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Centurions just needed to be upright, not squatted like that Custodes shield captain fellow

On the one hand, I will be somewhat sad to see Rhinos etc go. (as in, I'm not going to ever stop running Rhino chassis tanks, box dreads etc. no matter their official status- to me, they are what Space Marines are; I've never bought a Primaris vehicle and I never will. Not because of "hatred" or anything silly like that, it's just a product that I have zero interest in). OTOH, it's been nine years. Things change and many, many products in this world aren't kept around for the amount of time that even the newer firstborn kits have had (whether we're talking miniatures, games or any other type of product). Of course, I feel there should be support for these kits, but I also think it is fundamentally an unrealistic expectation to feel like we're entitled to everything sticking around forever. That's just not how the world we live in works. However, if, like me, you're of the opinion that Space Marines have a fundamental identity (both lore- and looks-wise) that you're not interested in moving on from, remember that you can just not do that. Even if you can never, ever get anything but a pickup game, it's not like proxying and counts-as ïs not an option. I also feel like it should be said that yes, people get annoyed when things change, but before Primaris we had a lot of people complaining that things were getting stagnant in both the lore and the model range. You can argue that it was a "monkey's paw" kinda thing and this is not what people really wanted, but realistically speaking, it's simply not possible to please every customer group at the same time - and in the world we live in, new product will always trump everything else, so they pick the option they think will sell the most new stuff. Does it suck? Yeah, it kinda does, but it is a business to them and a hobby to us and expecting different is merely the second step on the road to disappointment. Finally, if you love firstborn, I sincerely hope you have what you need at this point, because it's not like there hasn't been (and still are) any opportunities to buy this stuff. That's not a dig at anyone who prefers the firstborn aesthetic either; I am firmly in the "we don't talk about Primaris" camp myself and I'm never going to start pretending hover tanks are actually as cool as Rhinos.

Ok, but Legends do exist. And because they exist, I want them to be handled to the same standard as they are in AoS.

I'm not surprised the Firstborn are being dumped, if it wasn't for brand recognition I think the term space marine would have been dropped in favour of Primaris at launch and they would be reconned to always have been Primaris. But this is the reason I think that veteran players should seriously look at playing other editions and not just going with the official current edition treadmill nonsense. They are your miniatures and how you play with them is up to you otherwise you will be eternally caught in the cycle of get excited for new product, buy new product, put new product in the pile of shame and then get excited about the next new product which will get legended in favour of even newer new product. No one should be shocked by this by now.

Acchiersum Mourn He stalked through the streets, grinning as he beheld the scope of the devastation that had fell on this city. Even if the Lamenter had let the craft miss the bastion, the city was still grievously wounded - and it was up to him and his fellows to end its wretched suffering. It was a task he would enjoy greatly. The sword seemed to share his enthusiasm as it darted in his hands, an extension of his lethal will, killing with every swing. Flak armour and carapace plate cracked under the sword's edge like crabs' shells under a hawk's beak. Crabs did not scream as they died, but his foes did and it was a sweet song, one that he had not heard for far too long. Acchiersum was laughing, truly laughing as he wrought death with his blade, revelling in what he had been made for.

Yes, the Rat Ogres are perfect for conversion to Drukhari Grotesques. Unfortunately, I am running low on Talos parts. What’s that, I should buy another pain engine for the parts? Hmm…you’ve convinced me…

I rather like centurions, but I know I'm in a minority, I think if you swap the head for one from a ven dread kit it looks a lot better. Same with the Storm Raven, it was a little goofy, but it had a charm of it's own.

If it weren’t for the legal issues, I’d love a community-driven site with core and unit rules for 2nd to 6th edition where people could add comments about their tweaks and home rules; and post retro-rules for new armies and units that came out later.

AK-47,000’s for everybody! Ears too small. This is going to be a bizarre 3d printing niche offering. ‘Grot ear extensions’

Kraggan Not wanting to get wet, dirty and smelly, he had provided incidental tech support to the insurgents in the city. Later he re-hooked up with the Hagga, Mourn and Obadiah in some ruins outside the Arbites Citadel. (Placeholder)

Hagga: Hagga gripped the Mantid's arm firmly. “Well met, brother. Glad to see you made it. Was your mission a success? We've had a few things... not go according to plan... but I think between us we can still pull this off.” He looked around. Himself, Eska, Obadiah, Mourn, Tarh and his grox-variant-thing, Kraggan. Ukalegon was inside, probably killing his way downwards already. Crux'as and Xerxes were handling other matters on the surface - neither seemed well suited to an aquatic insertion. He didn't know if Cyrandras and Atesh were on their way. Or Varne? Hopefully the Doom Eagle had survived his own explosives? Either way, he figured once they were in, they had enough strength to deal with whatever Arbites were still left inside the bastion.

