth, grown into great forests before being hewn and pulped. That flesh is silent now, but in fair Ghyran, it still sings, the very wind whispering with untold secrets, a shiver down my spine. So I walk that land, and beneath those trees I read again, my fingers teasing stories from the throats of sylphs and the aelves that dance with them, my tongue the sorrow that defines their tales. What more could the undying ask for than that: Nature, a book that never ends! Such a shame that they won’t stop screaming. How is one supposed to read, surrounded by such a racket?

Thank you both, I'm thrilled you like it! Here are a few more pics of it 'in the field', so to speak. Abel and his acolyte tread the fecund glades of Ghyran in search of a hidden knowledge said to be concealed there... You can read some fiction I've written to accompany it here.

It took me most of the day but I'm finally calling this finished. Neferata's handmaidens aren't the only coven to take to battle atop their thrones. Abel the Unwritten and his acolyte march forth, forbidden lore in hand, dragged by the bound spirits of those who once carved a home beneath Shyish’s brittle peaks.

“Do you feel it, Neferata? Do you feel the silent angles of the Corpse Geometries growing sharper about you? The charnel mathematics of Usirian have drawn you here...” This week, I Am Reading: Neferata: The Blood of Nagash by Josh Reynolds. The book continues pretty much directly on from The Rise of Nagash trilogy by Mike Lee so of course I got stuck straight in. What did I think? If you’re in thrall of the Queen of Mysteries, this is a must-read, offering a first-person glimpse into the mind and machinations of the First Vampire and her movements post the fall of Lahmia. The narrative focuses on the kingdom of Strigos and weaves Neferata's fate alongside those of Ushoran, W'soran, and (to an extent) Abhorash, as though the four weren't inextricably linked already. The fact that they have found each other again, despite having scattered after the fall of Lahmia, is called out and goes on to set up the theme that all are one with Nagash, symbolised over and over across the book through the black sun and the Crown of Nagash. For me, this is a story about free will and identity. "Neferata pushed herself to her feet. The voice of the crown — Nagash's voice — was back, smashing at her doubts and worries and fears. For an instant, she wondered if this was how others felt when she turned her gaze upon them." Don't let that fool you — there's intrigue and bloodshed aplenty. The rough'n' ready Strigoi warriors offer a satisfying foil to Neferata and her handmaidens. The ladies get their fair share of action, and when their claws are out, Neferata's enemies die. Flashbacks illuminate what happened to Neferata between the sacking of her city and her arrival at Strigos while conveniently introducing us to the origins of each of her closest handmaidens. My favourite thing about the book? Any book or story offering insights into how the First Vampires think and act is a must-read for me. Neferata lives up to her reputation as a manipulator, coercing warlords and sweet-talking the Lord of Masks as though they were chess pieces, but we also see Abhorash and his get (including some familiar faces!), Ushoran and the madness that slowly envelops him and his doomed bloodline, W'soran, hiding in the dark places beneath the mountains like a hungry spider... For acolytes of W’soran, the story also sets up the sequel, Master of Death. (Review coming soon.) Haven't read Neferata: The Blood of Nagash yet? Order a copy, turn down the lights, and dive in...

I really love the KO sculpts — so much character! Great to see them all assembled and painted. I'm looking forward to the Longbeards and seeing how they tie in with these guys!

“Awake, O dead! Crawl from your mountain tombs. Once more, the dispossessed have cause to march upon the forests of the aelves: my cause! No root nor branch nor witch-forged blade will spill their blood this time...” Abel and his acolyte take to the field. You can read more about who Abel is and how he came to cross paths with The Ancient One here. Werble-0C241BF20.MP4

"They were a group, my group, the last literary coven. If it was necromancy to commune with the dead, to raise written spirits from their tomes, then we were necromancers, not death-dealers or charlatans but people, just people, who read together and remembered in that graveyard, that forgotten place, that library for the dead". Abel, Dark Awakening, Ch. 2 Last week, we shone the spotlight on one of Abel's bookish acolytes. This Sunday, let's take a closer look at the the Unwritten himself. A priest of Necros and one of The Ancient One’s get, studious Abel spends much of his time in the library and is never far from one of his books. This slavish dependency lends him great control over the winds and accuracy when bending them to his will but limits the sheer power with which he's able to do so. Abel calls the Ancient One ‘Teacher’, harking back to a time when he lived and worked as a caretaker and guard of The Silent Quarter in Nulahmia. It was here, reading literature and other forbidden tomes prohibited elsewhere in the city with a small coven, that he first met and fell under the thrall of The Ancient One. The old vampire doted on Abel for many years in the guise of a tutor helping him to understand and, sometimes, access many of the tomes he would go on to share with the group. Month by month, they found themselves perverted by the nature of the texts, and Abel with them, until the night came when The Ancient One offered to be Abel's teacher for the rest of time. Of course, Abel said yes. All are one with the Great Necromancer. Just as The Ancient One is but a vessel for Nagash's vast will, so his get are his shadows, extensions bound to him by oaths of brotherhood and blood. In Abel, we best see The Ancient One's scholarly aspect. In gaming terms, Abel and his acolyte can usually be found on the equivalent of a Coven Throne — a wheeled platform bearing his repertoire of books, dragged into battle by the bound spirits of the duardin who once occupied the tower before the brotherhood claimed it as their own. Of all the denizens of the Mortal Realms, Abel holds a particular fondness for the mountain folk, whose love of tradition and respect for the written records and lore of their ancestors closely reflect what he sees to be his own. Related read: Sunday Spotlight: The Acolytes Five Flash Fiction: A Copse of Books

What a great message to wake up to, cheers @Kronos. For what it's worth, I'm really enjoying this project. Like many, I just wish I could spend longer on it! Thanks for stopping by and commenting.

