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The outpost changed hands with almost no one the wiser. Traders still bustled through Salvager’s Row, lugging crates of scrap and half-broken machinery. The ancient water pump hissed and groaned in its battered station, supplying the lifeblood of a thousand residents. Even the toll booth, perched by the outpost’s main thoroughfare, continued to collect the Emperor’s tithe—or so the clerks believed. In truth, the coin now lined the coffers of a new master. Far from the prying eyes of Imperial command, small changes took root. A ragged banner disappeared here, replaced by a fresh cloth whose stitching carried a subtle, alien motif. A storeroom was cleared out and repurposed as a hidden armoury, masked by rows of empty barrels. Over the span of a few short days, a network of quiet alliances formed. Whispers replaced open declarations, and men and women who had once known only fear found hope in the Resistance's promise. From a corner overlooking Salvager’s Row, a newly opened mechanic’s workshop stood as one more unassuming shack in a row of rusted outbuildings. Its proprietor, a soft-spoken older man, greeted passersby with a friendly wave and talked shop with visiting crews. In private, he jotted down the details of each visitor—names, affiliations, rumours. Slowly, knowledge flowed into the Resistance's web. Two streets away, on the far side of the water well, the old wayside chapel continued to hold its daily devotions. Its caretaker, a dour priest loyal to the Imperium, took little notice of the new faces in the crowd. Men and women now congregated by night, hearing words that resembled the Emperor’s truth but carried an undercurrent of something else—something far older, far more insidious. Flyers appeared discreetly, pinned to the bulletin board or slipped under chapel doors at twilight. At first, the caretaker dismissed them, believing them to be harmless devotions from another sect. Over time, subtle changes in sermon and scripture took shape, weaving the Resistance's message into the outpost’s faith. Meanwhile, the toll booth remained under nominal Imperial oversight. The uniformed attendants still saluted any passing PDF patrol and dutifully recorded each traveller’s tithe. Yet every coin, every promissory note, eventually found its way to Resistance-led accounts, bypassing official channels. The clerks manning the booth, none the wiser, chalked up any irregularities to the usual bureaucratic chaos. Tension lingered in the air long after the final shots that first secured the outpost. Rumours spread in hushed tones: one of the Prawa PDF might have triggered a distress call during the brief firefight before he fell. No one could say for certain. For days, conversations dropped to whispers whenever an unexpected speeder rolled through, and families double-checked their door locks at night, bracing for an Imperial crackdown. Yet nothing happened. No squads of grim-faced troopers locked down the streets. No Valkyries thundered overhead. The toll booth continued its unremarkable routine. Gradually, the outpost’s restlessness gave way to weary acceptance. Life resumed its ordinary patterns beneath the desert sun, while the Resistance's tendrils slid deeper into the settlement’s workings. Mona moved among the people with calm assurance, a soft word here, a knowing smile there. Each day without Imperial intervention validated her assurances that all was well. The proprietor of the outpost, who had once gazed upon the aftermath with fear, felt himself relax. If an alarm had been raised, it had fallen on deaf ears—or was lost in the endless tangle of Imperial bureaucracy. And so, the outpost carried on. The Resistance operatives laboured quietly, subverting critical functions, entrenching themselves further. Travellers who passed through noticed little amiss beyond a subtle shift in the local atmosphere—more hushed conversations, an odd camaraderie among the working folk. Now and then, someone mentioned the missing PDF, but there was no proof of foul play. Eventually, talk of a distress signal faded into campfire tales traded by nomads late at night. If help had ever been summoned, no one answered. Unseen and largely unopposed, the Resistance turned this forgotten watering hole into a hidden stronghold, sinking unseen roots into every corridor and corner that mattered.

