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About Me

Found 19 results

  1. To paraphrase the Count himself, "Welcome to my thread. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring!" (I'd make a 'Nosferatu' quip but Orlok's not too big on dialogue...) As a new year breaks over Shyish, the Ancient One stirs in his tomb. For decades, his spirit has walked the Realm of Death's many underworlds, his physical remains sustained by a diet of dark magic. Unfettered from his cadaver, he has travelled far in his hunger for knowledge and secrets. Most souls are all too eager to share their stories. Others are doomed to repeat their final moments or strongest memories; the Ancient One need only watch. Even the dead want to be heard. Now his tower stirs again. Fell bats flock to the upmost turrets, crawling like lizards to rest in the rafters. Those humans and the other base creatures held in the laboratories huddle deeper in the shadows. Deep beneath even the duardins' old tunnels, rows of iron maidens rattle once more with madness and the crunch of mandibles. Acolytes long sequestered in their private quarters feel the Winds shift and look up with red eyes and trembling hands, helpless against their Master's will. While his carcass has withered in its casket, that will has grown fat on the words of the dead. Eyes glittering with the patience of one who cannot die, he has walked from the trackless forests of Necros to the howling deserts of Nulahmia seeking answers and learned much about the Mortal Realms in the process. Back in possession of his remains, he pushes aside the lid of his sarcophagus and emerges to record that knowledge, the secrets of the dead captured in crimson that he might reread them, refer back to them, draw pleasure from them all over again in his quest to understand them. For only in understanding them does he make them his own. And they will be his. The Ancient One is still waking, but as he does so, I'll share pictures of (and stories about) the finished things that crawl through the tower and make those tunnels their home. If you're interested in WIP stuff, you can find that in the Laboratory, in the Painting and Modelling forum. For things like inspiration and book reviews, I've also started a blog. Finally, if you're into Instagram, you can follow me at @brotherhoodofnecros. I hope this has captured your interest — I can't get enough of this crazy community. Thanks for following!
  2. “Ghyran, Realm of Life, home to the children of Alarielle, cries out in pain. Our once great glades wither under the march of the dead, a blight spreading outwards from the Ancient One’s host with each new moon. At the same time, life abundant seethes in the wake of the Foetid Fellows, the Bilespreader come again to his favourite playground. Our rangers rush to intercept both forces, prayers to the Goddess spilling from their lips even as they fall to the blades of their foes. Still they fight, dancing side-by-side with the dryads and the sylphs, their lives buying just enough time for the rest of the Emerald Eyrie to assemble. Soon, our clarion call will ring through the trees. The cycle of nature is broken. Balance must be restored.” * She emerged from between the trees and her light was like the coming of spring on a cold winter’s morning. Far below, the forest was a patchwork of withered glades and walking dead, but she had only eyes for the abomination sailing towards her on ragged wings and the entourage of monsters flapping in its wake. Here was the architect of the forest’s plight, the one for whom the puppets swarming below staggered and danced. Its unnatural presence rolled across her, a shadow over her soul, and then it crashed into the Green Finger. Rock crumbled. The mountainside shook. The delicate weave of life magic in which she hung rippled, sending shivers down her arms, and for one dizzying moment, she felt the nature of the creature and its blasphemous mount like poison through her veins. The once noble wyrm swung its head to regard her through eyes like amethystine marbles. Staring into them, she saw nothing. Then she was amongst it, the winds become pale flames under her touch, a prayer to the Goddess on her lips as she cast back the fell bats and turned her hands on the soulless monster in the saddle. Once more, the winds lurched. Though she couldn’t hear the creature over the gale, she could see its lips moving, and where her pale fire leapt, bolts of amethyst sprang forth to meet it. The monster’s gaze burned into her until she could not resist it. Her ears filled with the screams of the dying, her hair with the wordless roar of the wind. And the unblinking eyes that stared back at her from that long-dead face did so with the detached curiosity of a mortal about to pin and dissect a butterfly. Read more about Tale of Instahammer