“Necromancy, a written art, its secrets consecrated in blood, His Word made flesh. For the longest time, that was all I saw; runes and languages that sought to confound me even as I learned them. Never did I stop to study that on which they were written. "Their medium: human skin, gut for binding, and flesh of a different kind, sprouted from the fecund earth, grown into great forests before being hewn and pulped. That flesh is silent now, but in fair Ghyran, it still sings, the very wind whispering with untold secrets, a shiver down my spine. So I walk that land now, and beneath those trees I read again, my fingers teasing stories from the throats of sylphs, my tongue the sorrow that defines their tales. "What more could the undying ask for than that: Nature, a book that never ends! Such a shame that they won’t stop screaming. How is one supposed to read, surrounded by such a racket?” — Abel, Dark Awakenings Related read: Flash Fiction: A Choir of Screams Flash Fiction: One More Step video-ad666f8faec9489095adf7da21d970dc.MP4

Giving me real Eidolon of Mathlann vibes too, which is no bad thing in my book 😍

From the recesses of the laboratory, the scratch of nib-points on dry parchment and a deepening chill, ripe with the scent of freshly turned soil... Here we have this week's #WIPWednesday: Caspar's Coven — and some progress on my two Necrarch-themed Coven Throne vamps.

For this instalment of WIP Wednesday, meet Caspar, often known as Lickspittle, a priest of Necros, most subservient and loyal to The Ancient One. Caspar spends much of his time keeping watch while his father sleeps and waiting on him when he wakes. Of all The Ancient One's get, his obedience is willing. He is particularly jealous of Eli and the good favour the Blissful One receives. He calls The Ancient One ‘Master’. This is his small coven — on the tabletop, counts-as Vargheists. Caspar is based on a classic (2006?) Necrarch sculpt. A Tomb Kings banner top represents his collar/headpiece. His left arm is from the Crypt Ghouls kit, his right the bone-quill from a Nurgle Tallyman. Between these tweaks and the joyous expression you can see across his Abhorrent Ghoul King head, you can hopefully see just how much he is enjoying his work... Instagram: @brotherhoodofnecros More about me: Joining the ranks

Cheers, Fulcanelli! Here's the first vampire 'handmaiden' from my counts-as Coven Throne. If you're interested, you can read a bit more about him and the converted Throne here.

"Tell me a story, Abel." One sandalled foot on the marble steps, my brother stops. "A story, Teacher?" "That is what I said." He tugs at the sleeves of his robes, eyes unblinking, and I almost imagine I can see them playing out behind those glassy orbs: a hundred tales, a thousand sagas retold in the recesses of his mind. They say the dead don’t dream, but I have tasted Abel and know better, know that in the dusty aisles of his compliant head, an imagination like no other gluts itself on a centuries-long banquet of literature and lore. Grimoires. Codices. Maps, books of maths and legislature, litanies and more fill his brain. Another once described his sort as books of blood. If so, I am his sole translator. Dark Awakening, Ch. 2 For month one of Tales of Instahammer, we've been asked to complete a regiment and a character. To kick off my collection, I've chosen to tackle a unit of Fell Bats and my counts-as Coven Throne. It's the latter I'd like to shine the spotlight on today, specifically one of the vampire 'handmaidens' mounted on it. Befitting my Necrarch theme, I've imagined the Coven Throne as a kind of chariot/platform from where Abel and his get recite their litanies. A priest of Necros, Abel the Unwritten spends much of his time in the library. A shadow of their progenitor, his get are similarly obsessed with literature. As a coven, they are never far from one of their books. To represent this on the Throne, this acolyte will be reading studiously from a necromantic tome, muttering the word-perfect incantation that you can see manifesting from his outstretched hand. I'll share another update once I've made more progress. For now, I've a book of my own to finish reading... Related read: Sunday Spotlight: The Acolytes Five Flash Fiction: A Copse of Books

"Her song holds no sway in these old trees. They stir with a different sound. Stop running, child, and you may just hear it: the wind in the boughs, like the billowing of vast wings; its keening shriek, like that of a beast in pain. You may yet hear it, if you just stop running. You may yet sing with them. "Yes, little princeling. Catch your breath and raise your voice and sing with the children of the night, even as they catch you. A choir of screams, in harmony!" Related read: Flash Fiction: One More Step Werble-094F7D401.MP4

A few more tweaks to make but pretty much calling these guys done! My Blood-Fat Bats, hurling themselves on ragged mainsails through amethystine skies.