Obadiah: He and Tarh had exfiltrated from the now-empty Tower of Echoes, and Obi couldn't help but smile a little behind the impassive glare of his helmet's faceplate. The landing had been rough, true, but the attack had gone perfectly. The two had waited by the water, hidden beneath their camo cloaks, until the riots began. . . and the bulk hauler falling out of the sky and annihilating the Adminstratum quarter was their signal to move. Tarh had his turtle to swim across the river, but Obi had to risk absconding with the small launch at the relay's jetty. It could only have comfortably fit maybe three normal humans, the craft groaned suspiciously when he put his full weight into it, but the motor got him across the river at a measured pace. They met up with a pocket of mortal militia near the riverbank, and Tarh seemed to settle in with them just fine. Obi let him relax; his blood was up, and waiting felt like the wrong thing to do at the moment. He slung Fate's Eye and drew his bolt pistol instead, and slipped off into the city to find the rest of his erstwhile brothers. Brothers. It was the first time he'd really thought of the other Corsair Astartes that way. He'd been mentally keeping them at a distance -- even Varne, whose nihilistic philosophy actually overlapped with his own -- so he couldn't really say why he was beginning to come around. Maybe it a conditioning thing. He was no Chaplain or Apothecary, so who knew what kind of hypnotic suggestions had been inserted during his ascension. He shook his head to clear the aimless thoughts as he wove through the city streets. Fires were burning, and pockets of rebels were, here and there, trading las-fire with squads of PDF and Arbites. He mostly avoided these, though on occasion he would pot-shot a few Imperials with his pistol just to give the militia the upper hand. At one point, he came across a burned-out Rhino, its entire front half blown outward from some kind of explosive, and the livery burned away so he couldn't tell to whom it belonged. He bypassed the wreck, working his way closer to the Arbites bastion, until he ran into the Rhino's owners. He peeked around the corner of a red-brick warehouse maybe two blocks from the Rhino to discover three Sororitas, standing tall in their power armor, pumping bolt shells down the street at some enemy he couldn't see from his position. He watched as one knelt and began to reload her bolter; he began to pull his head back into hiding but her plate's autosenses -- or maybe some divine favor -- picked him out and she pointed in his direction. The other two whirled from their prior engagement and immediately opened fire on him. Obi threw himself back as bolt rounds tore into the wall where he'd been sheltering, the mass reactives chewing out a section of the corner half his size. Their armor was just as proof against his weapons as his was against theirs. . . but if he could get into the midst of them, his size and strength might give him an advantage. He looked around, mind racing for a solution. Then he looked up at the low roof of the warehouse, and the grin pulled at his lips again. Punching and kicking handholds into the brick, he began to climb. He was only about three meters up when the first of the Sisters jumped from around the corner, bolter up and ready. He could almost feel her disappointment at the lack of a target. Patience. She looked back and waved, and the other two stalked into view, all of their bolters sweeping left and right and behind in a well-disciplined pattern. Too bad they've never been trained to look up. He kicked off of the wall and dropped down directly on top of one of them; the clatter their ceramite plates made upon colliding was loud and unfamiliar, and it made his teeth grate a little, but the sheer mass of his falling body smashed that Sister to the rubbled ground. He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard bones snap from within her armor. Out came Silence, and he launched into an attack. He used his weight to drive the second Sister to the ground, his blade dragging across her gorget with an ear-splitting screeeeeech until it found the seal at the neck. Blood spurted from the wound, splattering across his helm and occluding his vision, but he kept pushing until the movement beneath him ceased. He rolled off the body and leapt to his feet, left hand wiping his faceplate clear while the right switched his blade to a reversed grip. The last Sister was already advancing on him. Her bolter lay on the ground, forgotten, as she had unhitched a chainsword from where it had been mag-clamped to her back. "That won't help you," he said over the helm's emitters with a growling chuckle. The Sister's reply was to rev the chainsword, the engine purring as the teeth whirred with a whine. "Fine," he said. "Have it your way." He took up a fighting stance just as she charged. For a human, she was good. Fast, though that may have partly been because of the armor. He'd never had to study the power armor patterns made for unaugmented humans, but he knew they didn't have the Black Carapace. He knew they didn't have the same speed and strength as an Astartes. He'd say he knew enough. A quick stab, withdrawn and converted into a slash, actually impacted his pauldron, and the chain-teeth dug at the paint marking his Mantis Warrior icon before juddering aside. He'd been trained on the chainsword, but no one in his Chapter had ever tried to teach him how to fence with it, so the maneuvers were all completely new forms to him. After that first strike, he played it safe, dodging as he could and deflecting the swinging blade with Silence or the back of a vambrace when he couldn't evade. He quickly got a feel for her style. It was certainly innovative, with almost no reliance on the brute force that Astartes chainsword training emphasized. But once he had her pattern, the game was won. He just needed patience. Swing, jab, parry, withdraw. As she drew back into a guard, he suddenly lunged forward, his knife-hand leading. Of course she executed a perfect guard, and the chainblade came up and across to block the strike. The whirring teeth actually ripped Silence from his grip, but that was fine. The knife had been a feint. The real attack was the bolt pistol that suddenly filled his other hand. With the chainsword set to the side and his blade on the ground, he could only imagine the look of confidence on the Sister's face turning to sudden horror as he thrust the pistol against the eye lens of her helmet and pulled the trigger. The red brick behind her got a little darker red, and then she fell to the ground. He holstered the pistol, returned his knife to its home, and was about to step off again when Xerxes' flat voice filled his ear. +Target compromised, access established, co-ordinates encoded+. He blink-clicked the file open, and a ghostly map of now-accessible sewers beneath the city filled his vision. He smiled as he replied. +Wasp receives. En route to rendezvous.+ He made his way to the listed coordinates to find Hagga -- and Tarh, surprisingly; he traded a nod with the other sniper -- and a few others waiting. He clasped arms with the Executioner in a traditional greeting of warriors. +Good to see you, brother,+ he said, and again surprised himself when he realized he meant it.

Crux'as This was not the plan! His thoughts spiraled quickly, but a brief breath and meme-notic meditation cycle brought him out of his emotions. The Fate-Spinner did not act on emotions, but on contingences and secondary plans. Very well, he would act. "Sergeant Vix, secure the area- take out any Imperiumpatrol that looks weak. There will be operatives coming it, you will know them when you see them, protect them and follow their orders implicitly. Sergant Evvert, gather your men. We're heading to the armory." Crux'as snapped out the orders. His mind worked fantically. The hauler came in sooner than expected and had hit the admin area rather than the Arbites bastion. That meant that the Imperium forces had a solid redoubt from which to coordinate, a base that was not going to be harmed by the few demo charges that he had access to or any heavy weapon that the rest of the cell had scavenged. No, they needed to get to the heavier weapons stored in the armory to do anything to the bastion. Even if the Astartes didn't want to attempt to destroy the Arbites, the armory was still a target and needed to be taken down. He turned his vox-bead to another channel. ++Firebreak 1 and 2, codeword: Enflame.++ That would send the plantation fighters to attack the kontor warehouses. Whether or not they were even in position was unknown, but if they were able to firebomb the warehouses it would accomplish some of what needed to be done and hopefully draw more attention to the east, rather than west/south-west where he was planning on going. Another flick of the bead. ++X, this is Smiler. Moving to arms. Firebreaks codeword: Enflame. Rendezvous my original base in one hour.++ Xerxes had some intel already, but at the moment Crux'as could not use it to do anything. He needed that armory opened. ==== The platoon ran quickly, roughly stamping through the gawking crowds. A few minor tussles with wayward Arbites squads meant that the thirty-five man platoon was now down five fighters, but still had enough muscle to move to the armory at good pace. The armory was set back in an embankment, with a couple of squads to guard it and a pair of heavy bolter turrets emplaced to ward the door. The guards looked pale and nervous, the junior lieutenant at their head sweating. The Smiler strode up, waving his command group to accompany him while the other men spread out. Not specifically threatening, just watchful. A little projected authority, a raised voice, a rush to make a decision- this was what was needed. "Captain Severin. Access to the armory is needed immediately Lieutenant. We need the equipment to support the Arbites against the terrorists who destroyed the Sororitas. Open that door now so we can start fighting the enemy!"

