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"They came in a shattering impact. Thunder and lightning rang from the center of our camp. All was quiet for a moment as we turned and saw a crackling dome of light fade into the air. From that dome came no sound, then the terrible roar of bolters. The bolts slammed into men near me, turning them into mere memories of living beings. Limbs sprang from torsos, heads disappeared. The firepower was well targeted in taking down our heavy weapons first, then moving on to the company bannermen and musicians. After the first shots came a new sound- the heavy tramp of armored feet and the teeth-grating buzz of power armor...but both were deeper than those I've experienced before in the company of the Emperor's Angels. They were seen then. Massive forms, more hunched and cumbersome power armor, clad in ebony and steel. Crimson wings and steel blades adorned their armor, and they moved without a single battle cry. No noise came from them aside from those of weapons and impact. They tore through our command squad and the Commissariat special forces. Lasblasts did nothing, power weapons were turned aside and blunted. These...monsters silently destroyed everything around them. I've fought beside our Astartes and against those of traitorous bent, in every battle there were oaths sworn and orders roared. Even the Enemy's forces spoke in blasphemous words, that were later removed from my soul by the confessors and others of your like. Not these men, if men they truly were. That was the most sinister thing of all, for even when one took a lascannon shot to his belly and was cored out like a grox he didn't make a single sound. I hope to never see their like again." -- Demi-Lieutenant Sigfur bon Friell, XIIth Davoi Blue-Korp, aftermath of the raid of Agri-Station Pilla. Report sanctioned by Inquisitorial Warrant. Squad Belgor The Suriel are a remnant of the Forgotten's more noble past. An order of fallen knights, now sworn to silence. Their skill in battle is well-maintained, for they are used as a hammer to crack any resistance to the Forgotten's plans. Teleporting into the midst of the enemy, the Suriel use their ancient Terminator armor to shrug off blows that would kill even other Astartes and coldly slay in a voiceless flurry of bolt, blade, and fist. Those wishing to join the elite brotherhood are taken before the Grand Master of the Forgotten, Beleth of Caliban. His heavy sword pierces their chest as oaths are recited and burning brands applied. Ritual stitches are sown through their lips and oath-papers affixed. The new brother's armor, created from that which was the dead and that which was taken, is bathed in clear water while he dons each piece. Then, ripping through the stitches mere moments from his helmet covering him, he speaks his last words. Squad Furlac "Forgotten we may be. Forgotten our lives were. Forgotten the crimes against us will never be. Vengeance is my purpose. Justice for our dead. Loyalty above all. I am the nameless, the voiceless. I am of the Suriel. Let the world mourn, for a new chapter has come." Squad Varcan

Hello and thank you for looking at this little blog. It will be about my Forgotten, a Heresy-era Dark Angels force that has taken a bit of a journey to become what it now is- a Chaos Marine force in a local Nachmund Gauntlet Crusade campaign. This first entry is most likely to be the most boring, with no pics or lore or gameplay, just a winding story of how the force came to be. So, if you aren't interested in the self-indulgent personal history digression of a middle-aged hobbyist, feel free to pass on and wait until I get up some more entertaining content (no judgement). I'm currently forty years old, and started up 40k/wargaming in my early teens. Like many other players, my first models were Space Marines and for years I had an ever-growing collection of them. I was also young and dumb, so wound up becoming fairly obsessive in my hobby and began to buy up every "army of the month", sinking a lot of money into various boxes (whatever the equivalent to Combat Patrols were back in 3rd/4th ed) that got built but never painted. In fact, I don't think I ever had a full painted army in the first eight or so years in which I started the hobby. Anyway, I married my wife in my early twenties (around the beginning/middle of 4th ed I think) and realized that the hobby was too much of addictive obsession that was getting out of control; I decided to quit and got rid of almost all of my 40k stuff. Roughly $5k worth of stuff (probably something like triple/quadruple the value now) of models, books, and equipment were summarily thrown out or put into a box and forgotten about. Fast forward ten-ish years (roughly 2016-2017). I had stayed somewhat in the hobby space, reading the occasional BL novel and playing some of the various video games, but considered myself more of a PC/console gamer than wargamer anymore (was heavily involved in EVE Online and MWO). I was getting burnt out with PC gaming though, had recently stopped playing both of my big games and was looking for another diversion. I work night shift, so have quite a lot of time to research/read/do my own thing when work calms down and nothing happens- a coworker noticed me reading a BL novel and asked if I played. Chatting with him, I felt the urge to get back into the hobby. Rummaging around in my basement, I found a box that contained quite a bit of old SM stuff that had survived my purge and so I dug out some models. The HH rulebooks had just dropped, so I read through them and decided to create a force of Dark Angels, which were the Legion that I had liked for a long time. So I created my Dark Angels force, from the remnants of an old army and a lot of random eBay bit lots purchases/3rd party. I wasn't yet playing again, but the impetuous was there and I had begun to paint. After a year or so I had something like a 5k points worth army of painted DA, quite a bit of it magnetized, that was looking ok and I felt the need to start playing again. Then 8th ed 40k came out and I had another work buddy ask me if I wanted to play, so I left the HH sphere and made the Forgotten: a time-warped force of Heresy-era DA that were deployed to reinforce the Unforgiven in their fight against Chaos. My Dark Angels weren't really up to snuff in 8th ed, being worse than Primaris marines and not having quite the firepower needed to compete. So, they were regretfully put to the side as I began some different armies- Knights, Necrons, eventually a Primaris SM army. I had always loved my Forgotten, but they just weren't really something that worked on the battlefield for me, so they became more of a display army that I was proud of completing even if I didn't play them anymore. My hobby/gaming journey continued, as I attended some more competitive tournaments as a player and began to TO for a local store in small, 16-man tournaments myself. The tournaments I ran/run tend to be pretty casual, as the local scene isn't really competitive and I'm more interested in having the hobby grow/everyone have an enjoyable experience. There are plenty of more competitive tournaments/organizations close to us, but our local area is just not a strong one for competition. About two months ago I was at the end of a local store's grow league- playing my Imperial Agents/Inquisition themed army that got totally destroyed continually (but was fun because it is a great way to introduce new players to the game). Another player came up to me and asked if I wanted to join a crusade campaign he was going to start up. I'm always down for some more gaming, so I said yes even though the last time I had looked at crusade rules was maybe early 9th edition. So, I pick up the Nachmund Gauntlet book and got to learning what Crusade was and how it played out- turns out Nachmund had sort of Grand Alliances that piled together to fight for specific areas, rather than each individual army fighting for just itself. Then I got a message from the Arbitrator (necromunda term, but appropriate), who asked me if I had a Chaos army to play with. He wanted at least one experienced player to be each alliance's Warmaster and I was one of the most experienced players in the campaign. He was repping the Xenos faction and another experienced crusade player had Imperials, so wondered if I could handle Chaos. Now, I have a few armies, but not one that was really considered Chaos.... but I did have the Forgotten. So I said sure, I'll do Chaos and here we are. The Forgotten have now become Fallen, bitter veterans of a thousands-year long campaign against an Imperium that forgot their sacrifices and turned them into the enemy of convenience. They are uncorrupted by the Chaos powers, sustained by their hate and resentment.

+++ INTRODUCTION +++ The Defence of Dakota Minor was a series of conflicts in 884M41, that saw the Imperium defending the Matteus Subsector’s primary food provider against invaders. With only a token battlefleet and planetary defence force to protect it, Dakota Minor was expected to fall to the invaders in less than three months. Fortunately, intervention by local Astra Militarum regiments and the Adeptus Astartes saw the invasion quelled and the planet secured for the Imperium. The first theatre of conflict was the defence of the city Dakota Primus, culminating with the last stand in the city's centre known as the Bastion. The "Forge Brethren" (Salamanders 5th Company, 5th Tactical Squad) hold ground against an Ork onslaught, as the DMDC soldiers continue their withdrawal. +++ THE LAST STAND AT THE BASTION +++ Despite the assistance of the Salamanders, the Imperials could not stop the numerous Orks' advance through the city. What had worked against the Orks was the narrowing of passages and blockage of easy-access routes toward the city centre, preventing their vehicles from going further. Driven by impatience and the chase of the good fight, the greenskins contently abandoned their vehicles and proceeded on foot. Ork invaders proceed on foot through the narrowed passages towards the Bastion, leaving their scrap-vehicles behind. The Bastion - Day 54 to 63 The Imperial forces rallied at the Bastion, the heart of Dakota Primus. They prepared for what would be the Ork's final assault, knowing that defeat would ensure Ork control of the city. Imperial elements were positioned at key points in or around the Bastion: defending infrastructure, guarding cilivian shelters or establishing kill-zones in alleyways. The Salamanders continued to distribute their forces amongst the Imperial forces, sometimes only one per DMDC platoon or at most a non-contiguous combat squad. Salamanders and DMDC forces defend the entrance to civilian shelter "N5". The first few days saw numerous skirmishes and probing attacks against the Imperial defences. Slowly but surely the defenders were wittled down, either slain at their posts or forced to withdraw in a staggered manner. Even the Adeptus Astartes were overwhelmed by the onslaught; their genetic enhancements were no matter for the Ork's weight of numbers. As such, they too joined the DMDC soldiers in their withdrawal. Little did the Imperials know that the Orks had in fact exhausted the bulk of their own forces attempting to penetrate the city. Realising that they had overextended themselves, the Warboss fled the city with his deffkopta fleet to rearm and rally the remaining Orks at their Rok landing site. Thousands of overly excited Orks and gretchin were left behind, with nowhere left to go but forward. The Final Stand - Day 64 The Emperor and His Angels are watching. Let none of us be found wanting! For Dakota Minor! For the Emperor! - Lord-Governor Hastings Freeman addressing the DMDC soldiers on the Bastion’s paraphets. By the sixty-fourth day, the Imperial defenders were pushed to the base of the Bastion's centre spire. The Salamanders had lost few of their own, but the DMDC's casualties were significant and few remained to defend the spire. To make up the shortfall, Lord-Governor Freeman ordered the various labour guilds and unions to be pressed into service. Thousand of Imperial citizens who had spend their entire life as farmers, labourers and fertiliser producers took up lasguns in defence of their world. Able men and women of the Agri-Labour League (left, centre) and the AmSul Cooks (right), needed to take up arms against the final Ork push. With gleeful abandon, the Orks launched their assault knowing it would be their last great fight. The Salamanders were conditioned for the assault, but with boltguns and flamers running empty they struggled to hold the enemy back. The DMDC soldiers and citizen militia fought back with lasgun and bayonet, but man-to-Ork they were still inferior fighters. In short time, the Imperials were engulfed by greenskins; even the Lord-Goveror and the DMDC command staff were surrounded. Captain R'Keth and Lord-Governor Freeman, along with the remaining Imperial defenders, make their last stand at the Bastion. It was then that intervention of another kind arrived on Dakota Minor. On the same day, reinforcements hailing from the Asokan Rifles and Sartorian Rangers had arrived in orbit. Tens of thousands of soldiers grav-chuted into the city to support the beleaguered defenders of Dakota Primus. The jubilant Orks were undeterred, but still were bested by the superior and freshly supplied firepower. With the battle now tilted in the other direction, the Imperials began coordinated efforts to push the Orks out of the city centre, and continue on to sweep the outer hive districts and destroy any remaining Ork presence. It would take another one-hundred-and-thirty days before the city was declared "Ork-free". +++ AFTERMATH AND LEGACY +++ The reprieve provided by the Sartorian Rangers and Asokan Rifles allowed the remaining defenders to rally and push the Orks out of the city and back into the Adatok Wastelands. Captain R'Keth convened with the human leadership and emphasised the need to maintain momentum to ensure the Orks' total defeat. With their combined might, the Imperial forces began their counter-attack to destroy the xenos invaders and stop the invasion. By the end of the war, it was estimated that thirty-seven percent of the city was destroyed or damaged; it would take six decades until it was rebuild to its original state. The battle of Dakota Primus would become a integral part of the city's culture. The Imperial victory imbued a newfound pride and confidence in the local populace, and created many tales of heroism, defiance and His Angels' interventions. Most notably, pict-recordings of Lord-Governor Freeman combating the Orks would be used for propaganda profusely for decades to come. One of many propaganda posters featuring Lord-Governor Freeman during the battle for Dakota Primus. +++ ARTICLE CONTINUES IN PART IV +++

I bought this Pegasus Hobbies piece years ago. I painted it in basic gray colors and used it in a few dozen games. Last year, I and a comrade decided to level it up. I hope you like it. The original building had an open top. This was covered in plasticard. A building from Age of Sigmar was added. Then texture paste and some random bits were added to the rooftop. The model got a new coat of paint followed by a heavy wash. I can't remember if it was Nuln or Agrax Earthshade. A sponge was used to apply more texture. Rust effects were added. Finished work Game pictures BTW, some folks really went to town with this kit building a large table centerpiece. I have no idea how many kits they used. Thanks for looking.