The desert wind scraped against the battered walls of the prefab inspection room. Dust swirled lazily through the open doorway where the 280th stood lined up. I was in the middle of them, standing at attention with my pulse ticking at my temple. Lieutenant Kaśnyk paced slowly before us, the heels of his polished black boots clicking softly against the steel flooring. His long grey coat swept behind him with each step. He wasn’t tall, not towering like some officers, but he didn’t need to be. There was something about his presence — like the quiet pause before a cutting remark. The green monocle affixed over his left eye flickered softly as it fed him data I couldn’t read. I found myself avoiding its gaze. His voice was measured, neither warm nor cold, but steady. “A patrol assigned to this sector is overdue.” He paused, turning slightly, letting his eye scan down the line. “Your patrol route placed you west of the station’s outer perimeter. You weren’t there.” Our interim sergeant answered without hesitation. “We were patrolling closer to the interior. Avoiding bad terrain. Likely a paperwork snarl somewhere, sir.” Kaśnyk's monocle pulsed as if noting the excuse. His expression didn’t change. “Bureaucratic error, is it?” The sergeant gave a small nod. “I believe so, sir.” The lieutenant moved on, stepping past him and pausing briefly as he stopped opposite me. His eyes lingered just long enough for me to feel the sweat prickling at my brow. The monocle’s faint glow caught the curve of my cheek. He said nothing, but in that stillness, it felt like he was peeling layers from me without lifting a finger. Then he moved on. “You’re Imperial Guardsmen,” Kaśnyk continued, stepping back to address us all. “So I expect mistakes. I expect cut corners. But I also expect answers.” There was no immediate accusation in his voice — just an expectation. His words hung in the air like dust refusing to settle. Finally, after one more long glance across the line, Kaśnyk nodded. “Dismissed.” As we broke ranks and turned to leave, I risked one last look over my shoulder. Kaśnyk remained still, adjusting the dataslate in his gloved hands. His eyes weren’t on us anymore. They were on whatever note he’d made for himself.

The air was thick with the acrid scent of discharged lasrifle power packs, mingling with the sharp tang of blood. The last echoes of gunfire had faded into the desert, leaving only the crackling of small fires and the laboured breathing of the wounded. I knelt by Rakoczy, his hand clutching weakly at my sleeve. His uniform was dark with blood, the wound in his side gaping, beyond any aid we could offer. He coughed, a wet, gurgling sound. "Good fight," he muttered. "You kept your head." His fingers twitched against my sleeve, then went slack. The breath left him in a quiet exhale, his eyes staring past me, past everything. I swallowed against the dryness in my throat. Around me, the others moved with purpose, securing the station, finishing the wounded. I felt Mona before I saw her, her presence like a warm draught against my frayed nerves. She crouched beside me, her exotic scent cutting through the stench of battle. "He was a strong man," she murmured, placing a hand lightly on Rakoczy’s chest. "A necessary loss." I wanted to argue, to say that it wasn’t necessary at all, but the words died before I could voice them. Mona's fingers pressed lightly against my wrist, a comforting weight. "Jagiełło will need someone to step into his place." I turned to her, mouth dry. "Not me." Mona smiled, that knowing, patient smile of hers. "We shall see." A shadow loomed over us. Jagiełło had arrived, his sharp eyes flickering between Rakoczy's lifeless form and me. He nodded once. "Unfortunate." His gaze settled on me, unreadable. "Mona says you have potential. Do you agree?" I shook my head. "I'm a miner. Not a leader." "And yet," Mona said, voice gentle, "you are still here." Jagiełło studied me for a moment longer, then turned away. "We will speak later." I stared down at Rakoczy’s still face, my stomach churning. I had survived. But at what cost?