That was 9 years ago. I have bought a lot of Firstborn stuff in that time but I am not resentful. I had fun painting them and running them for years. I will be sad to see them shuffled off to the retirement home of Legends but I have spent more money on things that have lasted far less time so I am sanguine about the future.

Grot 2: Grot Harder

This is the second time in recent months this has been done (can’t remember when off hand but know it happened). Also not a fan of this and hope it doesn’t become a regular thing. Just a bad look for the company, and will eventually cause ill will with their customer base. Especially if something big goes unnoticed (like an Abnett book).

Ah…Tyranid heaven.

I never felt like the model range felt stagnant in any way other than feeling the desire for a larger scale. In the end I got everything I asked for and everything I never wanted to happen with Primaris. Same thing with Heresy 2.0 beakies, when I saw the leaks I was hyped because I believed they were the size of Chaos Space Marines that just came out. Only to find out on release that the Heresy has a completely new scale for Marine infantry and they made it almost incompatible with the newly released 40K stuff without serious modification (apart from backpacks) and even older bits in some instances, but for some reason the starter Praetors were the size of Primaris Marines. What I wanted out of Space Marines at that point was plastic versions of all the FW stuff and maybe more Mark VIII representation in a new Tactical Squad. I guess the Mark VIII dream became a real nightmare with every single Space Marine having a gorget for the past 10 years. The hover tanks simply don't appeal to me unless it's like a Repulsor with a third party enclosed body kit and turret slapped on it, even then the sponsons annoy me because they seem like simplified not for the sake of actual art design but as a real life manufacturing shortcut. Ultimately only a fraction of FW stuff went plastic and we lost more in general than just Space Marine stuff. I deeply regret not buying the FW Hive Tyrant as an example unrelated to Space Marines.

Hive has been added to the next week preview on WarCom, so there will be a BL release next week after all. No indication if it’s the LE or standard HB version. Thanks to frater @son of the forest for the heads up in News & Rumours.

Im more surprised people are surprised that firstborn are disappearing. There were already jokes back in 9th that went along the lines of "can't wait till 11th and 12th where its all just astartes again" I'm more shocked at the primaris stuff getting sent to legends Anywho can't wait to see all these legends firstborn units come back when the scouring gets fleshed out

Love your MkV! I finished another batch of Ultramarine glory. 8 Tacticals done. I tried a different approach this time. I thinned the UM Contrast and I think it worked well with the shoulder pads and the helmets. But I fumbled with the Forgeworld UM shoulder pad - of course :-/ The white was not thin enough. With the next batch I will try to mix both techniques. Applying Contrast as it is on everything but shoulder pads and helmets. 20 done, 25 more to go!

I, andes, continue the 12 Months of Hobby Challenge and for the month of May pledge to complete a Vespid Stingwing for my Araheim Kill Team, and 3 Deffkoptas.

...and they also would have bought a lot fewer Firstborn kits between Spring 2017 and now. Some of them probably would have just ragequit or been a lot louder in their opposition to Primaris. But you see, if you turn up the heat on the boiling frog SLOWLY...

This has been stealth added to the Sunday Preview, not clear whether its the limited edition or standard hardback

Blue horrored my post

It sure looks like you have things planned out. Good for you - I think it's a very healthy approach to the hobby. As an aside: As a hobbyist who was active during 5th/6th edition and skipped most of the changes of upheavals post 8th edition, I still struggle to adapt to the 'new norm' where many kits' availability is limited and the pace of turnaround is breakneck, given my progress. Back in the day, I never struggled to get the kits I wanted and the shelf-life of products appeared to be longer (or even indefinite). Now, things are clearly different: characters locked in boxes or available later for quite ridiculous prices, discount boxes being limited runs etc. And there's this inherent pressure to this: get things now with a discount or risk missing them out entirely or having to pay full prices. I find this "new GW landscape" quite frustrating. And it's great that I'm not in the hobby loop since I find myself very prone to these kinds of addictions :D It seems we have a very similar approach to the hobby. These are my thoughts and plans, too. I'm quite happy to get the new speeder, though. *** In terms of staying on-topic within this subforum, here's some actual work in progress. The botched squad markings after my first attempt: And after an attempt to refine them without resorting to painting them from scratch: I now regret not having taken a 'before' photo of the other pads, but here are the finished ones with the chapter symbol: These are also a great example of my limited imagination/foresight. Initially, I planned to paint the blue cross on top of the yellow stripe and... it turned out the that there wasn't enough contrast between the two bright colours. That's why I decided to put more work into these and paint a purple line/border to help set the crosses of from the yellow stripe. I think I got it right in the end but, frankly, I should've thought about it beforehand.

Yeah, you know the rules. It's guns OR shoes - not both! There's also the old ammo grot(?) who's taking a crap in an unguarded ork helmet.

Oi may I haz some shoes, boss?

Jeesh! Good job on them at any rate! I don't usually go too wild with the freehand, but I know it can be very frustrating, especially when trying to have consistent squad markings. I took the coward's way out of this quandry years ago and just bought 3d printed applique markings and chapter icons for my Storm Lords... While very few of my Salamanders ever actually got markings of any kind. Deathwatch was the most fun because each one is different lol. Beyond that, I understand how your experience would be disheartening for a moment, and hope that you can find your way through to right-sizing the hobby in your life. For a few years in my mid-20s I was overseas with no access to new minis or gaming. But that's when I really locked in on a daily painting habit, and was able to raise the bar on my skills primarily through just trusting the process and being okay with missteps and 'trying again'. It seems like you've got some of that figured out for yourself, but for me the heart of the hobby really is the daily 'hour of power'. More than 60 minutes at a stretch usually starts to feel heavy, and even on a quiet weekend I will rarely do more than 2 sessions in a day. The nice thing about this though is that my eyes are not, as they say, bigger than my stomach. I know how big to make each batch of minis so that I can make my way through at least a full step an hour. Anyway - I love seeing your updates and hope you stick with it! Cheers, The Good Doctor.

Yeah he used it. I think at the beginning of round 3 when everything was on the board. I had my cultist squad that was in a fight with the guants fail and everyone else passed. I was rocking the leadership tests this game. I only failed warp pact once and that was on the last turn and lost a raptor. On the same note though, only half my units actually had the ability to use warp pact. My pics are all on my phone so and I am usually here at work so I do not like to send stuff to my work email to use my work computer, I prefer not to get flagged by IT security. I'll figure it out when I remember to hit this site up at home some time.