I have a lot of scouts. Here are two of the squads using the current models. Thanks for looking.

Going through the closet and took some photos of these models. Most of these are 3rd edition though there may be some older models scattered within. Models painted within a month of release (and it shows). I much prefer plastic. Asurmen Banshees Dark Reapers Fire Dragons

A quick look at my Forgotten Crusade force. As of now (4/21) we are in our fourth week of Phase 1 of the Nachmund Campaign, about to go to Phase 2, each phase being four weeks. I don't intend to add anything to this force, as we are doing a growing-style crusade with increasing points limits (1k/1k/1.25/1.25/1.5/1.5, etc..) going up to 2k for the start of phase 3. Unless something changes and we go beyond the 2k, I think I'm good at where I'm at, but you never know... Total Crusade Supply Point Limit - 2250 Used Supply Limit - 2250 Crusade Force Characters Xaphan the Castigator - 3x Dark Apostle (75pts): Bolt pistol, Accursed crozius, 2x Close combat weapon The Eligor - Chaos Lord in Terminator Armour (95pts): Combi-weapon, Exalted weapon Sar Ornias - Master of Executions (80pts): Axe of dismemberment, Bolt pistol Cypher (90pts): Cypher's bolt pistol, Cypher's plasma pistol Battleline Squad Hamaliel - 5x Legionaries (90pts): Bolter, 4x Bolt pistol, 2x Heavy melee weapon, 3x Chainsword Other Datasheets Squad Belgor - 5x Chaos Terminator Squad (180pts): Reaper autocannon, 4x Combi-bolter, Accursed weapon, Chainfist, 3x Powerfist Squad Furlac - 5x Chaos Terminator Squad (180pts): Reaper autocannon, 4x Combi-bolter, Accursed weapon, Chainfist, 3x Powerfist Squad Varcan - 5x Chaos Terminator Squad (180pts): Heavy flamer, 4x Combi-bolter, Chainfist, 4x Accursed Weapon Squad Urial - 5x Chosen (125pts): Icon, 2x Combi-weapon, 3x Boltgun, 2x Plasma pistol, 3x Bolt Pistol, 5x Accursed weapon Squad Neferus - 5x Chosen (125pts): Icon, 2x Combi-weapon, 3x Boltgun, 2x Plasma pistol, 3x Bolt Pistol, Powerfist, 4x Accursed weapon Squad Abalim - 5x Havocs (125pts): Plasmagun, 4x Lascannon, Powerfist, 4x Close combat Weapon Squad Kushiel - 5x Havocs (125pts): Plasmagun, 3x Heavy bolter, Missile Launcher, Chainsword, 4x Close combat Weapon Squad Xelith - 5x Raptors (90pts): 3x Plasma pistol, 2x Bolt pistol, Powerfist, 4x Chainsword Squad Rafael - 3x Chaos Bikers (70pts): Icon, 3x Combi-bolter, 2x Meltagun, 3x Chainsword Squad Tellan - 3x Chaos Bikers (70pts): Icon, 3x Combi-bolter, 2x Meltagun, 3x Chainsword Sauriel - Chaos Predator Destructor (140pts): Armoured tracks, Havoc launcher, Predator autocannon, Combi-bolter, 2x Lascannon Mestema - Helbrute (130pts): Close combat weapon, Helbrute fist with combi-bolter, Twin lascannon Morax - Helbrute (130pts): Close combat weapon, Missile launcher, Twin lascannon Dedicated Transports Urval - Chaos Rhino (75pts): Armoured tracks, 2x Combi-bolter, Havoc launcher Gambriel - Chaos Rhino (75pts): Armoured tracks, 2x Combi-bolter, Havoc launcher Current Crusade Battle Honors Xaphan - Fleet of Foot Trait, Conversion Field Relic Squad Belgor - Grim Survivors Trait Squad Urial - Trusted Hounds Trait, Hate-Fueled Butchers Trait Squad Neferus - Fleet of Foot Trait, Hate-Fueled Butchers Trait Squad Abalim - Despoilers Without Mercy Trait Squad Xelith - Stealthy Arrival Trait, Take to the Skies Trait Squad Rafael - Cavalry Outriders (Lost via Devastating Blow against Votann) Squad Tellan - Evasive General Gameplan/Tactics I'm running Renegades and Raiders from the CSM book, so every ranged weapon is Assault and I get +1 AP vs targets on objectives. It is a very, very aggressive detachment and kind of not how I normally play things, but I like it and it has been really fun to ram Bikes and Chosen at the enemy. Both Chosen squads (Xaphan w/Urial) getting Fleet of Foot is extremely helpful, as it allows them to re-roll Advance rolls, do Actions even if they have Advanced, and can't be Overwatched if they have Advance that turn. So they are extremely fast for infantry and can do pretty much everything while Advancing with their natural Advance and Charge rules. Truly *chef's kiss*, of a pair of units. They've been my main source of scoring in the games, as they will run up and do actions, or provide a distraction for the bikes/raptors to do actions. For those of you that haven't looked at Nachmund Gauntlet, you should. It is a very interesting take on how to play the game, primarily with two mechanics- Tactical Reserves and Surgical Deep Strikes. These will be implemented for my Crusade starting in Phase 2 (we have a lot of new players so wanted to ease them into regular games before changing it up) and I'm looking forward to it! There is also a ban on the Rapid Ingress strat, though there is a Trait to give it. Tactical Reserves: Instead of deploying your army like normal and putting various units in Strategic Reserves, Nachmund splits up your army into Waves, one Primary and a minimum of 2 Reinforcement Waves (though you can have 3 if you want). Deployment is done by placing all your Primary Wave on the battlefield (no placing anything in Reserve). Then Turn 2 you bring in one of your Reinforcement Waves during your Movement Phase (just like with normal Strategic Reserves, including Deep Strikers). Turn 3 you choose another Reinforcement Wave and deploy it- your remaining Reinforcement Wave, if you have one, is not used for the battle. For each point limit, you have 3 stances that you can choose from, these will change the points limits of your waves. Alpha stance places more points in Reinforcement and less into Primary, Beta places points "evenly", and Gamma does the opposite of Alpha by placing more points into the Primary Wave. For 1k it would be this Alpha (P- 400pt, R- 300pts), Beta (P- 500, R- 250), Gamma (P- 600, R-200). So you will play your full points amount with the Primary and both required Reinforcement Waves, but for the most options it is good to have a third wave so you can possibly choose a group more likely to help. You do have the option of putting your Reinforcement units closer than 9" to an enemy unit in your Deployment Zone, but those models can't be placed in Engagement, must be placed with 1" of your battlefield edge, and are automatically Battle-shocked. Tactical Reserves is basically a mandatory use of Strategic Reserves but with some twists. My example Tactical Reserves is this (for 1500pts, Beta Stance - P-700, R- 400); Primary Wave composed of Xaphan and Chosen, Cypher, Havocs (dependent on enemy whether anti-tank or infantry), both Bike squads, and the Predator (695pts). I have Wave A (370pts) with Sar Ornias and Legionnaires in a Rhino, and the second Chosen Squad. Wave B (365pts) is the Eligor and Terminators plus the Raptor Squad. Wave C (385pts) is both Helbrutes and the second Havoc squad. So, the basic gameplan is to deploy the primary fairly aggressively with Xaphan and the Chosen posed to Advance with the bikes either supporting or flanking depending on enemy/Agendas (like Secondaries), with the Havocs and Predator holding the backline. Then I'll bring in Wave A in turn 2, the Legionnaires and Chosen used to support my first wave and get into decent flanking positions. Turn 3 is where I have the real decision to make- if the game is going ok, I'll bring in Wave B for Deep Strike shenanigans and objective grabbing, but if I'm losing badly then it's time to hole up and bring in Wave C so that I can try to do as much damage as possible to the enemy. Surgical Deep Strike: A once per turn ability. One Deep Strike unit can now set it up at 3" away from enemies, rather than 9. However, there is a 2d6 test to do this and each enemy model within 9" of your unit gives out a -1 modifier to the test (excluding units with 0 OC or Battle-shocked). On the test, 4+ and you're all good. 3+ your unit takes a Battle-shock test. 2+ your unit is Battle-shocked. 1 or below, not good- you roll on a d6 Mishap table that starts off at getting d3 Mortal Wounds and Battle-shocked, and it goes up to d6 Mortal Wounds, Battle-shocked, and the unit cannot Shoot or declare a Charge that turn. So it can be a powerful ability to set up a unit fairly close to the enemy, but you have to balance that out with the possible downsides. I have a feeling that my Terminators will be doing this mostly, but only to get a 1/2" advantage on charge rolls and hopefully not taking more than a -3 penalty on the test. We'll see how it goes!

Hi folks, A small update for my AdMech force with the addition of two new mages. The ones prevuously teased for their weapon swap and limited customization. These lads complete my coterie of Technomagii, with a grand total of 3 Manipulus and 2 Dominus (plus an Abeyant used as count as). It is therefore a full mobilization, 3oo3 for each entry. The Manipulus shows some (very) subtle colour changes with my rpevious models, not only because of the weapon swaps and torsiona cannon added, but also for the green instead of bluish fluid flowing on top of its caparacionned armour. The Dominus is a more conventional model. Nothing too fancy here. While painting it I realized that it is in my opinion the worse model of the whole AdMech range. Not that I am a big fan of the Kastelans, but this slim daddy is really not the most appealing for me. Anyway, I still have some models to add to the cybernetic army: 3 Sulphur hounds, 5 Pteraxii and 5 Sicarians. The main question for me atm is how to set the SIcarians: i) increase my existing infiltrators to 10 or set a 5 men stron ruststalker unit... Hum, time for reflexion.... See you soon.

The resistance outpost bustled with quiet activity. Low voices traded logistical updates, ration tallies, vehicle status reports. Jagiełło stood at the centre of it, near a long table littered with half-folded maps and dataslates. But when the coded chime of his personal vox-bead crackled in his ear, he stepped away without a word, moving toward a corner where the shadows gathered near the storage crates. He pressed a finger to the side of his jaw. "Fennec. Report." Silence for a heartbeat. Then the faintest murmur buzzed in his ear. Jagiełło listened, unmoving, his face unreadable. "Continue tracking," he said quietly. "No interference unless the conditions we discussed are met." More soft static. His eyes narrowed, though his tone remained level. "I understand. Do not lose him." He tapped the channel closed, then remained still for a few seconds longer, considering. Behind him, the soft hum of the outpost resumed — muted conversations, the clatter of ration tins, the grinding whine of an engine being coaxed back to life. Jagiełło returned to the table, eyes flicking once to the maps, then further — westward, where the desert stretched toward the coordinates that still glimmered in his thoughts. He said nothing to the others, but the wheels had begun to turn. ----- The mess hall was its usual haze of low voices and worn familiarity — the scent of the last meal still lingering, mingling with the faint aroma of old leather and the sharp tang of cheap detergent. My squad clustered around a battered metal table, sharing plates of ration stew and whatever passed for bread in this corner of the desert. I poked at mine, appetite hollow. The vox operator’s headset crackled, pulling me from my thoughts. He leaned toward me. “Sir—it's Jagiełło.” The words stiffened my spine. I took the handset without hesitation. “This is the 280th.” The line buzzed faintly, but Jagiełło’s voice came through, low and controlled. I kept my replies clipped. “Understood. This evening. Two Chimeras, 312 and 376.” I flicked a glance at the squad, catching Laska’s smirk as she toyed with her meal. “Yes, sir,” I continued. “Engineers and demo specialists attached. Proceeding to the coordinates.” More static. I nodded out of habit. “We’ll be ready.” The line went dead. I set the handset down, standing to address the squad. “Change of plans. We’re moving out tonight.” A few groans, but no surprise. They’d seen worse. “Armoury. Now. We’re kitting up for a long haul.” Laska leaned back, grinning. “Guess I won’t get to spend the evening with my first love after all.” A few chuckles circled the table, and a groan from Krystan. “Laska, no one wants to hear about you and that spanner.” I allowed a tight smile. I wasn’t about to ruin what little levity we could muster. In the armoury, the squad moved with purpose. They might have joked, but every one of them checked weapons, recharged power packs, and inspected their armour. Flamethrowers, grenade launchers, and extra charge packs were distributed. The engineers huddled near the far wall, fussing over tool kits and breaching charges. I double-checked the requisition sheets, making sure everything matched up. It wasn’t perfect — but it was done right. As we stepped out into the chill of the evening, the desert sky beginning to turn the colour of bruised steel, the Chimeras idled at the loading ramp. Their hulls were dulled and pitted, but ready. “Mount up!” I barked, louder than I needed to. The squad shuffled toward the vehicles. I muttered under my breath, “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