Just a little context for this. The Resistance are looking to expand their influence and, working within the Imperial PDF structure, they are putting out their feelers for those who may be persuaded to come over to their side. Our narrator and his squad are visiting a desert waystation on a 'routine' patrol. The trading post was pungent, as these places always were — the stale odour of too many bodies packed into a confined space, sweat soaked deep into the wood and threadbare rugs. We entered without drawing attention, passing for just another patrol looking to eat before braving the desert again. Mona stayed outside, letting us set the tone. The stationed Imperial troops barely registered us. Nods, grunts, the detached civility of men dulled by routine. They clustered around battered tables, pushing half-finished meals about their plates without urgency. Trouble was the furthest thing from their minds — especially for Sergeant Havel, the officer in charge. Broad-shouldered and thick-set, Havel was a man shaped by long years on the frontier. His uniform was regulation enough — no sharper nor shabbier than necessary. His discipline came from habit, not fervour. Our sergeant, Rakoczy, took the lead. He approached the counter and ordered food with the casual confidence of a man who had done this a dozen times before. I lingered near the edges of the room, sweat prickling at the back of my neck. Technically, we weren’t doing anything wrong — not yet — but the lie pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating. Havel approached slowly, working a kink from his neck. His glance swept lazily over us until it caught. His brow creased, left eyebrow ticking upward as his gaze fixed on Rakoczy’s insignia. “That’s odd,” he remarked, voice mild but carrying. His nod towards Rakoczy’s shoulder was subtle, but I knew what he saw. The insignia was nearly perfect — nearly. A faint token, a deviation so minor most wouldn’t notice. But Havel wasn’t most. Rakoczy didn’t flinch. “New designation,” he said flatly. “Recent reassignment.” Havel grunted. Noncommittal. Suspicious, but unsure. His fingers toyed absently with the strap of his rifle, eyes narrowing. “Which command signed off on that?” The shift was slight, but unmistakable. The room didn’t fall silent — men still ate and drank — but there was a subtle weight to the air. Havel’s pragmatism battled with his instinct. He wanted this to be nothing, but years of service wouldn’t let him dismiss it outright. And then Mona entered. The change was instant. Conversations faltered. Utensils hovered. Even the dust motes seemed to hang motionless. She moved like a breeze just before the storm — smooth, unhurried, unsettling. The faint aroma of cloves and cinnamon followed her. Havel’s mouth twitched open, more reflex than expression. Rakoczy spoke. “Sergeant, allow me to introduce—” “Not often patrols bring company,” Havel interrupted. His tone strained for levity, but a thread of wariness had wormed its way into it. The silence before the storm was a living thing, pressing in around us, thick with uncertainty. Then Rakoczy spoke, the word falling from his lips like a stone into a still pond. The world ignited. Lasrifle fire lanced through the smoky air, the acrid scent of ozone and burning flesh filling my nostrils. I ducked behind a crate, heart hammering. The trading post erupted into chaos—shouts, screams, the unmistakable thud of bodies hitting the ground. I gripped my lasrifle with sweaty hands, fingers clenching and unclenching around the grip. A figure moved in my periphery—a PDF soldier, fumbling for cover. Training and instinct warred within me, but training won. I raised my weapon, squeezed the trigger. The lasbolt struck home. He crumpled with a cry, clutching his side. I froze. The battle raged around me, but I was locked in place, staring at what I had done. My stomach turned to ice. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to look away, to pretend it hadn’t happened. But the sight of him writhing, his pain so raw, so real, held me captive. A hand grabbed my shoulder, jolting me back to the moment. "Keep moving," someone barked. I swallowed hard, pushed forward. The fight wasn’t over. Not yet. The proprietor and Mona had taken cover, watching with wide eyes as the outpost became a warzone. Somewhere, a console crackled, half-destroyed, as if a distress call had been made. Whether it had been sent, none of us knew. We pressed the advantage, methodically eliminating the remaining PDF forces. The echoes of the fight lingered long after the final shot was fired. As the last body slumped to the ground, the only sound was the ragged breath of the victors—and my own hammering heartbeat.

Also there's a Skaven.