That is the big question at this stage. If it were me, I would I would supply Chaos with the HH vehicle kits and some suitably spiky/slimy/dusty/party accessories but I know GW seems to want to keep the HH and 40K ranges separate so I don't really know what they will do.

Reminds me of my first ever game of warhammer. It was the 2nd edition starter set in my local gw. They gave me 20 grots and the other player 10 space marines with a missile launcher, sergeant and flamer. I lost.

Varne He’d underestimated the defences. Two and a half minutes had passed in a blur, and he was over halfway through the belt of mass-reactives linking up into the ammo stock hidden behind his jump pack. The sappers had quickly set up their charges and began their daring sprint back to the Arvus. Kade had been gunned down like vermin by a group of militia who had taken cover behind a recaf stand. Varne liberated them of their cover, and their lives, with a burst from the autocannon. Symon had gone missing - Varne knew he had a wife back on the Razor, so couldn’t be sure if his measure of cowardice extended to spousal abandonment or if he had just taken a stray lasgun bolt in the panic. The Doom Eagle unleashed burst after burst towards the primary lock where ibn Kharan now ran from cover to cover, hounded by two separate squads of administratum rabble with autoguns. Movement to his east, across the staging area, caught Varne’s eye. Several battle-sisters advancing up an avenue, backed up by a Rhino. He cursed in Gathii, sparing no final glance for ibn Kharan as he swung left and opened fire on this new foe. His first four-round challenge took one of the Sororitas in the upper-thigh and tore her in two. The rest of her squad quickly dove into cover and the staccato return of bolter fire ripped into the barriers lining the edge of the landing pad, with a couple of stray rounds boring holes in the ablative armour they’d welded to the Arvus. Denied of decent targets from their desperate search for cover and loose formation, Varne rhythmically depressed the trigger to rain down a storm of solid shells upon the front of the rhino, tearing away armour plates, buckling the tracks, and eventually detonating some form of interior payload, causing the front of the vehicle to completely tear open with a billowing cloud of flame. He chanced another glance to his right, noting that ibn Kharan was nowhere to be seen, the administratum rabble instead running up the thoroughfare towards the landing pad. He turned his back to the carnage, orienting himself towards the waiting ramp of the Arvus, then opened his vox channel to the pilot. As he made to speak, he heard an all too familiar sound piercing through the air - the unmistakable sound of wind passing over small fins, the gyroscopic spin as a warhead careens towards its target. He had just enough of a split-second to identify it as likely belonging to a shoulder-mounted, standard issue, Cadia-pattern, disposal missile launcher, before the missile struck the reinforced base of the platform. The floor fell away and Varne tumbled across the, now inclined, painted image of the aquila, just managing to grasp a shorn I-beam with his new leg, the fleshy tendril curling around the groaning metal as the Arvus slowly slid towards him. Fortunately, the craft’s movement was arrested by a pair of cables, held in place with the pilot’s horrified expression comically pointing towards the upside-down Doom Eagle. His autocannon hung a few feet below him (above him?), suspended by the ammunition belt, swaying like the pendant of a grandfather clock. As he reached up to find purchase and pull himself right, a secondary explosion sprayed him with flame, a nearby fuel line rupturing from the blast and tearing a crater in the roadway. The creaking of the beam, his lifeline, grew pained, and suddenly he found the brown waters of the canal rushing up to meet him. Yet again I tumble through the sky and into darkness - perhaps I should look for some symbolism. The last thing he saw before smashing into the depths was the distant, falling silhouette of a bulk-hauler piercing the clouds like a spear of the gods. _______ His descent through the dark water was serene. He heard nothing, saw nothing, and experienced only a peaceful weightlessness. Fortunately, his grossly malformed leg had swollen to form a tight seal against the armour of his lower leg, thus he was spared a death by drowning. In those silent moments, for the first time since leaving the obscura den, he had time to be truly alone. He was disturbed to find that a pervasive sense of unease gripped him, and through the rapidly adjusting autosenses found that he was looking down at his hand, which held a detonator. Is this the right path? You were so sure of yourself before, and now after a few hours of talking to the Shepherd you are willing to inflict plague and stagnation upon a whole city. How can the peace of nothingness and the horror of disease and decay be any farther apart? He scrunched his eyes closed, his trembling hand held in stasis with an armoured thumb ready to depress the trigger. What if he lied to you? You know the duplicity of the dark powers, you have fought with and against their champions. Now, you would climb in bed with one of them at the whim of a demented mortal? The images of the obscura den flashed through his mind. The foetid euphoria, the joy in the expressions of the flock, the antithesis of torment. He saw himself, what he was becoming; his mutated leg, the way he had cowed that man in the Arvus with exaltation to the God of Decay. He didn’t recognise this person, and it frightened him. You are a tool, Varne. He chuckled in the darkness as he sank fast, further and further down. Through Chapter Master Hearon, the Emperor used you. Through Inquisitor Croyle, the Inquisition used you. Through the Blackest Heart, the Tyrant used you. Now, through the Shepherd, the Pantheon uses you. You cannot fight your nature. Is the bolter a monster for unleashing its storm of iron, is the gladius a monster for following the arc it is set upon? His thumb plunged down. Four impressions of a vague displacement and pressure buffeted him in rapid succession, followed shortly after by an overwhelming sense of weight pressing upon him. Thus, the river flows unbound unto Harville. His boot hit the floor of the inner lock chamber with a faint thud, and his autocannon floated down a second after, which he lazily snatched from the space in front of him. For the last few moments he had sunk straight down without moving, therefore based on the direction of the detonations, he had a rough idea which way he faced. He lifted one leg after another, beginning a sluggish march across the dirty, rusted iron arena of this man-made basin - aiming towards the city center. After a minute, he felt another wave of pressure, more powerful than those previous, even reverberating up through the earth and through the metal floor. The hauler has struck its target then. Obadiah and Tarh’s landing may have gone awry, but at least the rest is going somewhat to plan. As the minutes ticked by during his languid crawl, he begun to notice a subtle current running counter to the colossal inflow caused by his demolitions. Following the flow of silt, he eventually found himself at a grate set into the side of the chamber, some form of sewage outflow perhaps. It was clear that the river’s weight was pushing the water back along its destined flow and Varne even had to mag-lock himself to the floor to avoid being slammed into the grate. He unhooked a krak grenade from his belt, primed it, waited two and a half seconds, then let the current take it. The explosion tore through the grate, buffeting the space marine with yet another pressure wave. He shook himself loose, breathed deep of the recycled air in his helm, and trudged on through his makeshift entry. A walk through a mile of filth beats climbing back out. +Varne to Blackest Heart. I am entering the city sewer system from the west wall of the inner lock chamber. Does anybody read me?+

My 15 Centurions are gonna be sad as well. Hopefully we get Primaris Centurions with even more gloriously chonky armor.