After donning his suit of Terminator armor, Grand Master Wilhelmina De Sonnec of the 2nd Brotherhood of Grey Knights met with Ordo Malleus Inquisitor Sasha Rork for a morning meal. ”We have a long day ahead of us, so please have some nourishment, Grand Master,” requested Inquisitor Rork. ”yes , ma’am,” replied Grand Master De Sonnec. Inquisitor Rork briefed Grand Master De Sonnec on the plans of the day. Routine patrol of important areas with the walls of the City from the luxury of an Inquisitorial Land Raider “Big Red”. And ending back at the Inquisitorial Stronghold. A women in her late 20’s appeared, her long black hair was done up in a bun, her helmet showing the skull war paint on the face mask, signify her as veteran of Langham 13th Inquisitorial Forces. Her armored combat uniform showed her rank as a Lieutenant. At her hip was a holstered plasma pistol and her knife. ”Inquisitor Rork, ma’am. I am Lieutenant Telly,I am here to escort you and your guest on a tour for threat assessment.” she said. “Thank you Lieutenant. We are ready to go.” Inquisitor Rork replied. The day was overcast and had a slight drizzle, the vid screens kept an Inquisitor Rork and Grand Master De Sonnec dry and for the most part warm. Occasionally on the patrol, Inquisitor Rork and Grand Master De Sonnec would disembark for various reasons, such as checking the Planetary Governor’s palace or at the least one in the area. Or when they stopped to meet with an area commander. The final stop was meeting with the Inquisitorial soldiers in a bunker in the city. After a brief visit, with a Captain Andres of the Langham 13th. Inquisitor Rork and Grand Master De Sonnec returned to the Inquisitorial Stronghold.

The wind tore at them as the Valkyrie dropped into the canyon, its engines shrieking against the tight walls. Dust and gravel whipped into the air, reducing the world to a swirling maelstrom outside the armoured glass of the troop compartment. Kasnyk stood, swaying with the turbulence, one gloved hand gripping a restraint overhead as he stared through the side viewport. The canyon was exactly as it had been described in the geological surveys — a deep scar in the desert, sheer cliffs of wind-scoured stone, peppered with outcroppings and the occasional stubborn succulent clinging to life. At its base, mostly swallowed by the rock, sat the bunker, hunched against the cliff face like some ancient fossil. The hatch clanged open the moment the skids touched down. Kasnyk descended first, boots crunching on the gravel-strewn floor. The air was dry, still, and carried the faint smell of scorched metal and explosive residue. The valley’s towering walls threw long shadows despite the midday sun. Behind him, Aleksy Klimek and four other members of the investigation team followed. The two Valkyrie crewmen remained aboard, engines hot and ready. Kasnyk liked the pilots well enough — competent, quiet — but he had no intention of taking their opinions on what he was about to find. Kasnyk advanced towards the battered bunker entrance. The blast had left a wide, irregular gap, jagged metal edges curling outward. As he crossed the threshold, his monocle flickered to life without prompting, overlaying faint data across his vision. STATUS: Breach Confirmed Explosive Residue: Detected Material Composition: Standard Siege Charge Timestamp Estimate: <48 hours> Kasnyk nodded to himself. His boots kicked up a layer of dust as he entered. Within, the bunker felt cavernous and oppressive, its empty corridors swallowing sound. The only noises were those of his team spreading out, the creak of gear, and the rasp of their breathing. Rows of vehicles flanked their path — tarpaulin-covered shapes, lined like silent sentinels in the gloom. The faint beams of the team’s shoulder-mounted lamps revealed what the dust and silence had hidden. Chimera-pattern hulls, Leman Russ frames, skeletal artillery pieces, and stubby transporters sat dormant beneath layers of grime and canvas. Each machine was perfectly aligned, unmoved for decades, perhaps even centuries. “There's so many,” muttered one of the investigators. The sheer number of them was staggering. Kasnyk didn’t respond. He was busy drinking it all in — not with wonder, but with analysis. His monocle scanned and catalogued automatically, lines of data crawling along the edges of his vision. As they continued, the air felt thick, almost expectant. Their lights flickered against the oppressive stillness. The deeper they ventured, the more obvious it became — no vermin, no signs of recent life. Just untouched silence. Klimek edged too close to a barely visible pressure plate near a service hatch. Kasnyk’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the collar. “Hold.” Everyone froze. Kasnyk knelt and brushed away the dust. A recessed mechanism lay exposed — rudimentary, but deadly. A fragmentation charge. “Traps,” Kasnyk said, standing. “Old. But still willing to work.” Klimek nodded, slightly pale, but grateful. “Thank you, sir.” Kasnyk gave a small grunt of acknowledgment. His heart beat faster, but not from the near-miss. He could feel it. He wasn’t wading through another dull supply theft. Something meaningful was waiting at the end of this trail. A light sensation built in his stomach — a familiar, welcome thrill. The same he’d felt long ago, when cases still mattered, when he was still certain he could make a difference. His eyes slid sideways to Klimek as they resumed their march. The young officer recovered quickly, carefully marking the trap for later removal. Kasnyk allowed himself a flicker of quiet satisfaction. Klimek was shaping up well — sharp, cautious, and just naïve enough to still care about the work. They pressed onward, weaving through the graveyard of machines until the hall finally widened into a more open chamber. Kasnyk’s monocle flickered. ERR[042] : Object classification failed. Possible: LV / Chimera Variant / Unknown – processing… He stepped forward, boots crunching into the fresh scuff marks left behind by heavy treads. Dust patterns and disturbance told the story plain enough: something massive had been here — and recently. And unlike the other machines, this one was no longer resting. They swept their lights across the chamber, and there it was — the Iron Duke's vault. The great sealed door stood ajar, its mechanisms scarred by the breach. Inside, the floor bore the unmistakable pattern of heavy tread marks leading out, and a large, dustless imprint where something colossal had once sat beneath a discarded tarpaulin. The blast shield's silhouette was faintly outlined in dust residue on the floor. Kasnyk entered the vault slowly. His team followed, fanning out, quietly cataloguing the scene — markings, disturbed dust, maintenance terminals, and the damage to the door. Every detail mattered now. Kasnyk’s attention turned to the side of the vault. Scorch marks spidered out from an old control terminal. He crouched, monocle feeding him flickering data. “Explosion?” suggested one of the investigators. “Possible,” Kasnyk mused, running a finger along the floor. “Or power feedback.” Klimek moved closer, examining the pattern. “Sir. Not radial — linear. As if they caught a discharge, not a detonation.” Kasnyk raised a brow. The young officer wasn’t wrong. “Well observed.” He stood, dusting off his gloves. “Someone knew the risks and still went through with it.” In the silence, broken only by the occasional clatter of boots and equipment, Kasnyk felt the old thrill rising again — the sense of standing on the precipice of something deeper than a petty theft. There was a thread here. And he fully intended to pull it. ----- The wind outside the outpost’s main hall blew softly against the old hab-blocks and ferrocrete structures, but Marek hardly noticed. Leaning against a weathered pillar, he took a slow drag from his lho-stick, watching the station’s central yard through narrowed eyes. The sun was fading behind the ridgeline, painting the canyon’s jagged edges with long, creeping shadows. Below, the returning 280th were unloading. Their movements weren’t hurried, but they were… tight. Controlled. Soldiers always carried tension after a patrol, but Marek knew the patterns well enough. This was different. They weren't just tired — they were guarded. Even from each other. Krystan, the Chimera driver, cursed as he tried to coax the vehicle into one of the motor pool bays, its tracks screeching in protest. Laska laughed, making some quip Marek couldn’t catch from this distance, and the others gave her a weary chuckle. The usual theatre. But something was off. He took another pull on the lho-stick and exhaled slowly. No orders. No patrol logs posted. Just their quiet return. He flicked the spent stick into the dust and turned, heading toward the mess hall. The mess was crowded but muted. Soldiers ate mechanically, trading only the occasional word. The usual clatter of cutlery and quiet murmurs filled the room. Marek slipped into the corner, grabbed a tin cup of recaf, and settled against the wall, watching. The 280th were gathered at their usual table. No boasting, no exaggerated tales of minor glories — not like after a normal patrol. Instead, low voices and darting glances. He spotted the sergeant — their newly appointed leader, after Rakoczy’s demise — holding it together well enough. But it was in the little things. How the squad avoided meeting each other's eyes. The way Czajka picked at his food instead of eating. How Laska's usual brashness seemed slightly forced. The table froze for half a breath. Just long enough. Marek saw it. A glance from the sergeant. A suppressed smirk from Krystan. A tight flicker of tension across Czajka’s brow. Then they moved on, laughing it off, Laska throwing in an exaggerated wink to defuse it. But Marek wasn’t laughing. His mind already worked through the implications. He quietly sipped the bitter recaf, lowering his gaze just enough to seem disinterested. Across the room, unnoticed by Marek, The Fennec sat alone at a battered table, idly stirring the slop on her tray. She watched with the detachment of a ghost, catching every glance, every nervous shuffle. To anyone else, she was just another tired soldier nursing a bland meal. To her, this was the job. ----- In the armoury, Laska moved alone. The low hum of the power systems and the occasional groan of settling metal were the only company left to her. She removed her flak jacket with a soft grunt, the weight sliding from her shoulders and leaving behind the familiar ache of another long day. Shoulder plates followed, then webbing, gloves, and gear. Each piece was placed carefully into her assigned locker, not from fear of punishment, but habit. Order calmed her. Loose straps were tightened, buckles checked, latches secured. Her eyes lingered on her grenade launcher resting across the workbench. It wasn’t a brutal thing to her. It was solid, dependable. She had called it a few names in frustration before, sure, but it never failed when it mattered. She traced a finger along the barrel, noting where the paint had scuffed and worn. If she needed it to sing again, it would. She’d make sure of it. Satisfied, she exhaled softly and headed for the barracks. Inside, a handful of soldiers were already asleep, sprawled or curled beneath rough-issue blankets. Gentle, uneven snores filled the dimly lit space. The room smelled of worn leather, faint sweat, and the faint metallic tang of the station’s recycled air. Laska moved between the bunks quietly, stepping over scattered boots and stray bits of kit. At her bunk, she shrugged out of her fatigues, down to just a tank top and shorts. The metal-framed bed creaked softly as she sat and pulled the thin blanket over herself. Above, the cracked window admitted a shaft of silver moonlight that stretched across the room and caught her face. She lay still, eyes open, watching the dust motes drift lazily in the pale glow. Her thoughts wandered, unbidden. Home. Not the one spoken of in stories, but the real one — cramped, bureaucratic, stale. Yet, even so, the faces there mattered. Parents, a younger sibling or two, each trapped just as surely as the miners and the outcasts. Different cages, same bars. She was here for them. For all of them. The tension in her limbs eased, bit by bit, as the day’s weight gave way to quiet. The muffled sounds of the outpost settling into night — the groan of a shifting bulkhead, the faint ticking of a cooling vent, the soft snores of comrades — became a kind of lullaby. And then, barely audible, the desert wind outside sighed against the walls. The old scirocco. Laska smiled faintly, eyes half-lidded. Its voice carried a strange comfort. Distant, patient, eternal. As sleep crept in, she caught herself thinking — not of battle, nor of duty — but simply that it might have been nice to have someone beside her. Just for warmth. Just for company. The thought softened her expression, and soon, sleep took her. ----- The mess hall had long since emptied. The overhead lumens buzzed quietly, casting a dull, institutional glow over half-eaten trays and upturned ration tins. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic tap of Marek’s boot heel against the bench leg, his dataslate balanced on one knee. He sat alone now, the last of the 280th having turned in. Somewhere, the low whine of a generator pulsed in the distance. He tapped a few last notes into the slate. Supply discrepancies, personnel manifests, unassigned engineering units. His thumb hesitated over the transmit rune. A report, yes. But it lacked certainty. Something was missing. That was when he noticed it. A narrow door in the corner of the hall — flush with the wall and featureless. He had eaten in this room a dozen times and never seen it before. A storeroom, maybe. But something about it tugged at him. He stood, slinging the dataslate under one arm, and tried the handle. Unlocked. The hinges groaned faintly as he pulled it open, revealing a narrow passage descending into gloom. He hesitated — then stepped inside. The corridor descended deeper than expected, walls pressed close, lit intermittently by flickering strips of lumen tape. It smelled of dust, dry rust, and something older. Faint ventilation hummed overhead. A forgotten tunnel. Marek pressed on, bootfalls muffled by layers of grime. “Entry Point Theta... unmarked. Passage appears pre-Compliance era,” he murmured into the slate, recording everything. “Possibly related to recent recovery operations.” At last, the corridor widened into a chamber. His breath caught. Vehicles. Dozens. Rows of ancient machines slumbered beneath tarpaulins. Chimera transports. A few half-track variants. An old Malcador, matte desert yellow paint peeled and blistered from decades of disuse. And at the centre — a shape that dominated the room. No markings. No designation. No turret. Just bulk. A blast shield hunched over the prow like a crouched animal, the whole thing draped in tarp and shadow. The scale of it made Marek falter. “I don’t know what I’m looking at,” he whispered into the slate. “Command might. Serial tags missing. No visible identifier. This...this wasn’t logged.” He moved around it slowly, panning his slate’s lens across the frame. “Design unknown. Not Imperial standard issue. Mechanicus, perhaps? Power lines routed oddly. Could be a relic from the Crusade era? Will request cross-check. Bunker appears to have been accessed recently. Tracks in the dust. At least one body removed... no signs of blood.” His voice grew quieter. “Locals — the 280th? Did they do this?” He turned, biting his lip. The battery icon flashed red. Less than five percent. “Damn.” He broke into a jog, heading back through the tunnel, slate clutched tight. Outside, the desert night had cooled the air. A warm desert breeze washed over him, gentle now, but gathering. Marek dashed across the sand to a waiting runner — a squat, four-wheeled desert vehicle painted light grey, with thick, knobbled tyres and a number stencil in black along its side. The roof was little more than a sheet of polymer fixed over a flimsy frame. A cart meant for supplies, not escapes. He slid behind the wheel, tossed the dataslate onto the passenger bench, and fumbled with the ignition. The engine coughed, sputtered, then caught. He plugged the slate into the vehicle’s charging port and watched as the charge icon blinked orange. He wiped a sleeve across his brow. “Come on, come on...” A low curse escaped his lips. He checked the signal strength. Weak. But maybe enough. The slate came to life. He loaded the report, jammed his thumb against the transmit rune— From half a kilometre away, The Fennec watched him through the scope. She lay prone on the ridgeline, rifle cradled in her hands, her body perfectly still. The long-barrelled weapon rested on its bi-pod, its optic hooded against the moonlight. The wind was cool against her cheek. Her breath slow. Even. Measured. The runner’s headlights cast long shadows across the sand as Marek wrestled with the slate. Through her scope, she could see the sweat on his temple, the way his lips moved as he muttered curses. Her thumb adjusted the zoom. The crosshairs hovered over his chest. She exhaled. A moment’s pause. Then she tapped her vox-bead. “Visual confirmed,” she whispered. “He’s sending it.” A beat. “...Understood.” She realigned the shot. Marek’s finger was just lifting from the rune. The slate’s light glowed green — transmission active. She squeezed. The report was sent. So was the round. His body spasmed sideways, head lolling. The slate dropped to the floor of the runner. Blood and viscera dripped through the hole blown through his torso and the back of his seat by the high-calibre round. The Fennec watched for five full seconds. Then she moved. Quick. Precise. The rifle disassembled in practised motions, piece by piece into her carry harness. She slid back into the darkness, feet finding each step in silence. The desert swallowed her. The sound of the scirocco rose. And the night was whole again