GSC units with Cult Ambush aren't gone when their Ambush markers are removed by enemy movement; those units are simply added to the roster of units that are sitting in Cult Ambush. Subsequently-activated Ambush markers can still allow any one of the units still in Ambush to respawn (you don't have to pair an Ambush marker with the unit that spawned it). And of course such units are considered destroyed at the end of the game if they don't come back. This means that a canny enemy (or an unlucky GSC player) can wind up creating a situation where no markers leaves a lot of units sitting around in Ambush with no way to come back. Sucks for the cult player, right? Well, maybe not as much as it could. What about the Rapid Ingress stratagem? It looks like what units are considered to be "in Reserves" are PROBABLY also our cult units sitting in Ambush limbo, but the RAW aren't too clear. I argued with myself about it back and forth for a while as I poured through the core rules, the GSC index, and the rules commentary document. Let me know if you find out otherwise. Given that destroyed units with Cult Ambush are "in Reserves" after they are removed from the battlefield (even thought it is a specific form of reserves unique to GSC; see p. 16 of the core rules document), they are targetable by the Rapid Ingress stratagem, no? Why the heck would you waste 1 CP to bring an Ambush unit back when you can use Cult Ambush at the same exact time to bring them back for free instead? Well, because you don't need an Ambush token to pull the unit out of Ambush with the stratagem. It is my very novice opinion (and please let me know if you find anything solid that contradicts this interpretation) that Rapid Ingress can be a once-per-enemy-turn way to put lost units in Ambush back onto the board, without needing a Cult Ambush marker to do so. What do you think?

https://youtu.be/Lpx4gS_aVT8 Cheers, Thoth

https://www.warhammer-community.com/2024/03/21/adepticon-2024-kill-team-termination-sees-brood-brothers-battle-hernkyn/

Something, something, buy the Peter Fehervari book. No really it's great. Imperial Agents tomorrow.

https://youtu.be/aHsfgWvvVMI Cheers, Thoth

A BUG'S LIFE A Monthly Tyranids Painting Challenge This week a new painting event launches in the Tyranids Section of the forum. The Challenge? Paint at least one TYRANIDS model per month - including Codex Tyranids, GSC and Forgeworld models. Taking part is simple: Pledge your models Paint your models Enjoy your army of bugs A lot of people have the odd Tyranid model lying around, usually from Battleboxes or Boxed Games, so if you want some motivation to paint them up, skitter on over to the Tyranids Section of the forum and join the Hive Fleet - The event and pledges, progress etc will be organised from there. What's more you'll get to add this cool badge to your signature: WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW MORE?