  3. "From my rotting body, flowers shall grow, and I am in them, and that is eternity." Edvard Munch Apologies for the lack of updates recently. It's been a while, but then it's taken me a while to tackle this month's challenge. At the beginning of February, to align with Tales of Instahammer's Monster Month, I set myself the task of complete The Ancient One atop his zombie dragon. I'd be lying if I said it hasn't been a slog, but we've made it. Who is The Ancient One? (The lore) For decades, this vampire's spirit has walked the Realm of Death's many underworlds. Unfettered from his cadaver during bouts of deep sleep, he has travelled far in his hunger for knowledge and secrets. Most souls are all too eager to share their stories. Others are doomed to repeat their final moments or strongest memories; The Ancient One need only watch. Even the dead want to be heard. Now his tower stirs again. Fell bats flock to the upmost turrets, crawling like lizards to rest in the rafters. Those humans and the other base creatures held in the laboratories huddle deeper in the shadows. Deep beneath even the duardins' old tunnels, rows of iron maidens rattle once more with madness and the crunch of mandibles. Acolytes long sequestered in their private quarters feel the winds shift and look up with red eyes and trembling hands, helpless against their father's will. Back in possession of his remains, he pushes aside the lid of his sarcophagus and emerges into total darkness to record that knowledge, the secrets of the dead painted on reams of human skin that he might reread them, refer back to them, draw pleasure from them all over again in his quest to understand them. For only in understanding them does he make them his own. And they will be his. "I come back to myself slowly, and the visions of the dead come with me. They dance in the corners of my eyes as I reach out to drag the vast stone cover from before me, retracing steps they once learned in life or else writhing from base memories of a different kind. A select few of them I recognise, their features etched into my being, bound to me or my holdings until such a time as I deem otherwise. Others I might recall once I have woken properly. Most of them are as faceless to me as the dead in my dreams and just as immaterial." Dark Awakening, Ch. 1 Bringing The Ancient One to un-life You might recognise several of the parts used to convert The Ancient One and his mount. Much like his experiments, this vampire's model is made from a variety of different sculpts. At its base is the Tomb Kings Hierophant from the classic Casket of Souls set. There's a Spirit Host arm, an arm from the Warcry Beasts kit, several skulls from the Mortis Engine set, and a Terrorgheist with a Troglodon's head, which to my mind is super serpentine and draconic. The rest is Greenstuff. (Curious? Check out some WIP shots.) I think my favourite part is his gnarly expression, which I feel really captures the essence of the Necrarchs and the classic Vampire Counts artwork that has so inspired me. I hope you like him as much as I do. If so, I'd love to hear about it. Related read: Sunday Spotlight: The Acolytes Five Instagram: @brotherhoodofnecros
  4. "W'soran woke slowly, reluctantly. Eyelids as thin as parchment peeled back from dull orbs — one a grisly yellow, the other milky white and blind — even as thin, desiccated lips retreated from the thicket of needle fangs that occupied his mouth. The twin leathery slashes that were his nostrils flared, taking in the air instinctively. He smelled the effluvium of age, the cold, harsh stink of rock and the faintest odour of long-ago spilled blood." Here we go, people. As an avid (okay, obsessed) fan of all things Necrarch, this book promised to be the mother lode, exploring the background and lore of our bloodline as seen through the eyes of the father of the Necrarchs himself, W'soran the Wicked: W'soran, one of the first vampires and former pupil of the Great Necromancer Nagash, seeks to unravel the secrets of life and death. But his hunt for power is interrupted by a civil war in Mourkain, the mountain nation ruled by his former ally, Ushoran. Now W'soran must battle old friends and new enemies as he weaves a complex web of treachery and deceit in order to anoint himself the Master of Death... What did I think? How couldn't I love a story that brought both W'soran and perhaps the second-most-infamous Necrarch Melkhior together? As I've already mentioned in earlier reviews, what really captures my imagination and inspires me in Black Library's books isn't the (often generous) fighting or even the grimdark fantasy but the characters and their relationships. W'soran wouldn't be half as interesting without his scheming pupil, and Melkhior might seem motiveless if not for his father-in-death, ordering him about like the lackey he is. "Melkhior jerked back, surprised, his flat, black eyes gleaming in the sudden blaze of light and his monstrous features writhing in consternation. Melkhior looked akin to nothing so much as one of the great bats of the deep dark, squeezed and twisted into a mockery of human shape." Ticking away at the back of the reader's mind is the knowledge we have as gamers and fans of the established background of how this unvoiced conflict plays out. Josh knows