The Grey Knight Thunderhawk touched down safely after launching from the Inquisitorial Black Ship Phoenix. Ordo Malleus Inquisitor Sasha and Grand Master De Sonnec exited the ramp and were met by Inquisitorial Agent Satri. Taking them to the waiting Inquisitorial Chimera, Agent Satri transported them to Inquisition hold Langham for the next few days. The Langham 13 Black Guard greeted the Inquisitor and Grand Master. After getting situated in their quarters, Inquisitor Sasha and Grand Master De Sonnac were attended to by the Inquisitorial Medicae, for cleansing and treatment. Returning to their quarters, Inquisitor Sasha and De Sonnec had some food and amasec. Early the next morning De Sonnec found his way to the training cages, to prepare for the Days Trials. The flight touched down safely after along 9 1/2 hour flight time. During that time, I reviewed, data slate videos and did not get much rest, nor did I get much the night before the flight. We were taken to the hotel checked in and then 90 minute massage….wife said I was growling not snoring when I passed out during the exfoliating scrub and once again in the massage. Back to the room, grabbed room service and in bed to wake up at 12:30 after sleeping for 5 hrs to workout. Breakfast in a few hrs and then adventures begins. So this blog arc will be my adventures (Grand Master De Sonnec) along with My Wife (Inquisitor Sasha) as we travel around the Uk and Ireland.

This series of three four passages is a lot longer than I have posted in the past and I hope you have the patience to read it. I feel it is quite revealing about our three main character, our Narrator, Mona, and Jagiełło. Constructive criticism always welcome, of course. ----- The engineers worked with steady purpose. The charges were placed meticulously, each bundle of explosives hugging the seams and structural weak points where ancient metal met equally ancient stone. The bunker was as much a part of the canyon wall as it was a man-made structure, the centuries having eroded and fused its exterior into a hardened shell. Even so, age had done little to blunt its Imperial craftsmanship. We crouched behind 312, shielding ourselves from the impending blast. At the lead engineer’s nod, the charges detonated. The canyon swallowed the dull roar, sending dust and pebbles cascading from the high ridges above. When the grit cleared, a jagged breach had replaced the sealed entrance. Heat rose from the rocks as we stepped forward. I caught the first breath of air from within. Dry, stale, and heavy with dust—it smelled of time itself. No blood, no rot, no sign of recent death. Just stagnant air, the kind you’d find when unsealing an old storage locker, except magnified a thousandfold. Inside, the air was thick with settled dust. A pale film coated the floor, unbroken even by vermin. No footprints. No scuff marks. Whatever this place was, it had been undisturbed for generations. Czajka stood at my side, rifle up, eyes sharp. “No movement.” “That’s worse,” Laska muttered, swinging her grenade launcher casually as she scanned the gloom. Her voice carried enough false bravado to mask her nerves, but not enough to fool anyone. One of the engineers, a lean woman with streaks of grey in her dark hair, Ella, knelt and examined the floor. “Sarge, these old bunkers? They’re usually rigged. Motion sensors. Traps. The standard for places they didn’t want rediscovered.” She stood and dusted off her palms. “We’ll sweep. Slow and proper.” I nodded, trying to project the steadiness I didn’t fully feel. “Do it.” The squad pushed deeper. As we moved down the main corridor, I found myself breathing shallower. The silence pressed in like a physical thing. The passage was lined with immense doors, each marked with corroded plaques and faded sigils. I couldn’t read most of them beneath the dust and rust. The engineer squad set to work, marking detected traps and bypassing them with practised efficiency. A few muttered prayers to the Emperor went unheard by anyone who still cared. “Partial power bleed,” Ella reported. “Most of the grid’s dead, but there’s still juice in some lines. We’ve looped the worst of it, but…” “But there could be more,” I finished for her. She nodded grimly. Further in, we found it — a small, dust-caked dataslate wedged behind a rusted terminal. Its cracked display flickered faintly to life as Czajka gingerly passed it to me. The words were simple. A bay number. Nothing more. Following its direction, we wound through an adjoining passage until we came to a sealed vault door. Unlike the others, this one was marked by the faint outline of a faded symbol, barely visible beneath grime. No name. Just a half-obscured emblem of a stylized iron crown. The engineers crowded around the access terminal. Sparks sputtered as they interfaced with it, bypassing dead code and corrupted subroutines. Then it happened. One of them—Martja, I think—jerked backward with a startled gasp. She collapsed, twitching as a sharp electrical feedback arced from the terminal. “Martja’s down!” someone yelled. I swore and rushed forward, but it was too late. She was gone. The door, however, had accepted the sacrifice. With a groan, ancient hydraulics strained and hissed. Dust cascaded from the seams as it cracked open, revealing the chamber beyond. And there it was. Even draped in layers of tarp and shadow, the Iron Duke dominated the vault. The chamber was cavernous, yet it barely contained the bulk of the vehicle inside. Its massive frame loomed, partially shrouded by dust-cloaked tarpaulins. The shape was unmistakable—armoured flanks, wide track guards, and the towering blast shield at its prow. No turret. No number. No name. Just sheer, brute presence. Laska whispered under her breath, “Big bastard.” We stood there in silence for a long moment. I realised I was holding my breath. The thing radiated a sense of history — not reverence, exactly, but weight. Purpose. I forced myself to exhale. “Back to work.” I pointed to two of my squad. “You and you. Prepare her for transport back to the station.” They hesitated for a heartbeat before nodding and moving to follow orders. Engineers and soldiers alike set to work, still glancing nervously at the Iron Duke between tasks. Martja was dead. But the Duke was awake. And there was no turning back. ----- Bright white lumens beat down from the ceiling, casting hard shadows across Kasnyk’s austere office. The room was a cube of sterile grey walls and sharp angles, furnished with only the essentials: a bolted metal desk, two straight-backed chairs, a cogitator recessed into the desktop, and not much else. A potted plant sagged on the corner of the desk, brown at the edges, and beside it a small brass globe of Kasnyk’s homeworld spun lazily from a recent absent-minded flick. The air was filtered and scentless, like the air of all Imperial offices, leaving nothing behind but emptiness. Kasnyk sat behind the desk with the practised stillness of a man well-versed in the routine. His stylus tapped against the parchment pad before him in a slow, deliberate rhythm — no impatience, just a means to keep time as the drone across from him talked. The stylus was always there. Even with the cogitator active and capable of doing all of this automatically, he preferred the scratch of pen on parchment. It gave the appearance of attentiveness, and more importantly, it grounded him. Across from him sat a minor logistics clerk, Sub-Officer L-8427, pale as parchment and clearly unused to the desert sun outside. His charcoal grey uniform, faded and wrinkled, had seen better days, and the badge pinned to his chest was slightly tarnished. A rank insignia and serial code were affixed beneath it, worn smooth from anxious fingers. The clerk perched nervously on the edge of the chair, clutching a dataslate that trembled ever so slightly in his grip. “… and that’s the third time, sir, this cycle. Missing components from Container 41.” The clerk's voice quavered slightly. “If it were just once, I’d let it go, but three times? That’s no clerical error.” His eyes darted across Kasnyk’s impassive face, searching for some sign of sympathy. Kasnyk gave none. The stylus continued to tap softly. “You suspect theft?” Kasnyk asked without looking up, voice a monotone. “I— yes, sir. Or diversion, maybe. Components don’t walk away on their own.” The clerk shifted in his seat, adjusting his fraying collar. “My supervisor told me to drop it, but I know something’s not right.” Kasnyk almost smiled — almost. The truth was, petty theft, squabbles, and bureaucratic grudge matches made up half his caseload. The other half was divided between fuel shortages and low-ranking scribes who drank too much amasec and reported ghost cults behind every malfunctioning lumen. But duty was duty. “You did the right thing,” he said flatly, making a show of jotting something down. “These things have a way of surfacing.” The clerk’s shoulders sagged with relief. At that exact moment, the cogitator gave a soft chime and a faint amber glow lit the edge of Kasnyk’s vision. His monocle flickered to life of its own accord, quietly feeding information to him as the clerk babbled on. Kasnyk did not flinch. His stylus, however, stopped tapping. Amber Alert — Security Breach: Storage Bunker 9C — Prawa V, Sector 12. Kasnyk blinked once to scroll the monocle's display. Flagged Item: 77-IC/DU. The stylus resumed tapping. The clerk, oblivious, was still venting about warehouse irregularities. Kasnyk returned his full attention to him, masking the sudden jolt of interest rising behind his cool exterior. “Thank you, Sub-Officer. I’ll see this logged appropriately.” He stood, motioning toward the door. “I trust you will remain vigilant.” The clerk stumbled to his feet, almost saluting before thinking better of it. “Yes, sir! Of course, sir.” He scurried out, leaving Kasnyk alone with the amber glow. The moment the door sealed, Kasnyk’s mask cracked. His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. He leaned forward, hands folding together as the cogitator projected a map and data readout. There it was. The old storage site. The bunker hadn’t triggered an alert in decades. Amber flag — mid-tier, important but not urgent. Inventory marked for Special Oversight, designation “IC/DU”. IC — Internal Compliance. DU… He’d seen that suffix before. His monocle obligingly supplied the associated entry from old files, redacted but familiar. DU = “Iron Duke.” Not a person. Not a smuggler. Not some legendary insurgent whispered about in frontier bars. A vehicle. A tank. Specifically, an ageing but formidable siege engine — codename only. Its existence, long buried beneath layers of bureaucratic dust, explained why the locals spoke of it like a ghost. Kasnyk’s expression hardened, eyes narrowing behind the data scrolling across his monocle. Who had breached a sealed bunker to get at it? Why now? He tapped the screen, pulling up active units in the area. A few registered. Routine patrols. One newly reassigned squad, the 280th Sunward Watch. He’d seen them during his last visit to the sector — odd, but nothing concrete. Yet. Kasnyk exhaled sharply through his nose and glanced to the side. The plant drooped pitifully. Without hesitation, he crossed the room, retrieved the long-neglected watering can, and gave the dry soil a careful pour. “You and me both,” he muttered. The leaves barely moved. Neither did Kasnyk as he stood motionless, eyes distant. There was something here. Not proof. Not yet. But there was something. ----- The heavy air in the hidden vault beneath Nowa Avestia, the place we called home, pressed around us as we stepped deeper into the chamber. Dust lay thick over the floor, deadening every step. The flicker of our shoulder-mounted lamps painted uneven, narrow bands of light across towering shapes swathed in tarps and shrouded in shadow. Jagiełło stood in front of it, a great looming mass mostly hidden beneath faded tarpaulin, but unmistakable in scale and presence. His hand with the claw-like glove rested against its flanks, fingers gently brushing against the dust-caked surface as if reacquainting himself with an old acquaintance. His other arm hung loose at his side, the long boneblade he wielded idle, unthreatening. The orange folds of his cloak caught the uneven lamplight, glowing like smouldering embers amidst the gloom. The worn edges of his armour were dulled by dust, yet still retained the distinct patterns of Resistance craftsmanship – subdued purples, greys, and the occasional streak of rust where the desert’s breath had left its mark. I stood a few paces away, trying to make sense of the shape beneath the tarps. The hull loomed, riveted and scarred by age. What could only be a vast blast shield – not a turret, I noted – jutted from its forward section. Two muzzles, dark as abyssal wells, protruded slightly beneath the folds. Whatever this machine had been built for, it was clear it was no ordinary vehicle. “You did well,” Jagiełło said without turning. His voice was low, calm, but there was weight to the words that made me catch my breath for but a second. “Many would have failed to bring it here intact.” I tried not to swell with pride. The praise was measured, but coming from him, it was more than I’d ever expected. “It wasn’t easy,” I replied carefully. “We lost one of the engineers, Martja. The vault… resisted.” Jagiełło’s fingers traced the blast shield’s edge. “It often does. Those vaults were meant to keep things out—or in.” He finally turned to look at me. His eyes, a jaundiced yellow and sharp beneath the hood, fixed me in place. “Yet you overcame it.” I nodded, unsure what else to say. In truth, I wasn’t sure if we had overcome it or merely gotten lucky. His gaze lingered for a moment before he stepped back from the machine. The faint metallic scrape of his boots against the floor broke the silence. “This will change much,” Jagiełło murmured, mostly to himself. “For all of us.” He didn’t elaborate. He never did. We stood there a while longer, me staring at the machine, him lost in quiet calculation. Then, without further ceremony, he turned and began walking toward the vault’s exit. I followed a step behind, my heart pounding with a mixture of quiet exhilaration and rising apprehension. I couldn’t help but wonder—not just about the machine, but about what this discovery meant for us, for the Resistance, and for my family back in the mines. My fingers absently brushed against the lasrifle slung over my shoulder as if reassuring myself that I was still just a soldier, still grounded, even as the scale of what we’d uncovered threatened to sweep me away. Jagiełło said nothing more, his footfalls steady, echoing against the vault’s walls. Only when we left the chamber did I risk a glance back. The Iron Duke—whatever it truly was—waited silently in the dark, its purpose and power still cloaked in shadow. ----- The echoes of bootsteps lingered faintly, diminishing with each step down the winding corridor until only silence remained. Mona stood alone at the threshold, eyes cast over the slumbering colossus cloaked in tarpaulin and shadows. Lamplight pooled in uneven circles across the chamber, casting long, soft-edged silhouettes that barely touched the corners of the vault. Dust hung suspended in the air like old memories. The Iron Duke loomed still, its towering blast shield and flanks swaddled in thick layers of age-stained canvas. Yet, even beneath the coverings, its outline radiated a dormant menace, softened only by time. Mona advanced with slow, deliberate steps, her boots making no sound against the dust-smothered floor. She exhaled slowly, as if speaking a wordless greeting. Her fingers reached out, trailing across the tarpaulin as if it were the hide of some great beast. She did not know the finer purpose of its structures — the guns, the tracks, the layers of steel — but she felt its weight, its presence. And that was enough. She approached the blast shield, placing her palm flat against it. The cold of the metal seeped into her skin, the dust clinging faintly to her touch. With deliberate patience, she traced a three-quarter circle upon its surface, leaving a crescent-shaped mark in the dust — incomplete, waiting. A subtle breeze stirred within the vault, pulling at the motes of dust in languid spirals. No source could be seen, but Mona’s lips shifted into a soft, knowing smile. To others it would be nothing. To her, it was the Duke whispering back. She closed her eyes for a moment, savouring the moment. The tension she so often masked behind poised words and gentle touches gave way to quiet satisfaction. She could feel the Iron Duke’s potential — not in mechanics, but in meaning. This was no simple relic; it was a totem. A promise. A manifestation of what she and her kin would one day unleash. Mona opened her eyes again, stepping back slowly, leaving the mark untouched. “You’ll wake when you’re ready,” she whispered, voice low and reverent. And with that, she turned, vanishing into the half-light, leaving the Iron Duke to slumber a little longer.