Our weapon sings the fury of the Golden One Mine armor imbued with denizens of the Primordial Our minds armored by the Word Mine soul dedicated to the Eightfold Path This is what it means to be of the Ebon Word We bring death to the blind and foolish We bring truth for those that wish to be free We bring the enlightenment of the forgotten We come for all We are the Ebon Word - Coryphaus Abraxis of the Ebon Word Abraxis Coryphaus, Left Hand of the Iscarne “I am the discipline in the prayers, the wrath among the heathen. I am the destruction that lays fallow the fields of the unbelievers and the ruin that brings down their walls. I am the steel glove of the Truth.” Abraxis, Coryphaus Where the Iscarne speaks revelation, Abraxis enforces it in blood and fire. As Coryphaus of the Ebon Word, he is the warband’s brutal commander and a warrior whose faith is measured not in prayer, but in the ruin left behind his advance. His armor bears the scars of a hundred sieges, each mark a sermon written in iron. He leads from the front, his voice a thunderous litany that drives the faithful to frenzy and the unworthy to despair. Abraxis is loyal to a fault, bound utterly to the Iscarne and the creed of the Ebon Word. He sees himself as the left hand of divine purpose, as the one who strikes while the right hand guides. His devotion is not blind; it is deliberate, forged through decades of war and tempered by the certainty that only through obedience can revelation endure. To disobey the Iscarne is to defy Chaos itself, and Abraxis would sooner die than allow such heresy to take root. On the battlefield, he is a force of pure conviction: a beacon of wrath among faltering hordes, his hammer smashing hymns of destruction. He commands with the authority of scripture, his orders delivered like verses from the Book of Lorgar. Those who fight beside him call him the Iron Voice, for his commands carry the weight of the Word itself; unyielding, absolute, and final.

One person who will be devastated is 40K Youtuber Paul is bad at stuff. He's done a bunch of tournaments with 18 Centurions in his list. And he just released a video where he took 36 Centurions and 1 Ancient to a tournament.

Tarh The Smiler had laid the groundwork well, a safe house, well safe water front warehouse by the docks to be exact, had been ready for their arrival after the Chosen signalled success at the tower. The rumble that the Smiler had assembled had been in awe, or right out terror at the sight of the Chosen when they entered, but discipline had been quickly restored. There had been no bed, but he found a corner to nap in. Woken way to off then by the coming and going and other preparation, no matter a solider got what sleep he could. With daylight outside he was woken by a militia man, several more, a squad in fact, standing nearby. “Time to go, we need to be in position shortly.” And indeed the warehouse was empty, most of the troops already dispersed. Of the Chosen there was no sign. Saddling up he let the squad lead the way, there streets where busy and the unrest palpable, and despite the cover he had thrown over the autocannon to disguise its presence the great Tortoise drew attention. He was perhaps a few streets away; it was hard to judge in the crowded mercantile quarter, from the designated rendezvous point when he heard faint explosions in the distance and panicked crowds. The men he had been with dashed into a nearby building. Following was no option so instead he took a side street, a little while later coming across an enclosed garden. As a waiting point it would do. Flackfire rung out across the city and drew his attention skywards, the bastion killer part of the plan was making its decent. He lost sight of it behind the roofs before it hit, but felt the impact as everything shook, badly. Time to go. Retracing his steps he found the streets flooded, at least half a meter of river water, and the building the militia men had taken cover in looked half collapsed. It took him a while to navigate and fight his way forward, until he spotted a familiar sight at the other end of the street, Hagga and his hound. Another minute and a bit and he pulled up alongside the Chosen. “Has there been a change of plan? I did not think I would see you down in the streets.” He let the chosen fill him in, the bastion stood and they were preparing to infiltrate it. With the squad he was supposed to support lost it seemed as good a plan as any and Tarh followed the Chosen as they gathered. Too late he realised that it would be a subnautical assault. Through flooded tunnels and part of the sewer network. Cursing under his breath, would he ever be dry on this planet? Tarh kept his eyes open the last few streets to their entry point for anything that might serve as an air bottle or other reserve. The best he could find was a pair of barrel from a warehouse. Emptied out and sealed, strapped to Mithra’s side, with a hose as makeshift airline he had perhaps a few minutes of air, but better than nothing. In the end he did not know how he made it through the tunnels; one or more of the Chosen had to have been clearing the way, and guiding Mithra. Tarh had clung to the howdah saddle, head down, holding onto the hose with his teeth, taking breaths sparingly. Until something ripped one of the barrels, and suddenly there was water in his air. Pulling the hose away he clung to Mithras back, lungs burning, for so so long. Surfacing was a new agony as gasping for breath the water that had still been in his mouth went down the wrong way. Coughing and for the second time in two days retching up river water he recovered a little. Enough to take stock that Mithra was ok, and both Autocannon and Long-las dry under their oilskin wrappings. The laspistol he was less sure of, better not rely on it if he could.

I love your bone and purple scheme - great contrast, and it looks both natural and unnatural at the same time, which IMHO is perfect for nids. Also like their muddy little feet - really ties them to their bases.