Origins When the time of Ascension came, Hakkon burned. The Hakkon system contains a single inhabited world, formally designated Hakkon III but more commonly known merely as Hakkon. The planet's crust is rich with heavy metals, and as a result networks of mining operations covered much of the planet's surface. Of the vast harvest reaped from the planet, much was sent off-world to nearby forges and hives, and much was kept for Hakkon's own arms factories. In particular, the manufactories of Hakkon were known for their atomic weaponry - whether Deathstrike missiles for the Astra Militarum, or any of several kinds of nuclear munitions for the Imperial Navy, Hakkon was a reliable source of these classic tools of total destruction. The cities that sprawled around the manufactories housed not only the workers who toiled within, but also the nobility whose lifestyles they labored to sustain. Rival aristocratic houses hoarded their own personal arsenals of nuclear weapons, constantly brandishing their world-destroying power to intimidate rivals, motivate workers and stroke their mountainous egos. In this fertile ground, a Genestealer planted his seeds, and they grew quickly. The Cult of the Radiant Dawn spread quickly throughout the planet's underclasses, infiltrating every level of mining, manufacture and eventually even the lower nobility. When the time of ascension came, they seized the nuclear stockpiles of the nobility and finally made good on their long-promised annihilation - unleashing the terrible weapons against those military elements that the cult did not already control. Hakkon burned. Thanks to the efforts of the cult's Clamavus sects, Imperial authorities outside the system believed that an internal conflict between nobles had led to the planet's ruin. As a result they were slow to put forward any serious military effort to pacify the planet's survivors, whom they assumed would simply die in the radioactive wasteland their masters had left them. Plans were made to turn the planet over wholesale to the Adeptus Mechanicus, who promised that they could continue mining operations in spite of the radiation, resuming productivity within a mere century. Meanwhile, the hybrids of the Radiant Dawn were little-bothered by the elevated radiation, so long as they avoided the most devastated blast sites. They toiled in secret to rebuild the world themselves and to fortify their position. Vast underground complexes were established, designed to hide from Imperial eyes and resist bombardment if necessary. All of the planet's arms production was moved into the vast tunnel networks carved into the world's crust, and began producing new tools for the cult's crusade. Organization The structure of the Radiant Dawn is broadly ordinary for a Genestealer cult - the Patriarch, commonly known as the "Fallen Star," is the absolute master of the cult's business. A handful of primuses and magi control various sub-sects of the cult, occasionally bickering with eachother but always united in the Patriarch's presence. While much of Hakkon's military equipment was destroyed during the Ascension, enough remained to outfit a substantial standing force of soldiers in addition to the typical cult elements. The cult maintains relationships with various piratical and black-market organizations, bartering their obscene weaponry in exchange for the services of smugglers and freight captains. As a result, while the cult only actually operates a handful of ramshackle ships of their own, they are remarkably adept at showing up where they wish to be. Tactics The Radiant Dawn worms its way into a planet's underclass, promising a glorious and fiery dawn that will wipe away the impurities of the decadent oppressors and set free the downtrodden. Everything built by corrupt hands must be torn down before truth and beauty can rise in its place, they insist - the old world must be burned away. When the The Radiant Dawn chooses to reveal itself, the bulk of its enemies die within minutes. Weapons of terrible power, smuggled into key locations weeks beforehand, detonate in a grand show of power and authority. Atomic weapons are of course their specialty, but they are not limited in this regard - they will happily rig a city's own power generators to explode or send a freighter screaming through the atmosphere into the city center. When resources are tight, a well-planned pattern of ordinary arson will suffice. These obsessions extend to the cultists themselves, who display an almost psychotic love of explosives and flamethrowers. When the smoke clears, the cult's enemies are left in a shattered world, deprived of reinforcements, communication or infrastructure. With all of these advantages removed, the cult strikes in earnest, storming out into the rubble-strewn wastes to tear down their weakened enemies. Outriders circle the blast zones to pick off survivors while abberants seek out those who had the foresight to hide from the cult's retribution. Notes The Radiant Dawn is an idea I've been tossing around in my head for a while. Heavily influenced by the Fallout series, of course - part of that series' premise is often the notion that the bombs falling was probably for the best, that the world had grown so awful that the apocalypse was as much cathartic as tragic. The idea of a cult that promises the same thing, promises to destroy everything so that new beauty can arise in its place, is neat! Also, I have a fondness for nukes in the far future Sci-fi. It's easy to look at a plasma gun and think "Wow, that's a really powerful weapon!" but the reality is that it's absolutely nothing compared to something we invented in the 1940s. Weapons do not advance along a linear scale.