Xaphan the Castigator, Dark Apostle "Never forget our dead. Never forget the betrayals against us. We are Forgotten, those who will remind this stagnant Imperium that the past is not dead and buried, but alive and hating." Xaphan is the core of the current Forgotten warband. Charged by Grand Master Beleth to disturb the Nachmund Gauntlet, Xaphan is on a mission to destroy Imperial faith and morale. He believes that the Forgotten, in conjunction with the mercenary Night Lords and hedonistic Emperor's Children that they have as allies, will be able to disrupt and destroy key sections of the Imperium's defenses, thus making a larger incursion possible. Like all of the Forgotten's former Chaplains, the Dark Apostle known as the Castigator is a master orator with a deep understanding of the psyche of both soldier and civilian. Not the most tactical of leaders, he differs to both the Eligor and Sar Ornias in matters of battle deployment, while his words hammer the foe and steel the Forgotten. "I know what you are, for I was once like you. I too was seduced by the lies of the Imperium. I was there when the so-called Ecclesiarchy arose from the mud of delusion, from the grit of the homeworld of Man to control the vastness of the human spirit. I walked in the shadow of the Emperor, in the footsteps of his Sons. I witnessed their mistakes and misdeeds, their convenient truths and casting-away of knowledge for fear. I know what you are, and I will not forgive you for it. Do not forget the burdens of your past for we have come to bring our vengeance forth." -- Note, this is the current model for Xaphan. Another, more appropriate model has been ordered and will replace this one soon. -- The Eligor, Chaos Terminator Lord The wet impact of blades and fists tearing into flesh. Heavy, ponderous steps of hulking forms. Barking explosions of bolter fire and crackling flames consuming bones. These are the only sounds that come from the Terminator veterans of the Forgotten, the Suriel brotherhood. Oath-sworn to only speak to each other, they communicate in violence and mayhem. Their leader, the Eligor, is the one voice that communicates to the outside. Even then, his words are brusque and short, growled through heavy vox-interference and static. The Eligor is a mystery, seeming to have been at the side of the Forgotten's Grand Master since the Great Crusade itself. Though not a vocal man, he has keen insights tactically and is a master at the sudden application of pressure. Many a battle and raid have been brought to a swift end by him and his terminators descending in lightning teleportation strikes. "Be all means my Lord, we will burn them from the face of the galaxy." - The Eligor, responding to Belith's declaration of vendetta against the sons of Dorn Sar Ornias, Master of Executions "Crossing blades is considered by some to be an elegant way to know the depth of a warrior's knowledge and talent; a duelist is a master of form and fashion. I say dueling is just a fool way to attempt to control the chaos of battle- in real war talent and knowledge lose out to luck and brutality. Honor has little place in a war, your duty is to kill the enemy and protect your lord." - Sar Ornias, lecture to the Cambiel Brethren Sar Ornias is a veteran of the Long War. His experience is almost unapparelled among the Forgotten, especially in small-unit actions and targeted killings. He is a member the Cambiel brotherhood, an order of blademasters and former knights turned bodyguards, sworn to protect the leadership of the Forgotten at all costs. An Angel from Caliban, Ornias was among the many recruits from that forested Death-world to join a Knightly Order and slay great beasts. He now puts his expertise towards destroying the enemy's leadership, leading decapitation strikes into the heart of the foe's headquarters squads.