Atesh Sapik: Atesh found himself riding in a hastily-armored ground vehicle with a bunch of other rebels he joined after crowing to Rakash about how well the plan went. Rakash had said something about the craft missing its target, but Atesh hadn't paid much attention. The plans of the demigods (strong-minded, but limited in scope) mattered nothing in the multitudinous skeins of fate. Not for the first time, Atesh meditated on whether fate was actually a Crow, or a spider with threads connecting all through the aether. The impromptu carrier in front of his was blown to the empyrean, having been hit by some defense (automated or other.) Atesh's carrier stopped immediately and he confusedly scrambled to the side of the street for cover. It appeared he was only a few blocks from the mercantile square he'd visited with the grinner on their first sojourn. Atesh ducked again as the carrier he'd ridden burst into flame. Apparently, the incendies he'd lovingly crafted on the ship found their way to a heat source. Shame. Thankfully, fate had saved two bottles just needing a wick and a light in his pack. Four more rebels joined him in cover; he smacked their improvised armor for their attention and motioned them to follow him. The squad backed away from the source of fire down the street opting for another way to the rendezvous. Upon rounding a corner to find a parallel route, they immediately bumped into some PDF troops who appeared to be looting a local residence. Atesh started laughing and reflexively tossed flame in their direction while his squad opened up with their lasrifles. More PDF came out of the...apparently not?...looted house, and Sapik called the most organized retreat he could. "Oh :cuss:! Not this way, NOT THIS WAYYYYY!" Atesh never saw what happened to his squad. He took winding, circuitous routes through the city running from fight to skirmish and ducking between exchanges of crossfire. He found himself following a wall that appeared to delineate the district he'd entered and stopped to catch his breath in front of a burning building. The flames calmed him, and as he stared he felt his heart begin to slow and his breath catch. He found himself with three choices to try and find his market: back the way he'd come, off to the right, or directly on. He decided to continue straight. As he took his first step, he heard a quiet but crisp snap of broken tension, and saw two small metal objects fall from a balcony. He recognized the objects' explosive nature just in time to think of an obscenity and be atomized. The end of the vision quickly brought him back to himself, and Sapik bolted down the path to the right. He burst into what appeared to be a market square being used as a forward base in the Battle of Harville. As he started to reach into the ghost realm with his hate and surprise, his emotions evaporated as he recognized the signs of the Eight on several pieces of armor. He almost sobbed, laughing in relief that he had reached the intended rendezvous.

So, I'm clear that this is how it's all proceeding, but is it cool to have a quick meta-discussion on this before we file it away? I can sympathise with Mazer. It's hard to motivate/keep together a motley band of cutthroats and villains, especially when there's a lot of 'GM Only' knowledge being passed around. There's definitely a huge element of trust the GM. That being said, I also agree with what Lysi said earlier: If we're entertaining the concept that we all have our own goals and these might run counter to each other, then I think it's reasonable to have frustrations in-character which manifest as just bugging out of the mission, or honestly even executing other characters. Nobody wants to be that guy, but Kraggan betrayed us and we sort of let it slide, but if we let another betrayal get away with it then I think Huron will soon be replacing our management. Varne's plan was to land the Arvus, blow the dock, then get back to the Razor, which satisfies his portion of the compact IMO. Having to come up with reasons to now abandon the Arvus and to head into the sewers that don't contradict what I've already written is using up a good chunk of my dwindling mental bandwidth. The best I can do right now is getting the Arvus shot out of the sky, but we kind of already did that scene. What am I saying here? I don't know. I get it, it's hard enough at the best of times to get a party of five to stick together for 'good-aligned' goals, nevermind... this. I think we as players need to trust the GM that he has a plan for sure. I also think @Mazer Rackham if we have the freedom to backstab each other then we also need to have the freedom to abandon/kill/maim/burn our companions too (within reason). The OOC 'trust the GM' part runs counterintuitive to the IC 'I'm surrounded by liars and awful people' part sometimes. I'm very tired and waffling a bit, but it's not coming from a place of dissatisfaction, I promise - loving the game. Just hit some cognitive dissonance earlier and have been too busy to put my thoughts into words until now. Peace and love, Smeg-leg Pete

Tarh OCC: removed New start Walking along the inner perimeter of the ground floor he were about one third way around on the river side when he came across several storage rooms. He took a peek inside one, his Preysense mask compensating for the dark. Boxes, barrels and half empty shelves, what was inside he could not tell, but in one corner he spied a weapons rack, mostly full. If the empty slots corresponded to the guards on duty then there weren’t many left. Back in the corridor a chill begun to make itself felt, a child of the soul, for the damp cloths had mostly dried out. He did not like it. A little later he spotted a downwards leading staircase, the signs by the door spoke of maintenance. ++I’ll see if there is a way to cut the power down there, or at least draw attention away from the witches further up.++ Trading the chill of sorcery for the damp of a basement near a river was somehow comforting, as was the slight tinge of rot in the air. He speculated that the lower levels had flooded at some point and no one since had property dried them out. The fuse and power panel when he found it was dusty, tripping some fuses would impair the power nicely. With care he pulled on a few wires, a few sparks and flickers was good, but not enough. A few more and the better part of his canine of water, no doubt contaminated by the river, and the sparks shone brightly for a moment before all went dark. It took less time then he would have liked for footsteps to sound above him, someone coming to check the power. First one then two lantern shown down, of course they would come as a pair. Backing up to a wall, and hopefully outside of the coming guards line of sight, assuming they head straight for their goal and did not search, Tarh readied his Laspistol, three shots to the back each, then the axe to make sure. As plans go it worked well enough, on the first guard. The second had dropped as soon as the las-bolt flash illuminated the dark. Tarh adjusted his aim but the guard scrabbled for cover. His mistake however was to go for the vox unit on his belt, the blinking red light as clear as a signal fire to the preysense filters, and five las-bolts later the guard slumped lifeless, vox unit untouched. Heading back upstairs he tried to catch up with the Chosen, but as he neared the front entrance hall he found a door labelled ‘security’ half open to one side. Peaking insight a security desk with pict screens, and two mugs beside the stations. The source of the two guards perhaps? He tipped the mugs over, perhaps it would harm the electronics when power was returned. Two further floors up he found the first of several corpses, shrivelled old men and women, bold and eyeless. Where these the corpse gods witches? They did not look like much, an image cast in that of their god judging by what he had seen in their temples, but then it never pained to underestimate sorceress of any strip. Tarh stopped, froze, had that been a scream. He waited for a long count but no alarm rang out, and no screams echoed back. Maybe he was imagining it. By now he had noted the mark by each door that housed a corpse, the Chosen was indicating where he had been. No need retread ground, Tarh returned to the central staircase and ascended further, skipping several floors when he saw marks. The soul chill was back and stronger, while he hesitated on the threshold; it also confirmed to Tarh that there were witches left up here. He thought about waiting for the Chosen, perhaps he had overtaken him. It seemed a good thought. And yet, and yet what if he had not, and there was work left to be done. With trepidation he pushed on, hand firmly griping his pistol and axe. Soon he stopped, uncertain, ‘jumping at shadows now’ he asked himself. Reciting by rote a pray of warding, calling on the pantheon to shield him, he continued step by step. A rustle of cloth and patter of bare feet on stone was all the warning he got as another eyeless witch rushed him from a side room. Energy crudely wreathing the foes fist. A snapshot of the las-pistol went wide, there there was no distance. Tarh danced backward, badly, but glowing fits was never a good omen. A blow hit him square, and the front of his harness caught flame. A quick pull on the autogun harness freed him from it and the burning webbing. In so doing he fell backwards, axe and pistol both went flying. Despite the eyless skull the witch had no trouble seeing him as Tarh tried to create some distance, he needed his long-las now. Alas it was not the long-las, but the discarded autogun that did it in for the Astropath. The witch fire cooked of some of the ammunition and the gun shot wildly before shaking itself apart in a small explosion. So much for quite, Tarh though as he picked himself up, but the pantheon must be looking out for him tonight, for the witch had not only caused its own demise, its body had shielded Tarh from the same. Emboldened he pressed on, until sometime later, Tarh was not entirely shore how much, he came across the Chosen, standing over a dead witch. ++Any more levels to clear?++ he asked, but the Chosen shook his head. Wearily Tarh turned to head back towards the grand staircase, so many steps down and he was feeling weary and sore. Perhaps he could get a few hours rest after they crossed into the city, but first there would be another cold wet journey across the river. ‘Oh pantheon, let there be a dry bed in a safe house’ he thought, he knew it would be too much to ask for it to be warm as well.