Hi folks, Before entering into the details, it may be worth setting up a kind of background. Let´s go back in time in a not so far past (relativity matters) when previous 40k Edtion allowed Allied Detachments in its Force Organization Charts The scene is set. I enjoyed this era that has been a perfect time to increase my SW force versatility adding small detachments of other stuff in order to get some tactical diversification. It is when I added Blood Angels proxies, Death watch and some Leman Russes, in an attempt to get some more armoured stuff. Whereas the first two allied detachments knew some success (the DW one even grew up enough to become a self sustained "drop-in" army (until 10th ruined it - see my Legalization blog entry)), the Russes stayed largely forgotten in my Pile-of-Shame. I only built them during Lock-down. The whole plot with these Russes came from a sensitive case: I wanted to add some fire power with a Predator Executioner, but looking at the rules I ended up with a disturbing conclusion for a power armour fanboy (at the time) - it did not sustained the comparison with a Russ Executioner squad. From here came the idea to get an armoured fist company allied, as pdf, to my furry SW. As other Russes would have been welcome too, I started kit bashing some, adding extra variants such as a proxy Punisher and a proxy Exterminator (reminding me the oldest times when this beast had an entry in the SW codex HS category). A nice overall hobbying project that can be seen in my Gallery. Yet it missed some "sparks". It turned out to be unplayable. I shyly tried to add some boost with a kit bashed Kaserkin/Scion unit last year but I ended up with a predictible conclusion: I need troops and footsloggers plus other AM units to get something usable (now that Allied detachments are not a thing anymore). I have sometimes a slow understanding process. How to add stuff? Buy kits. Easy as a well repleted wallet (so it will takes time to be completed). But having started with some kitbashed tanks modelled to imitate some SM vehicles features, I could not refrain myself about thinking that the same approach should be applied to the whole rest. And I ended up thinking about doing my very own regiment. Orlock bodies and SM weapons as initial idea. But it was not great looking (Thanx Photoshop precheck montage) and ended up as Neophytes with Skitarii head swaps and some partial weapon customization with SM bits. And here starts the doom. Just by adding a Patrol box to get 2 squads of neophytes, a truck to be used as a proxy Taurox you get these stuff that do not fit in the plan: aberrants, magus, and acolytes. I am not going to start any GSC cult army, but hey, I have these sprues, no-one looks interested into buying or swaping them, so, let´s paint them... I may eventually one day mix my proxy AM as brood brothers with these 4 armed atrocities. But I am not starting a cult. Nope. Even if these Purestrains Genestealers are damn attractive. And I still have some metal spore mines somewhere to do custom objective markers. Just in case.. Aberrants proved to be a nice kit to build and paint, even if I am a little bit disapointed by the way models number 4 and 5 share comon parts that limits the customization options. Also another point of disapointment is that all 5 models cannot be all fitted with 2 handed mining tools. Painted result is anyway as seen bellow: See you in the next installement, when we will have a look on the kit bashed neophytes.

Hi folks, Last post of the series introduced the reasons behind buying a GSC Patrol box (the old one) in order to get the base for kit bashing IG infantery squads. The fact that I have a sweet remember of these guies is probably not completely disconected to the selection of Neophyte Hybrids models instead of Orlocks gangers as a starting base. Even if after a carful look, As for using Sktarii heads on other bodies, I had already tried it, more or less successfully, on Wannabe Kaserkins last year: But getting 20 Neophytes in the Patrol box wasn´t enough from an economical point of view to justify the investment vs. individual boxes at retail price. Second incentive was getting the Truck, to be used either as a Proxy Taurox or as an interactive scenery element ("Last Stand in Glazer’s Creek" batRep and its reboot in WD are also some how ones of my fav pieces of junk). Doing the math, 2 squads and 1 vehicles at retail price vs. Patrol, and Patrol gets a win.* But let´s go back on the footsloggers. Using 20 bodies, sorry 23 bodies counting the crew of the Goliath truck, requires decisions and carefull weighting of what to do with them. Initial part of the plan was rather clear: I had an IG HW squad box in my Pile-of-Shame waiting to be used. Trying to sort out9 teams out of the usual 3 mounted sound feasible. I love autocannons since the time SM scouts could get one (this time has passed a long time ago), so getting 3 autocannons was no negotiable. For the rest, without tripod available, and not wishing to enter into to complicated scenic bases, I went on the easy side: Missile launchers (shoulder mounted, so no pod needed) and Mortars. And here we have 12 Neophytes converted into IG heavy gunners. And here are the 3 units of HW. As an interesting fact I n oticed that the ooP cadian HW squad was mounted on larger base than the 50 mm marked on the product decription for the newest set.. Some close views of a spotter, with cult icon mask by a flask; A Mortar, as kneeling minis are polite enough to keep the pose while I took the photo (all will be glued in place once painted) And another closer view of a hooded servant, which allowed me noticing I forgot to remove his cult emblem. Surely more of his chaps have the same kind of heretical marking left... To be solved when they will go to the hair dresser and pass under the paint brush. To see what happened with the 23-12=11 remaining boys and Truck, let´s see you in next instalements of this Blog * And this is how I end up with Aberrants, Acolytes and a Magus... But may be the Magus will be a good base for a Ynnari aligned Farseer in a next kitbash???