Nowa Avestia loomed ahead, washed in the pale glow of the setting sun. Marek sat atop the Chimera’s hull, arms folded, eyes scanning the familiar silhouette of the outer walls. The station was as he’d left it — quiet, unassuming. Yet, as the squad dismounted and rolled through the gates, something gnawed at the back of his thoughts. The yard should have been busy. The 280th, ever a fixture at the outpost, were nowhere to be seen. No idle banter, no groups lingering near the vehicle bays. Marek’s brow furrowed. “Where’s Rakoczy’s lot?” one of his troopers muttered. Marek waved him off. “Probably dug into some menial sweep. Nothing to worry about.” But the unease lingered. He hopped down from the Chimera, boots clanging against the cracked concrete. The garrison’s bustle was there — PDF guards on duty, traders arguing over cargo — but the absence of the 280th pressed at him. He made his way to the barracks, eyes subtly scanning the faces of passing soldiers. No familiar insignias from Rakoczy’s squad. Only the station’s regulars. Later, seated at his bunk, Marek flipped open his battered dataslate. His thumb hovered over the encoded message he’d prepared before setting out. It was ready to send — coordinates, maps, supply routes, the lot. He stared at it for a long time. His instincts, dulled by years of routine, were now fully awake. Something wasn’t right. Still, orders were orders. He clenched his jaw, weighing it in his mind. Nearby, laughter and the scrape of boots on metal floorboards echoed from the adjoining hall. Normal sounds, nothing more. But Marek knew better. He tapped the dataslate off and set it aside. “Maybe in the morning,” he muttered to himself, trying — and failing — to shake the sense that the desert had shifted while he’d been away. ----- Kasnyk’s office hummed faintly with the mechanical churn of the outpost’s life-support systems. Bright, artificial lighting left no shadows to hide in — a deliberate choice. The walls were bare save for a single shelf stacked with dataslates, parchment rolls, and battered binders. His desk was equally sparse, occupied only by a flickering cogitator terminal, a potted plant sagging from neglect, and a small globe — worn and faded — of his homeworld, Verdanos. It spun lazily under the ventilation draft. He sat stiffly in his chair, stylus tapping rhythmically against a half-finished report. A stack of investigations awaited, each more tedious than the last. “Case 39-14,” he muttered. “Water ration disputes again.” The file detailed a theft from the eastern cistern — a group of off-duty PDF accused by a local informant. No violence, just a missing shipment and too many conflicting testimonies. He sighed. “Nothing but thirsty opportunists.” The report, as always, was thorough — and suspect. “Smugglers disguised as wandering preachers,” Kasnyk read aloud, lips thinning. “Found near the southern ridge. Again.” He leaned back and rubbed the bridge of his nose, letting his eyes wander briefly to the potted plant. He should have watered it yesterday. Next came routine shipping manifests. Supplies inbound from Prawa V Prime. He cross-checked them with requisition logs, frowning slightly. Minor discrepancies, nothing to lose sleep over. Yet. Finally, the next slate slid beneath his hand. Kasnyk’s monocle flickered to life without prompting, scrolling data across its lens. Material composition: standard dataslate alloy. Typeface: Imperial Gothic, Sub-Type 7-B. Handwriting: Sergeant Sobczak. Cross-referenced and confirmed. He skimmed the contents — coordinates, route reports, asset listings. On the surface, routine. But a knot settled in his stomach. He tapped the monocle. “Correlate.” The system displayed movements matching Sobczak’s unit. The 280th Sunward Watch had passed through the same region shortly before. His memory flashed back — Rakoczy and his squad standing stiffly during their debrief. He rose from his chair, pacing slowly. Why had the 280th shifted their patrol pattern? Why hadn’t he pressed harder at the time? He circled the desk once, fingers tracing the globe absentmindedly. “No,” he muttered. “Not enough yet.” Still, the discrepancy was filed, noted carefully in the margins of his investigation ledger. Kasnyk returned to his chair, but the silence of the office felt heavier than before. ----- The canyon appeared suddenly, like a scar split open across the earth. From the rise where we first saw it, it stretched beyond the horizon, a jagged wound deep enough that the morning haze concealed its depth. The desert sands broke off in sheer cliffs, and nestled against the cliff's edge was the narrow, winding trace of the old service road. We paused, engines idling, watching the worn track snake down into the depths. I could feel the unease ripple through the men, unspoken but clear. I gave the order to advance, and the column crept forward, single-file, our lead Chimera — 312 — taking point, with 376 following close behind. The first stretch was manageable. The canyon walls sheltered us from the worst of the desert wind, but as we descended, the temperature began to climb. The deeper we went, the less air moved. It became a trapped heat, like the blast of a furnace, dry and oppressive. Then came the grinding sound. "Stop," Krystan called from the driver's seat, voice edged with frustration. "Something's off." A brief check revealed the truth — 376's transmission had seized. The backup vehicle was crippled halfway down the descent. I climbed out, squinting up at the canyon rim as fine dust sifted down lazily from above. "What are we looking at, Laska?" I asked, wiping sweat from my brow. Laska, who had hopped over to peer into 376’s exposed engine compartment, wiped her hands on her fatigues. "Transmission's :cuss:ed, Sarge," she said, deadpan. "Properly. She's not getting home under her own power." Her tone was so casual it might’ve been a joke, but there was no grin this time. Krystan cursed under his breath. I could feel the squad shift, eyes darting nervously to the cliffs above. Exposed like this, strung along a brittle road, every ridge and rock seemed to be watching. "Abandon it. Everyone on 312," I said. The order tasted bitter. It wasn’t just the heat making us sweat. We packed ourselves tight, soldiers and engineers perched awkwardly atop the hull, gripping onto straps and welded handholds. With the extra weight, 312 groaned in protest, her suspension creaking with every shift of momentum. We threw open the hatches, letting the oven-hot air sweep through. A poor trade — cooler, but now exposed. Every eye scanned the jagged canyon walls, watching for the flash of a scope or the glint of movement. There was nothing, only the rovfugl wheeling high on thermals, circling lazily. A scavenger by nature, it rode the rising heat without urgency, as if patiently waiting for something to die below. Krystan worked the controls like a man nursing an injured beast. The brakes squealed occasionally, a high, sharp note that echoed too well. Czajka sat beside me, silent as always, but his gaze never left the ridges. His marksman’s eye picked out every likely firing position, but he gave no voice to what we all knew — if someone waited up there, we’d never make it to the bottom. The descent grew harsher. Sparse desert scrub gave way to cracked stone, the last defiant plants replaced by small clusters of squat, purple succulents clinging to life. The heat was unbearable, the air unmoving and thick. Sweat pooled inside armour, and tempers flared. A sharp comment from one of the engineers drew a snap from Laska. Another soldier barked back, and I could see the tension boiling just beneath the surface. “Enough,” I said firmly, voice steady. “Keep it together. We're almost there.” They quieted, but the mood remained tight. As we wound lower, I found myself staring at the track ahead, then to the walls hemming us in, and back again. My stomach tightened in ways the heat couldn’t explain. This was the first time I was truly leading them — my squad, my responsibility. No sergeant to defer to. No Rakoczy to give the word. Just me. I tried to push the thought down, but it clawed its way back up like the dust coating our boots. Was I leading them into some forgotten treasure trove... or a grave? Finally, the trail widened as we emerged onto the canyon floor. The world pressed in around us — towering walls hemming us in on every side. Before us, half-hidden by a natural overhang, was the entrance: a vast cavernous maw where rock and machinery fused together. The outline of the bunker was unmistakable, its doors sealed and ancient. We dismounted. The heat down here felt heavier still, dead and oppressive. The squad gathered, looking to me for direction. Inside, the bunker waited. And none of us liked the feel of it.

In 10 days, I will be in Nottingham....EEEK WARHAMMER WORLD! 5,148 miles away from home in Arizona, celebrating my honeymoon with my amazing wife. We actually leave Monday for London and will be there for a few days. I won't have my models with me, but will be an epic adventure.

I have two craftworlds. A bone theme I started in 3rd edition. I bought a used eshin gray army. It had a wraith lord and a unit of wraith guard in it. I completed two more wraithlords using that scheme. Wraithlords Wraithguard One model broke apart when I unpacked it. I didn't photograph it.

First post of my blog! First up, this complete boxed game is live on Gamefound. Back the project here Why am I posting here? because it's obviously not 40k... Because, you can also get the terrain separately, if that's all you want (great for Necromunda and 40k etc) It's 2mm thick card and comes pre painted. It's also MASSIVE (those minis are bigger than Astartes) But game is really innovative with diceless combat, and the minis are detailed and pretty unique IMO. Back the project here via the terrain for Grave trigger - designed for the game, but also with other games like Necromunda in mind. This is a pretty imposing structure and works as a display piece (good for showing off your minis) What do you guys think of the design? more info below Back the project here Made from full-colour 2mm punch board with a rigid and robust structure, structure, the terrain is MASSIVE and designed to be an imposing centrepiece on your table. Large 32mm bases can be easily placed around the slabs of the structure. And by slotting the modular shanties between the slabs and columns, even the 50mm bases of the large Grave Trigger miniatures can land and leap from the platforms. This terrain is designed for Grave Trigger, an innovative, dice-less and brutal post apocalyptic skirmish game. You can select different pledge tiers and get rewarded with really detailed and unique minis and rules. The minis are manufactured from Unicool Plastic, which is a durable plastic-resin mix with high fidelity. If you only want the terrain, that's an option just head over to add-ons and select the terrain. Anyway more info on the campaign page or on the Brutal Cities website blog What do you think of the design? Back the project here

As mentioned last entry, airsupport is crucial for any raging war. And you need someone to keep the airspace organized while bullets a rockets and AA-Defense is roaring. Tower Control is providing exactly that and therefor is a vital part for you winning the battle, wether you struggle to keep it running or trying to destroy it. Combine this set with the Fortification Wall , Defense Tower , or the Landing Platform ! Create a fully equipped military fortified area to conquer or defend. Just create an impressive story telling tabletop battlefield. This PDF will give you a Tower Control model and a water tank. The Tower Control fits all 28mm tabletop games with a Modern or Future-Fantasy setting. Make sure to check out the fitting models of the fortification series available and coming soon. Get the ste here: https://www.wargamevault.com/product/511237/Tabletop-Battlefield-Scenics-Tower-Control C&C is highly appreciated, so feel free to coment.

When Prognosticars detected that the Great Unclean One, Co'vid, would descended on Khymara Prime and only the Forces of the Grey Knights could stop it. The Prognosticar decided that a Rapid Strike force be deployed and waiting Co'vid's appearance could save humanity. Led by 2nd Brotherhood Landry De Lauzon and 2nd in command by Techmarine Talus and his 2 servitor squads Montessa and Calatrava, Venerable Dreadnought Draper, Strike squads De Caux, De Monglane, and De Hautville, Purgation squad Des Barres, Interceptor Squad De Plessiez, and "Longsword" Razorbacks the Rapid Strike left Titan. Once deployed to the surface, the Grey Knights began setting up their defenses for the upcoming battle. And soon a threat appeared, but not the one the Grey Knights were expecting, Orks. The battle was fierce and the Grey Knights were victorious, forcing the Orks to flee. But this one not be the only threat they would face on Khymara and their defenses were beginning to falter when the rest of the 2nd Brotherhood of Grey Knights arrived with Ordo Malleus Inquisition forces, Adeptus Mechanicus from Forgeworld Deimos and Imperial Knights from House Steel. So my Grey Knights started as my Covid army and originally all Power armor, Razorbacks, and a Venerable dreadnought. I did pick up more kits as the years went I picked up more kits. Here it is 5 years later I have of tons of models completed and my Grey Knights are the largest army I have completed. 2nd Brotherhood of Grey Knights- Completed Grand Master (on foot) Brother- Captain 3 Terminator Librarians Terminator Chaplain Brotherhood Champion (Converted) Techmarine 4 Terminator Squads (variable sizes) 3 Strike Squads 1 Interceptor Squad 1 Purgation Squad 2 Servitor Squads 2 Razorbacks Stormhawk Venerable Dreadnought Nemesis Dreadknight But I have so much more to paint as they are primed Leadbelcher Grand Master Nemesis Dreadknight 4th Librarian Crowe 10 Purifiers 2 Paladin Squads 2 Terminator Squad 1 Interceptor Squad 2 Purgation Squad 2 Venerable Dreadnoughts 2 Nemesis Dreadknights Stormtalon and here is the upcoming Build and Paint projects for my Grey Knights: Increasing 6 Terminator Squads to 10 man (10 of 23 are built) 3 of 6 Land Raiders are built (3 Phobos, 2 Redeemers, and 1 Banisher) 7 more Banners Storm Raven (Conversion) Thunderhawk Kaldor Draigo (Conversion) Razorback #3 and #4 From 03/27/25 WarComm article The Knights of Titan have been busy, and their greatest champions stride forth with an updated Nemesis Dreadknight. It includes new weapon options like the Nemesis Flail and Nemesis Mace, and comes with plenty of additional parts to give your Grand Masters a suitable ornate war machine to ride into battle. We’ll be covering more from Codex: Grey Knights as we get closer to release, including their new Detachments and Crusade campaign rules. Until then, head back to our Preview hub to see everything else revealed today, including three new Chaos Codexes sure to keep your gleaming knights busy. So an upgrade sprue to make a Grand Master Nemesis Dreadknight, Codex, and Crusade book coming soon as the 40k Narrative returns to Armageddon!!!!As Grey Knight Codex is releasing after the Chaos Codexes, which are soonish, hopefully it is before Metal Head Armory Gaming Club big game. My Grey Knight paint scheme is not hard but I have tons of models to complete,

" TO THE RIGHTEOUS WE BRING HOPE. TO THE TAINTED WE BRING FIRE." Well my group is diving in to Chaos. One member has a full Daemon Army Led by Be'lakor and may have Thousand Sons, one is building Emperor's Children, @The_Oni_of_Hindsight has started World Eaters, and finally one is thinking about building Death Guard. If I was every to return to Chaos it would be Black Legion or Night Lords but I have enough armies and I serve the Emperor of Mankind. With the group falling to the Ruinous Powers, My Adepta Sororitas is so far from being painted and knowing that the group is playing around 1500 points. I know I have a tons of Points painted for the Sons of Titan...so why not go Grey Knights against the Forces of Chaos. Well that is a 1,000 points of Grey Knights, (actually 995 points). Adding Grand Master as Warlord and A Terminator Squad with Psilencer- adds 295 points I could add another a Terminator Squad as I have another one done (would only take 5 of the 6) But instead I am choosing to paint Nemesis Dreadknight #2 As @The_Oni_of_Hindsight and I are discussing our Groups big game for this year, Chaos/ Nids vs Imperial, Grey Knights could be my go to army. I will start painting this Nemesis Dreadknight shortly, but I am doing with a dominate hand injury, nothing major but I it is a struggle.