You are 'Moo'-st! (most ) welcome, sir.

Ukalegon Ukalegon barely spared himself a moment of grim satisfaction at the sight of the destruction of something as beautiful as an edifice to the God-Emperor as he fell through the clouds at terminal velocity. There was work to be done. He ignited his jump pack again and turned over into a steep dive, plunging near vertically down towards the heart of bastion which the bulk hauler had narrowly missed, his auto-senses firmly fixed upon the massive tower at the center of the fortress. He was going to make this a spectacle. Were it not for his Lyman’s ear and unnatural fortitude, he would have blacked out from the g-forces alone, but he was made from far sterner stuff than the average mortal, gene-forged for moments such as these. His vision narrowed as the roof of the central tower grew beneath him. He was laughing, finally pushed past the brink of reason and guilt and shame and hate as he dove through the clouds. Tracer-led fusilades of heavy bolter fire arced up towards him and he danced and barrel-rolled around them during his break-neck dive like a bird of prey. None could touch him. He was a red-and-black meteor, a ceramite falcon. He filled his hands with his chainsword and infernus pistol, and at the last possible moment, performed a forward somersault and slowed his descent, now fighting against Bounty’s massive gravity well, and leveled his sidearm at the roof, vapourizing a hole in the rockcrete beneath him in the manner of a boarding torpedo. Ukalegon landed in a cloud of choking smoke and debris and shouts of confusion and horror and pain. He rose to his full height and searched through the miasma of detritus for survivors. He was surrounded by large panes of armaglass on all sides, and he could make out the black pillar of smoke rising to the east where his chariot had crashed. The comms personnel, those not killed by the sudden and violent appearance, gawked at him, and he engulfed them in a gout of burning promethium with the wave of his hand. He was soon greeted by lasfire and he turned upon those of the Provost Marshal’s surviving bodyguards, rendering them into horrible red stains with his chainsword. By this time, the marshal, to his credit, had managed to claw his way out of the rubble and debris left by Ukalegon’s entrance, and now stood, bloody and bruised, but defiant, with his shock maul and bolt pistol in hand. The Lamenter grinned wickedly at the human and raised his chainsword in salute. “You will die for this, trai-" Ukalegon was upon him in an instant, covering the gap between them with inhuman speed, and severed the arm bearing the crackling mace at the elbow in one stroke. He felt the dull impact of a bolt round detonating against his breastplate at point-blank range, but he ignored it, dropped his infernus pistol, and grasped the marshal by his remaining wrist. He squeezed until he felt the man’s bones pop and break in his iron grip and the bolt pistol clattered ineffectually to the floor. "Not yet, Provost Marshall, not yet. First I wish for you to see what is befalling your fair city of Harville, now that the Red Corsairs have found you, and Huron Blackheart, Lord of the Maelstrom, has demanded your world be offered up in sacrifice." Ukalegon released the man's wrist, who fell to his knees in pain, cradling his broken arm in his lap. “Look out yonder, see how I have obliterated your holiest of sanctums and murdered the shrine of your God. Observe how our forces sweep through your streets, burning your good works to cinders, and how your levees burst and drown the rest. Hell has come for you, and we shall reap this world for all of its bounties." "Please… no… why…" Ukalegon reduced some of the armaglass window panes to molten slag with his pistol and smashed out the remaining material, then grabbed the provost marshal by the throat and dragged him over to the yawning, jagged opening. He stood before the precipice, and held the weakly struggling human out over the chasm. He activated his armour’s external vox projectors and amplified his voice to a terrifying roar, bellowing his defiance down at the rest of the arbites fortress. +DEFENDERS OF BOUNTY, HEED ME! HURON BLACKHEART OF THE MAELSTROM HAS COMMANDED THAT YOUR WORLD DIE! HAGGA HEART-EATER AND HIS FORCES HAVE COME FOR BOUNTY! I, UKALEGON THE BLACK, HAVE SLAIN YOUR EMPEROR'S FAVOURED DAUGHTERS FROM ORBIT AND DESTROYED HIS TEMPLE! NOW YOUR MARSHAL SHALL FEEL THE TEETH OF RETRIBUTION, AND SO TOO SHALL ALL OF YOU!+ He swept his chainsword out in an arc towards those tens of meters below who gawked up at him while he ranted at them. Through a constricted windpipe the provost marshal choked out his last words, some final curse, which was lost to Ukalegon, swept up as he was in this moment of dark glory. +BEAR WITNESS! BLOOD FOR BLOOD! VENGEANCE FOR THE FALLEN!+ The Lamenter hoisted the human up above himself and savagely buried his chainsword in his torso and with a horrible flesh-chewing racket, sawed clean through him, flesh, armour and all amid an eruption of blood and viscera which gushed over Ukalegon's armour and rained down onto the courtyard below, followed shortly thereafter by the marshall’s lower half which landed with a dull, bone-crunching splat. +YOUR DOOM IS HERE!+

I think it's for the new hobbyists so they can create cinematically posed models like the box art. Pretty much hand holding while the sculptors pat themselves on the back for creating overly complex kits. I don't think they tailor to veterans anymore. I do agree, it is a truly awful kit though.