“Akhmen-hotep, Beloved of the Gods, Priest King of Ka-Sabar and Lord of the Brittle Peaks, woke among his concubines in the hours before dawn and listened to the faint sounds of the great army that surrounded him.” For this week's Am Reading, we take a look at the Warhammer Chronicles trilogy The Rise of Nagash, by Mike Lee. I picked up this collection last year as preparatory reading for my new death-themed army. The background and lore is a huge part of the hobby for me — so much so that I often write entire novels to bring my collections to life — and a series digging into the Great Necromancer and the history of necromancy itself was a no-brainer. It should be said that I also have a long-lived interest in ancient Egypt and the Old World's geographic equivalent, Nehekhara, so the series had a lot going for it before I'd even turned the first page. What did I think? As deep dives into ancient Nehekharan culture, warfare, and religion go, the three novels in this series smash it. From the first few pages, I found myself drawn in by the setting and the details that bring it to life. The Nehekharans genuinely belief their gods fight with them on the battlefield, if only they uphold their covenant and make the ritual sacrifices necessary to invoke them: "Akhmen-hotep and the nobles of the great army gathered by the waters of the oasis, glittering in their martial finery, and offered up sacrifices to the gods. Rare incense was burned to win the favour of Phakth, the god of the sky and bringer of swift justice. Nobles cut their arms and bled upon the sands to placate great Khsar, god of the desert, and beg him to scourge the army of Khemri with his merciless touch. Young bullocks were brought stumbling up to Geheb's stone altar, and their lifeblood was poured out into shining bronze bowls that were then passed among the assembled lords. The nobles drank deep, beseeching the god to lend them his strength." And to all intents and purposes, their gods do fight with them, blessing the many priest kinds and cohorts of Ushabti bodyguard throughout the books with divine gifts befitting each god's realm of power. Having only known ushabti as animated temple constructs built by the Nehekharan's necrotects, it's fascinating (and quite inspiring) to read about the regiments of god-heroes who went on to inspire the creation of those statuary. It's small yet creative liberties like this that really bring the Nehekharan's living culture to life for me, across the first book in particular. Explored across two timelines in the books, Nagash's quest for dominance over all Nehekhara and the priest-kings' campaign against him form the driving force of the story, and I would've loved to read more about the characters we meet over the course of the series, perhaps at expense of some of the battle scenes, of which there are many. As well as the more character-driven parts of the story, I particularly enjoyed the way Lee explores the Nehekharan response to the undead, which is all the more horrifying for their beliefs in the sanctity of death and the afterlife. As a reader, I'm quite familiar with the concept of the undead as a Warhammer army and fantasy trope, but Nagash the Sorcerer offers us a glimpse of a people coming into contact with it for the very first time: "Something heavy crashed against the side of the chariot to the priest king's right [...] A terrible stink emanated from the attacker, and Akhmen-hotep smelled bitter blood and freshly ruptured bowels [...] It was one of the Usurper's tormented soldiers, clad only in a ragged, blood-stained kilt. Its chest was misshapen, having been crushed by the bronze-shod wheel of a chariot, and a spear point had torn open the warrior's cheek [...] Akhmen-hotep choked back a cry of horror. Nagash's unholy powers were far greater than he imagined. The dead rose from the bloodied earth to do his foul bidding!" My favourite thing about the book(s)?The epic trilogy offers a fascinating look at Nagash’s origins and the influences that shaped his rise to power, as well as his relationship with the vampires and all things undead. This is something that Games Workshop really seems to have run with in the Age of Sigmar setting ("All are one with the Great Necromancer") so I found it really interesting to see this theme play out here, so early into Nagash's story. The relationship between my vampire protagonist and his get, and in turn Nagash and my vampire protagonist, is central to the novel I'm currently drafting, and I gobbled up any and all inspiration I found across this series in relation to Nagash's control over the vampires and those touched by necromancy: W'soran made his way towards the king's dais. Hunched, growling figures paced him from the shadows along either side of the hall [...] Of course they served the Undying King [...] Every creature within sight of the great mountain, living or dead, likely bent its knee before Nagash's might. W'soran did so as well, falling onto his knees before the dais. Of course, my favourite character is W’soran. From the moment I learned that he featured as a PoV character in the series, I had ordered the omnibus. Lee does a wonderful job of capturing his character. As you might expect from the progenitor of a bloodline that goes on to become as reviled as the Necrarchs, some of the most affecting descriptions come not from W'soran but those of other characters observing him. (I'd love to share these here but I wouldn't want to spoil anything for you. Let's just say that long before W'soran's physical form one day degenerates into something you might recognise more immediately as a Necrarch now, there are aspects of his characterisation that inspire horror and awe even amongst his vampire lord equals.) If you have any questions about the book or you want to compare good ol' fashioned notes, drop me a message! Haven't read it yet? Order a copy, turn down the lights, and dive in...