The Fennec lay low beneath the dune’s crest, body pressed into the soft slope, the sand shifting slightly beneath her weight. Through the scope, the desert station played out its quiet, predictable routine. Marek’s Chimera lumbered toward the toll booth, weathered but functional, waved through without question. There it was — the familiar pattern. The complacency. A flicker of satisfaction stirred within her. The hunt had always held its quiet thrill, but her breathing remained steady, her finger never twitched on the trigger. Discipline. Below, the Chimera parked itself among the scattering of low, sun-bleached buildings. Marek’s squad spilled out, stretching their limbs, shaking dust from their collars. Marek moved like a man who had done this countless times. A stationed PDF soldier approached him, and Marek greeted him with the easy familiarity of an old acquaintance — a handshake, a pat on the shoulder. They exchanged a few relaxed words, body language loose and confident, as if they were sharing news rather than orders. Marek then gestured towards his squad, dispatching them casually into the surrounding streets. They moved without urgency, like men and women convinced of their security. The Fennec’s lips curled into a sneer. Almost. They trusted routine, trusted the Imperial colours, the supposed safety of their numbers. But here, in the sands, trust was always a mistake. Without hurry, she reached into a pouch and produced a small metal dragonfly. Its gossamer wings, folded tight, shimmered faintly in the desert sun. She whispered a simple command, and the device whirred softly to life. The wings unfurled, delicate yet purposeful, and it flitted downward like a living thing, alighting gently on the cracked stucco of a nearby building. Her scope followed it until it vanished against the stucco wall. A perfect perch. With practised ease, she fitted the earbud into her ear. Static hissed briefly, then cleared. Marek's voice rose through the wind, carried cleanly by the tiny machine. The Fennec adjusted slightly, settling deeper into the warm sand. She belonged to this place — not the cities with their walls and spires — but the open desert. The silence, the dust, the scent of sun-baked stone. She watched. She listened. ----- The Fennec listened in silence, eyes fixed through the scope as Marek leaned casually against the wall beside the stationed PDF soldier. The conversation had been mundane at first — routine, harmless. Then came the words. “It’s time to remind these desert rats who holds the leash. I’ve got enough to make someone listen.” The effect was immediate. Her heartbeat slowed, not quickened. A cold calm settled over her like a desert night. No excitement, no panic. Just focus. With deliberate precision, she shifted slightly, adjusting her rifle without a sound. Her bare fingers worked smoothly, feeling the cool, worn metal of every part. The tripod dug into the sand. The bolt cycled with practised familiarity. The faint, mechanical clack of the rifle cocking marked the moment she was ready. Her breathing slowed — in, hold, out — steady as the desert itself. Through the scope, Marek stood unaware, gesturing faintly as he continued speaking. The crosshairs found his head naturally. He was perfectly framed against the weathered stucco of the station wall. The Fennec did not smile. There was no thrill, only the familiar weight of responsibility. She could end it now. Yet, she hesitated. Marek shifted his stance, adjusting the strap of his webbing, and the wind tugged at something beneath it — a faded scrap of cloth. Orange. Subtle. Easily missed. Her breath caught. The colour was old, sun-bleached, fraying at the edges, tied with no great ceremony. But it was there. Her finger, poised on the trigger, relaxed. She exhaled slowly and, after a measured pause, gently engaged the safety. The crosshair remained on Marek, but now not as the immediate target — but as a puzzle. The wind whispered softly across the dunes. She would watch. And when the time came, she would know.

Eventually, the council dispersed. One by one, the squad leaders filed out—quiet nods, exchanged glances, brief murmurs as they returned to the surface. Jagiełło left without ceremony, as he had entered. I remained behind for a few moments, alone in the cellar, the dataslate still warm in my hands. "You spoke with conviction," came a voice behind me—soft, familiar, and unsettling in how near it was without warning. I turned. Mona stood at the foot of the stairs, her posture casual, her arms now resting loosely at her sides. "Do you believe every word you said?" she asked. There was no malice in it. No accusation. But her eyes searched mine with a precision that made lying feel impossible. I hesitated. Not because I didn’t know the answer—but because I knew she’d measure how I gave it. ----- The cellar was still, emptied of its earlier tension, save for the soft sound of a single kerosene lamp guttering against the draft. Jagiełło remained at the head of the table, arms folded behind his back as he stared at the dataslate resting where the miner had left it. Mona stood where she had lingered throughout the meeting, watching him. The silence was companionable, but Jagiełło broke it without turning. "Your thoughts?" he asked, his voice carrying just enough weight to be heard. Mona pushed off from the wall with measured grace, stepping slowly around the table. "There is value in uncertainty," she said softly. "Marek wavered. I saw it. I could press. A quiet conversation, a whisper in the dark, and we may know his heart without raising a single lasgun." Jagiełło shifted only slightly, eyes still fixed on the slate. "You would draw it out of him with words alone?" Mona offered a faint, knowing smile. "Words have carried us this far." He did not disagree immediately. He gave the notion its due consideration, staring into the lamplight, weighing it. "Tempting," he admitted. "But not this time." He turned to her then, fully. "I would not risk him suspecting we have seen his falter. Not yet. Better he believe himself unnoticed. Quiet surveillance. Nothing more." Mona did not argue. She tilted her head, accepting the decision, though the flicker of her eyes hinted at a thousand unspoken thoughts. "As you wish," she said, her voice neither wounded nor displeased. Jagiełło’s gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer. "Your counsel is always valued, Mona. But for now, we watch. It is time to involve the Fennec." The lamplight flickered again as if in approval. ----- Salvager's Row hummed faintly under the desert sun, the air heavy with the scent of hot metal, dust, and old oils. In one of its quieter corners, tucked between workshops and scavenged habs, was The Fennec’s domain — a place of function, not comfort. Jagiełło ducked beneath the low doorway and stepped inside. The thick workshop air mingled motor oil, grease, and solvent fumes with the omnipresent desert dust, forming a smell so familiar it barely registered. The Fennec sat at her workbench, stripped of ceremony. Perched on a low stool beside her desert-adapted motorcycle, one boot rested on a scattered pile of parts. She ran a wire brush through the barrel of a long rifle — a precision instrument, sand-coloured, designed for patience and lethality. A large, worn scope with flip-up caps sat atop its receiver, and a collapsible tripod was mounted beneath the barrel. Every detail spoke of careful calibration and craftsmanship, not brute force. Scattered across the table were tools, cleaning rods, and brushes blackened from years of service. Her appearance matched her workspace — practical and hardened. A flak jacket with visible plates, cargo trousers scarred by oil stains, and heavy boots caked with grit gave her a rugged silhouette. Webbing and pouches hung loosely yet purposefully across her frame. Beneath the grime and dust, she was lean and sharp, every motion deliberate and assured. Jagiełło remained silent until she glanced up, dark eyes locking with his. Faint ridges along her brow marked her, though they were barely visible in the muted glow of the workshop. She stood without hesitation, setting the rifle aside with deliberate care. “Primus,” she said simply. No bow, no salute — only recognition. “Fennec,” Jagiełło replied, his tone level. “You have someone to follow. Sergeant Marek. Observe. Nothing more.” She nodded. “Understood.” Jagiełło’s eyes narrowed slightly. “There are conditions. If they are met, you will act. Otherwise, you remain unseen.” The Fennec accepted this without question, as she did every task. “Understood,” she repeated. Without another word, she resumed her work, calmly cleaning the rifle with practiced, steady movements as though the conversation had never happened. Jagiełło lingered for a heartbeat longer, watching the slow, precise strokes of the wire brush before turning away and stepping back into the harsh desert light, leaving the workshop to its silence and the quiet hum of preparation. ----- The Fennec worked late into the evening, long after Jagiełło’s footsteps had faded from Salvager’s Row. The familiar hum of the workshop remained her only company, broken only by the soft clicking of tools and the metallic rasp of fabric brushing against gear. She moved with quiet purpose. From a battered locker, she retrieved a canvas-wrapped bundle. Inside lay spare parts, ammunition, and lengths of camouflage netting, sun-bleached and patched. Each piece was checked and packed without hurry, yet with absolute certainty. Nothing extra. Nothing missing. Her rifle received a final inspection. With delicate reverence, she laid each component out on the workbench — the long, desert-camouflaged barrel, the padded stock, the heavy scope with its flip-up caps, and the collapsible tripod. Fixed to the end of the barrel was a prominent, multi-baffled muzzle brake, designed to tame the weapon's immense recoil. One by one, she reassembled them with the practised precision of someone who had done so a hundred times. When the rifle was whole once more, she brought it to her shoulder and sighted down the length of it, the cool metal pressing gently against her cheek. She cocked it smoothly and pulled the trigger. The dry click echoed faintly, sharp against the quiet hum of the workshop. Only then did she nod to herself, satisfied, and secured the weapon inside a padded sleeve. At the corner of the workshop, her desert bike leaned against the wall, chain oiled and tyres thick with the dust of past patrols. She ran a bare hand over its frame, feeling for hairline cracks or faults. Satisfied, she attached small saddlebags, filling them with ration packs, water, and field tools. Pausing for a moment, she glanced around the workshop. The bare lightbulb overhead buzzed faintly. Shadows clung to the walls, broken only by streaks of lamplight from the narrow window. The Fennec rolled her shoulders, adjusted her flak jacket, and slung the padded rifle bag across her back. The last thing she grabbed was a small, well-worn scrap of cloth from a shelf — desert orange — and tied it around her wrist. Without ceremony, she pushed open the workshop door, stepping into the cool air, the soft crunch of sand under her boots. She wheeled her bike out alongside her, the machine’s weight familiar beneath her hands. The hunt had begun.

Lieutenant Kasnyk leaned forward, monocle interface flickering green as he parsed the packet’s structure. A transmission, incomplete. Encrypted but within protocol. Origin: Marek Sobczak, Sergeant. Timestamp: early hours, local time. Location: near the southern ridge. That alone should have been routine. But Marek was dead. The initial report had come through the PDF relay chain an hour earlier — Sergeant Sobczak found in his runner, chest perforated by unknown fire. No witnesses. No sign of the weapon. A freak accident, they said. Bandits. Mutineers. The usual desert ghosts. Kasnyk didn’t believe in ghosts. The packet loaded, fragment by fragment. Static-blurred voice logs. One partial image file. Marek’s voice — distorted, dry — emerged mid-sentence: “…possibly Crusade-era… no Imperial markings… entry point recently disturbed—” Skip. “…serial tags stripped… unknown vehicle type… blast shielding—” Skip. “…locals? Maybe the 280th. I can’t confirm. Will escalate—” And then silence. No data header. No routing confirmation. Just the raw, fractured remnants of something bigger. Something deliberate. He tapped his monocle. “Begin trace on Sobczak data trail. Full audit. Limit visibility — private channel only.” The cogitator chirped again in acknowledgment. He stood slowly, moved to the side cabinet, and opened a shallow drawer. Inside: a sealed data crystal — unmarked. He placed it beside the slate without comment, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the desk as he stared at the half-lit screen. “Who did you see, Marek?” No answer came. Only the faint hum of the outpost’s ventilation. Still sterile. Still silent. But the weight had shifted. Something had cracked. ----- The mess hall smelled of overcooked grain, steam, and industrial soap. Not unpleasant — just lifeless. A kind of scentless familiarity that belonged to all PDF installations, no matter the sector. The 280th sat hunched around a metal table streaked with scratches and dried broth. Tin trays scraped softly under spoons. No voices rose to fill the space. Laska stirred her meal with the tip of her fork, not eating. She wore the same grin she always did, but it sat crooked this morning — not quite tethered to anything. Czajka sat beside her, quiet as ever, but his attention never left the door. Krystan slumped with his elbows on the table, nursing a lukewarm mug of recaf. He hadn't spoken since they'd filed in. I sat across from them, tray untouched. The ration stew steamed faintly in the stale air, but I couldn't summon the appetite. None of us could. Marek’s name hadn’t been mentioned. We didn’t need to say it. The air carried it. "Guess nobody's checked the heater coils again," Laska muttered, forcing levity into the space. "Tastes like someone's boot boiled in sump water." Czajka made a sound — might've been a laugh. Might've just been a breath. Krystan didn’t react. Silence returned like tidewater. Just the scrape of cutlery. The dull clatter of a tray dropped in the return chute. One by one, other squads filtered in. Most gave us a glance, then looked away. Maybe they’d heard. Maybe not. The desert wind tapped softly at the high windows. Outside, the sun was already high. Another day waiting to be filled with the wrong questions and the wrong orders. I looked down at my tray. The meal had cooled. I hadn’t touched it. Beside me, Laska suddenly stood. “I’m getting more recaf,” she said, though her cup was still half full. She walked off without waiting for anyone’s reply. Czajka finally spoke, voice low. “Do you think he saw it?” I didn’t ask who he meant. “I don’t know,” I said. He nodded, once, slow. “If he did, he’s not seeing anything now.” We sat in silence again, shoulder to shoulder. The 280th — whole, but not intact.