this, and his solution is both satisfying and fiendishly in-character — I was cackling when I realised what had happened. Of course, the book also explores W'soran's relationship with his peers and (dare I say) equals in the form of Neferata and Ushoran. The book does a great job of painting that picture, helping the reader to understand, if not justify, W'soran's actions and motives and build up a relationship of their own with him. "Even now, after everything that had happened he still felt it, burning in his gut like a slow poison. The need, not for blood or to feel the life of squirming prey ebb from twitching meat, but for — what? — respect, perhaps? Acknowledgement, certainly; the admission of his superiority by those who dared to call themselves his peers." The story continues on from Neferata and the exploits of Ushoran in Mourkain, so if you enjoyed that one, you'll want to give this a read. My favourite thing about the book? There's a moment, deep beneath the mountains, when Melkhior introduces W'soran to something he has found buried in the dark. I won't quote it as it will spoil that moment for you but the reverence and awe that W'soran experiences, standing in its presence, is quite moving and does justice to a creature so often flaunted in fantasy novels without due respect for its sheer size or majesty. Look out for it. Haven't read it yet? Order a copy, turn down the lights, and dive in... Related read: Am Reading: Neferata: The Blood of Nagash Am Reading: The Rise of Nagash Tales #1: The Withering
  5. 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
  6. 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
  7. “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...
  8. 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
  9. "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
  10. "With a gesture, my wailing attendants dissipate, revealing a slew of previously unheard sounds: the scrape of leather on stone, the flutter of robes caught in the wind and a quiet scratching, which could as readily belong to claws scrabbling at rock or the dutiful drag of nibs across parchment. Their aroma betrays them; turning from the bruised skyline, I watch while the brotherhood assembles around me, crawling like the great bats of the Blood Wastes into the tower’s belfry..." Dark Awakening, Ch. 1 Blood Knights don’t immediately marry with the Necrarch theme but they’re a mainstay Soulblight unit, so a little conversion work was in order to breathe (un)life into these classic Vampire Counts (and a stray Tomb Kings) sculpts. For my first Sunday Spotlight, here’s a group shot of the Acolytes Five. Gifted the Soulblight Curse by a son of the Ancient One, even these lowly get are but extensions of his implacable will. Be it battle, reconnaissance, sermon or ritual, they enact his commandments unfailingly, for he is all things to them: Master, Teacher, High Priest, Father, and who are they to disappoint him, after all he has done for them, after all he promises to do? Keep your eyes peeled (!) for individual spotlights over the coming weeks.
  11. I love reading. I love horror. I love Warhammer. You can imagine my face when I 'calmly unwrapped' a present on Christmas morning and found this beauty staring back at me. Black Library's new Warhammer Horror line caught my eye from the very first newsletter, but Maledictions was my first chance to check it out up close. (You should see the size of my TBR pile — now that's horror.) More than anything else, I was intrigued to find out how BL was positioning these stories, in terms of distinguishing them from the hundreds of other, often horrifying, tales set across their various universes. Horror comes in so many flavours already — which of those were BL identifying with, and were they frightening? Interestingly, they went right ahead and called this out in the first sentence of the blurb: Horror is no stranger to the dark worlds of Warhammer. Its very fabric is infested with the arcane, the abnormal and the downright terrifying. From the cold vastness of the 41st millennium to the creeping evil at large in the Mortal Realms, this anthology of short stories explores the sinister side of Warhammer in a way like never before. Psychological torment, visceral horrors, harrowing accounts of the supernatural and the nightmares buried within, this collection brings together a grim host of tales to chill the very blood... With everything from 'psychological torment' and 'visceral horrors' to the 'supernatural' mentioned, I was fully expecting a Quality Street approach the styles and flavours of horror contained within. (Shotgun the purple hazelnut.) Boxing Day was the perfect opportunity to stick the kettle on and sink my teeth into the book. (Anything but more turkey...) What did I think? I wasn't disappointed. The collection opened with a strong entry in 'Nepenthe' by Cassandra Khaw, and my eyes lit up when I read the words 'space hulk' beside one another — a real Ghost of Christmas Past, reminding me of what must have been one of my first impressions of