Hagga: Hagga watched with something approaching amusement as the hauler raced towards the bastion. He looked away for a moment as sudden detonations erupted at the other end of the city. Good. Varne's demolitions team had been successful. He looked back… What the…? The hauler had sailed past its intended target entirely, and was now in the process of burying itself in the heart of the city. How…? How in the name of hell had Ressokov missed so badly? And how had Ukalegon allowed it to happen? Much of the city was now being destroyed in the throes of fire or flood, including the Administratum building and the Cathedrum, but this was still a bloody disaster! The Imperials had a structurally sound fortress that the Corsairs had no weapons capable of penetrating. It would be a rally point for all the defenders still in the city, and an anvil that the Corsairs would be obliterated against once the rest of the Imperials returned - and they would be on their way very, very soon if the Provost Marshal had half a brain… Then more immediate problems broke the Executioner's train of thought. A heavy rattle and clatter against the hull, juddering their flight. Of course. The Hydra that should have been dead seconds ago still lived. “Evasive action!” he roared. “Put us down somewhere in the city, below their firing arcs!” Even in his armour, he felt the drag of the pilots’ sudden manoeuvring, and had to grab at a handhold on the internal bulkhead. “We can drop you in the city, but there's nowhere to put her down, my Lord! It's too tight between the buildings!” Hagga grimaced, switching to his vox even as he turned away to hurry to the troop bay. ++Fine. Find us a flat roof, and hover as low as you can over it for a few seconds! Then get the hell out of the city until we call for you!++ Astartes were foot soldiers. The best foot soldiers in the galaxy. If they could get on the ground, maybe he could figure out a way to turn this around. He didn't know how yet, but he'd be damned if he wasn't going to give it a try! “Mourn! Kraggan!” he yelled as he reached the bay, “get ready to jump! Eska, come here! Veni, throne-damn it!”

I still love (and have,) these

Sherrypie's quick and dirty baroque: so you like chiaroscuro? I like baroque aesthetics. Heavy shadows, stark lighting, deep reds and autumnal browns. Restricted Zorn palette and Blanchitsu, old masters and all that jazz. I am also profoundly prone to making due with what I've got within an arms's reach, whether that's a suboptimal shade of yellow or painting with a pine needle because I was outside at the time and it worked well enough (true story): don't get hung up on paint choices. These have been painted mostly with Vallejo Game Colors, but that's an insignificant detail. There's an AP tone and an AK ink in there as well. Any paint line you like will do, the general ideas won't change. Similarly, these BFGalaxy escort full of spindly little details were about the worst models to demonstrate this rough and "painterly" process with, but that's life. I'll think about it next time :D 1) Prime black. We're going to want those heavy shadows everywhere. 2) Build up the base by overbrushing successively lighter blends of grey + bone. The slightly blueish German Grey is here partly by accident from testing stuff out, but builds up to a darker finish than my usual Imperial ships under all the washes. For my otherwise pretty similar but warmer navy scheme, I'd replace the grey with a dark brown. 3) Block in the rest of the main colours. Bone for guns, yellow for engines and various bits. At this point I usually go over the model, trying to find some nice places for spot colours like heraldic fields, stripes and such to go. 4) Washes and details. My go-to liquid talent is Vallejo's Model Air series Burnt Umber, a slightly reddish deep brown that's runny enough to be used as a brush-applied wash straight from the palette. Agrax and similar washes do about the same. Similarly, my black-ish wash at the moment is Army Painter's Dark Tone, after one too many times that my Nuln Oil dried white. Works nicely for generous applications. With the washes done, it's time to start detailing things again. First with more bone, using fine edge highlights and finishing with sharp lines and dots of pure white. I do usually make another pass with more washes and edge highlights here, to soften the transitions a bit. The reds get a bit of orange blended in. The various little lights are white dots covered with fluo paints. 5-6) For engine flares, my usual workflow starts from white, putting yellow on the halfway mark, adding more orange, red and eventually umber as we get farther away from the heat source. I use fluorescent paints here to help a bit with the brightness. Ultimately, this is usually a desperate wrassle of trial and error full of Bob Ross quotes and happy little accidents, where I'm just splodging more bright stuff on one end and darker stuff on the other until it looks acceptable. One can always neaten things up later, but sometimes the sculpt is fighting you and it's just better to let good enough be. 7) For my bases, it's the same but just messier. Take a bad brush that's already hardened to abuse and stipple on some red, orange and yellow. These can be wet, it dries into nice nebulae shapes and is a fun way to use the last drops remaining on your wet palette. Put white stars on with a sharper brush. Now, alternating layers of fluorescent orange and red with pure white stars, build up the clouds until satisfactory. 8) For the scrolls, you could start from a brown base, but here I've gone the lazy route of just starting from bone. Some white towards the edges, a watered down brush of burnt umber in the folds and that's the basics down. With a fine brush, I then carefully neaten the outline of the scroll with black, highlight the sharp edges with white and jot down the actual lettering. When writing on models, I start from the middle letter of each word and try to fit the names somewhat neatly onto the scroll. If it doesn't work, no biggie, just cover it up and try again. And that's it. Matt varnish on top and they're ready for deployment. Hope this helps someone or at least amused you today :)

GW has a business plan centered around constantly pushing new products, regardless of lore change or model invalidation. To legends they go, which is a nice way of saying we’ll forget about those models in a few years time. The player base that used to be, pre-pandemic, is not the current player base. That’s just from my own personal experience, playing the game, going to the game store, and going to some huge events like the Las Vegas Open. It’s expanded! We’ve got a whole new generation of players that don’t have the physical and mental baggage of editions past, and lore lost. As long as people keep buying, the machine will keep churning. I’ll pour one out for the homie devastators and tacticals that are no longer here. I’m also trying to get in a Zen state about editions and changes, because hobby is supposed to be fun. Sometimes the bickering, and concern over change overwhelms what the hobby brings me personally, which is an escape from reality and a chance to hang with friends.

More like they settled on a new design for rhino and are using that as the basis for updated predators/vindicators/whirlwinda/razorbacks. They might (stress might as its all rumours at this stage) only give us the new rhino and Land Raider this edition and then release the others next edition (of course they could drip feed over the edition like the assault terminators).

It's been a busy couple of months and I haven't had too much time to paint but I've been slowly chipping away at these ICC's in the background. I should have a bit more time in May to dedicate to my beloved dark angels so there should be more frequent updates soon (famous last words)!