So, spoiler for this - this is not the end I plan for my band of Resistance fighters. I was just tinkering with ideas for them, but I thought you might like to see. It's a short passage, but you can see how they are all bonded, even 329 spins up for the fight. Thoughts most welcome. The sun didn’t rise that morning. Not properly. Just a bruised smear above the horizon, like the sky was ashamed to look us in the eye. We stood in the courtyard — the last open ground before the fallback position — where sand had drifted into the cracks between the stone like it meant to bury us ahead of schedule. Brutus rumbled behind me, her engine coughing low. One of her sponsons was gone — slagged in the last barrage — but the other still turned when I called for it. She’d die today, and she knew it. But not without giving back everything she had. The Iron Duke loomed just off to the side, its hull still scorched from the last charge. It had carried the wounded, shielded our retreat, held the line when the rest broke. A relic once — but now? A symbol. And behind it, half-lost in the bunker shadows, was 329. I could hear the fuel pumps hiss. The engines didn’t purr — they growled, low and resentful. Not like a tool, but like a thing that understood what was coming. Krystan hadn’t said a word since the night before. He sat inside 329’s belly like a monk in a temple. Still. Focused. If that monster had a soul, it had latched onto his. If Krystan was going to Hell, it would be there, busting down the gates. Laska stood at my right, eyes on the ridgeline. Her sleeves were rolled, dust crusted into her forearms. Blood too — not hers. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She’d made her peace. And I… I was proud of her in that moment, more than I could ever say. My love. Czajka had already gone prone near the southern wall. He didn’t look up as I passed — just adjusted the windage on his scope. He always knew the wind better than I did. Zofia leaned against the Duke, cigarette clamped between her teeth, arms folded tight. She looked like she was waiting for a punch — and daring the bastard to throw it. And Róźa... Róźa stood alone at the edge, near the ruined gate. No orders. Just instinct. That was all she ever needed. I turned to face them, boots grinding against the stone. My squad. My family, though I’d never said the word. They were filthy. Scarred. Exhausted. They were perfect. “We don’t hold this ground,” I said, low, calm. “We become it.” No speeches. No shouting. Just the truth. Laska nodded, her shoulder brushing mine. “We’re already ghosts,” she said. I smiled. Real, for once. “Then let’s :cuss:ing haunt them.” And when the first shells came down — distant at first, then closer, hungry — I didn’t flinch. I watched the horizon crack open. I heard the howl of 329 winding up like some ancient god dragging itself into the fight one last time. And I felt no fear. Only pride. Pride in the machines behind me. Pride in the people beside me. Pride that this — this bloodied, broken corner of the desert — was ours. If the Imperium wanted it back, they’d have to dig us out with their bare hands..

Well boarded and prepare big for take off to London!

“but we must also guard the Emperor.” - Sermons, volume XIV chapter I- Sebastian Thor Well it took a little bit but I finally got the Sanctifiers built. I am not sure when they will be primed or painted but they are built. Need to focus on getting Grey Knights ready for 1500 point games, which is just painting a Nemesis Dreadknight and new weapons for dreadnought. But I will keep working on Adepta Sororitas in between. Ave Imperator

So there I was working on my Adepta Sororitas painting my Retributors and building my Sanctifiers (which are finally done). Next thing I know, my Adepta Sororitas are back in display cabinet and Grey Knights are on the table! They just teleported on to my desk…I swear. See I swore. Truth is I love my Adepta Sororitas army, and Monday my wife and I leave for the UK, Scotland, and Ireland for almost 3 weeks and I don’t want them lying around in our office in case of little hands or paws knocking them over. So to avoid the risk of the cats kids, or the family members who are watching them of damaging them I am putting back in the cabinet. Now with the said, I am working on Grey Knights in limited capacity. So first off Venerable Dreadnought Draper is finally getting his other weapon options painted. After last battle where he hit absolutely nothing or failed to do damage with his twin Lascannon or his Missile Launcher, the missile launcher and sensor are being replaced (glad I put magnets on him) Melee weapon and flamer along with his lascannon unless I decide to magnetize a plasma cannon arm for him. I am fighting World Eaters and Emperor’s Children my next games. But this is post (and series) is about the baby carriage, aka Nemesis Dreadknight. This is his before and here is the after The base js built up. Hoping to layer some black paint on as primer today…maybe. Here the goal 1500 pts of Grey Knights! ”We are the Hammer!”

".....and become something less than beasts. They have no place in the bosom of humanity nor in the heart of the Emperor. Let them die and be forgotten." Prime Edicts of the Holy Synod of the Adeptus Ministorum Well I have been slowly working on my Sanctifiers and I am down to building 2 more Preachers Trying to have all of them with hooded heads. Colors will be Cream and Red sorta like my painted Inquisition forces But more cream then red. But then maybe these will become more Sanctifiers.

So, I've started posting more full scenes on the story. I originally starting to create small vignettes from my originally-written passages but felt they were not conveying everything I was trying to get across. Currently, I'm about six months ahead, in terms of writing progress, of what you see here and I hope you are enjoying it. I never really intended to share my writing, but it is heartening that people enjoy it. I've made quite a few breaks from the GW Genestealer Cult lore: - The Genestealer's Kiss is kept to a minimum. As I mentioned in a previous post, I feel like it's too much of a McGuffin, so keep it reserved for a few, select characters. I prefer the Cult (or Resistance, as it is termed in the writing) to evolve naturally with the force of will of the Primus and Mona's seductive, whispered words drawing people in. - I don't use the term Primus or Magus, except once. This makes it feel more like an everyman story. - The Fennec is, for anyone familiar with the army, a Jackal Alphus. I've changed her a little, also. She's very much a lone wolf. I've changed her weapon, too, so she functions more like a cross between an Alphus and a Sanctus. For the gun nerds out there, her weapon is based on the Denel NTW-20 with the .50 cal barrel. I do want to make a conversion of her model with her prone beside her bike with the tripod and muzzle brake, as there's no way she's firing that from the saddle. In terms of language, the names of things may seem a little unusual to some, but there is method in the madness. Most people are given Polish or pseudo-Slavic names. These represent the newer wave of settlers who have overtaken the original settlers of the planet. Names like Jagiełło, Marek, and the sergeant Róźa Makówska, who you will get to meet soon. Older names, such as those for flora and fauna and certain places, reflect the previous wave of settlers, hundreds of years ago, who were of Scandinavian descent, Danish in particular. The rovfugl, a desert bird, for example. We'll meet some of the desert nomads in a coming scene who speak in Danish amongst themselves. I do this, not to be fancy or anything, but because I have family in both countries and have lived in both for some years. I think it adds to the 'otherness' of the place in the sense that we all what the GSC and Imperial Guard is, but, I hope on reading, it yanks you just out of the comfort zone just long enough. Thoughts are most welcome and thank you for following my story.

So my regular opponent @The_Oni_of_Hindsight and I began discussing the 2025 Metal Head Armory (our local gaming group) big game. Last year was Horus Heresy 12,000 points a side Loyalist Ravenguard (Supreme Commander-Me) Adeptus Custodes (@GameRanma) White Scars World Eaters Traitors Iron Warriors (Supreme Commander @The_Oni_of_Hindsight) Word Bearers Demon Army Dark Mechanicus This year we are discussing doing a large scale 40k game. It is the early stages of discussing and since @GameRanma has an Adeptus Custode army I would concede overall Supreme Imperial Command to him. Ideally it would be a 4 Chaos gods and @HeiYu13's Tyranids vs the Imperial Forces I am leaning towards my Adepta Sororitas but I could run Grey Knights which would be great with all Chaos on the table.

So I was perusing eBay, looking at books that would be better on my shelf. Holy crud have the prices skyeocketed. Not just for limited editions, but even for just normal printings. So be honest now, who is actually paying those prices and keeping these people in business?

CRUSADE GAME 6 - TAU VS WORLD EATERS This keeps happening. Well, this took a while for me to upload. I've been a little distracted by work, and the irresistible allure of the square base. Shame I can't share any Warhammer Fantasy stuff on here, but it is what it is. I need to get around to making my own actual blog. Anyway, this was the second fight of the day after my game against the Death Guard, giving me a fun Oops! All Chaos! weekend. Thing is, I'm starting to get the impression that I should be staying out of close combat with my Tau! Weird concept. This has been an issue all Crusade, maybe our boards are too small? I feel like I should have half my army in close combat at the end of turn 1. I dunno, I could probably do a better job of placing my lads behind cover, further back, and so-on, but it was particularly bad this time thanks to all that fun WE movement tech. I'm just gonna stop Infiltrating these guys, it never ends well. That aside, this final outing - in the Crusade - for Heath's World Eaters was fun, and close, though ultimately a loss for me. Heath is swapping over to the new Emperor's Children, it's early enough in the Crusade that he can assemble them in time for our upcoming matches later this month. Painted? Well. We'll see. Fun moments included holding out in close combat with like half of his army with some lucky battlesuit saves and the power of Big Guns Never Tire, and deleting the poor Defiler with my railgun. Very satisfying. We'll be doing more 750 point games next, and I believe the first set of rematches with previous opponents. We'll see how that goes.

Time for another, thematically unfocused blog entry, as Im trying to stay more active this time. As said before, and I will probably say it more.. but a lot of my drafts and scribblings that are not commissions are challenges I give myself. The recent leak of Lady Malys made me go through my drafts folder in search for : Its a reinterpretation of the one Dark Eldar character probably never coming back, Kruellagh de Vil. The idea was to reinterpret her as a character that would be equal parts Kabal, Wych and Covenite.. and much more corrupted than her previous incarnation while suggesting some similar elements... including her naughty variant. To do that the idea was to reverse the "colors" ( inspired by the red skinned wrack studio paintjob ) so her red spandexy suit becomes her flayed skin, and what was her one piece of bare flesh in the SFW studio paintjob is now the mask instead.. a shattered harlequin (probably) mask to cover her mouth. I never gotten further than just the head draft though. This is unlike the before mentioned triumvirate projects.. wich I pushed much further. Previous blogs I featured my Tau creations, one of the Dark eldar ones and the Dreadjaw Ork, wich was 1/3th of a Tyranid-Ork triumvirate, the second third of that project ofcourse had to be a genestealer cult character As before I held to a certain "rule" and one of wich was there is always a more regular Infantry sized one among them ( Greyfax, the Visarch, Cypher.) This role is for the Asteroid Mining overseer. While I actually forgot the name, he was supposed to be a named character. Wich seems strange for Genestealer cults ( but then again, yes, they are doomed.. but their entire fluff is about generations.. a genestealer cult named character actually makes as much sense as a Imperial guard named character who too have "short" lifespans in the galactic sense. The last one for the Necron-Tau triumvirate however has had a very long lifespan, and while the eventually released ( remember alot of these drawings are very old now.) actual Silent King is vastly different, this was my interpretation : A huge influence on the concept came from one of the transformers movies ( I dont like them, so I dont remember wich.) in the desert there is a hermit megatron with robotic fleas and everything. This combined with me seeing the silent king back then as a sort of hermit that needed to look as if he never went to stasis created a good mental starting point. Another concept I wanted to convey is that he is in control of the endless swarm, while not carrying a shard of the C'tan himself... this added the idea of a swarm of scarabs engulfing him. Its my only necron character ever and I must say I didnt really got the feeling right, although Im very happy with the vulture, its not my only undead though. I dont know if its appropiate for this forum but coming past these I also wanted to include them.. as a footnote so its not too bothersome that these are AoS drafts : This is a Deid Bel, a midsize centrepiece concept of a "Death" faction idea ( there is more.) that takes the WFB Albion supplement's 3 miniatures and evolve it to an entire faction ( wich was AoS's thing.) and entire army of grave golems. ( this is not entirely true, the core troops, wich I have many more concepts for, are actually retro style mummies of the non egyptian kind.) Until recently, AoS did not feature normal horses ( its actually a thing I liked.) and this interpretation of a vampire horse ( mixing in wolf and bat elements ) is one of my rarer horse attempts ( there are a lot of centaurs though, including Ynnari ones... Ynnari centaurs !? I will come back to that later ;) ) I leave it at that for now.. more soon.

"...... Both are necessary for the survival of humanity."- Confessor Ganinimus While painting bases for the Retributor Squads bases. I decided to take some photos on the bases. the bases are a mix of tile grout, and different size of ballast ( Woodland Scenics fine and medium), Ceramic bricks (Pegasus Hobbies small red bricks). Citadel Skulls, PlastiStrut I beans, and tubes, and guitar string. Vallejo White pumice Ground texture added. Originally it I was gonna have them on desert world. with the Agrellan Badland and Earth. I want my armies to have matching bases, so the switch to urban battlefields Like shown on my Grey Knights (3d printed bits are also this base) One of the big issues between my armies is the amount of Jump models I have so I had to create a solution to not use the flying stems. And this is where they are at. and here is the completed bases for the Palatine Ave Imperator!

16 Guardians done for my pirate force. I might touch up some spots, but no hurry.

Threw this together via bitz I had: archon, void weaver, and death jester kits. I'll run this model as a character in my corsairs army. Sort of a death jester homage. I hope to get it primed this week but have no idea when I'll get started on the paint phase. Thanks for looking.

Just finished up this unit using nothing smaller than a ) brush. It's tabletop ready and replaces a similar unit. Maybe one day I'll clean up some things I didn't notice until after the photos. The guy above is definitely going to get some attention.