Warhammer as a small child (a time when I saw Genestealers as nothing more than purple space aliens — ignorance is bliss!) True to its word, horror comes in all kinds of varieties, with the distinguishing take (for me) being the emphasis on the character and emotion of more relatable protagonists over the God-level special characters and epic battles we often see in BL's traditional lines. We're looking out at the world through the eyes of widows in small fishing towns and sewer guards lost in the dark, even a young dryad, witnessing the horror of battle for the first time. There are twists aplenty, serving to bring the reader back to the true horrors being explored across the stories, and an attention to the darker side of realms, races, and settings that are perhaps overshadowed by Chaos and Death in the mainstream narrative. "I smashed the collection in a couple of days. Between Christmas dinners, bottles of rum, and an excruciating game of family Monopoly, that says everything it needs to about how much I enjoyed Maledictions." My favourite story? The one that's really stuck in my head is 'A Darksome Place' by BL legend Josh Reynolds. I won't spoil it for you but it ticked a lot of boxes for me — the atmosphere, the mystery, the revelation (which wasn't over-explained, preserving much of the strangeness and wonder while giving just enough away to produce that 'aha!' moment), and some beautifully descriptive writing meant this one planted some firm roots in my mind. 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...
  12. “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
  13. "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
  14. Sooo... That was Faster than I anticipated I got a little gung-ho this weekend. With only one day off I decided that I needed to get something done, and set out to try figuring out my army schemes. I think I have done that! It started with Two models I have had forever. An old Vampire Countess model, and the newer (though still before round bases) Wight King. These models are so fantastic, and full of character. The old countess is a Metal model, and in the last few years of playing Infinity, I've learned a lot better how to prep and care for these metal minis. Unfortunately for myself, this was in the dark times. I'd built and painted this countess before I knew about filing, and real trimming, and heck, even before basing and priming, so I had some cleanup to do. I love this model to death, but I'd done a fair bit of damage to it over the years, and as such i knew it'd be the perfect "test model" for the death army. It went pretty well, and I was excited enough to strip my old wight king, and take a stab at him as well, to really nail down the palette before I moved on to skellies, and the mortarchs, and zombie dragon. (this stuff has been a grey tide for far too long) I'm still not certain how I'm going to apply this to the skellies, but I'll be taking a stab at this, over the next week (I hope) on the buttload of mantic skeletons I have, and I'm hoping to perhaps work on the black knights and Hexwraiths and perhaps the spirit hosts over the week. we will see! As for the stormcast, I went gangbusters, and got all of them coated in leadbelcher, washed black, and drybrushed Runfang steel, which will help me bust through a whole bunch of minis faster. I then decided to work on my Retributors. I went with a sort of jade and cream look, and was inspired by a video I saw a while back to paint thier hammers in marble. I really enjoyed this effect and will certainly be continuing it throughout the army! now for the pictures! please excuse the phone camera pics, I'm pretty sure they aren't great, but they'll give somewhat of an idea of what was accomplished! so. next week will be busy. I'll be at my sister's wedding, so I don't know how much time I will have to hobby. hopefully enough to get some more stuff moving! thanks for paying attention, anyone who has, and I'll see you next week!
  15. Hi, new here but been under te same name on Carpe Noctum for years. Greetings to all my fellow death players!
  16. So I've finished off the leader the Glade Lord turned Vampire, pretty happy with the results but there's things I'd of done differently. Tried roc stick to a limited palette but alter my usually muted style by pushing my highlights lighter and attempted to get a monotone finish. C&C welcome.
  17. Here is the Black Coach I painted for my Death army. I was surprised to see that the Black Coach is no longer a vampire, although that is fine with me since the "Black Coach" historically is not associated with vampires. I, like many others, am not a fan of Finecast so I looked for the metal coach on Ebay and found one for half the price of the Finecast one. I'm happy with the overall appearance of it. I didn't want to use colors that were normally seen on the Black Coach, besides black obviously, so I went with yellow robes for the wraith and dirty white for the lace curtains.
  18. Vlad von Carstein - SCGT 2016
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