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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.

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.

A bit of a longer post today, but I couldn't decide where would be an appropriate place to break it up. Sorry if it's a slog, but hopefully you enjoy. Constructive criticism is welcome, as always. The cellar was dry, dark, and cold in the way only stone could be. It had once been used for storage—wine, perhaps, or sealed grain back when the trade station was younger. Now it was quiet, its walls lit by low-burning lamps and the soft hum of activity above. The building that sat atop it looked unremarkable, just another administrative structure tucked away behind the merchant rows. But down here, beneath the weight of dust and secrecy, it belonged to the Resistance.. Jagiełło stood beside a battered metal table, one hand resting on its edge, the other tucked behind his back. His eyes were fixed on the far wall, where shadow danced across old shelving. Mona stood across from him, cloak drawn loosely around her shoulders, her posture relaxed but attentive. "They’re ready," he said finally, voice quiet but clear. "Or close enough to it. The squads have seen action. They’ve held positions. They’ve kept silent. It’s time they heard the same words from the same mouths." Mona tilted her head slightly, considering. "You wish to gather them?" He nodded once. "Leaders only. No more than one or two per cell. Quiet invitations. A council, of sorts. If we are to grow, we must speak with one voice." She smiled, faint and enigmatic. "And who will give that voice shape?" "We will," he said, meeting her gaze. "You and I. The Father speaks through us." Her smile widened, just slightly. "A sermon and a sword." Jagiełło looked away again, back toward the shelves, his thoughts already moving ahead. "There have been murmurs. Quiet ones. Old loyalties that haven’t quite burned out. Some feel our reach grows too fast. Others fear exposure." Mona’s voice dropped into something silkier, softer. "And you want me to find them." "I want you to listen," he said. "Draw them in. Reassure them. But if they persist in doubt..." She stepped closer, her movements unhurried. "Then they are already lost." He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. "You’ll include him," Mona said after a moment. "The new sergeant." Jagiełło's brow twitched, just slightly. "Yes. He doesn’t see it yet, but the others look to him. It’s time he understands the scale of what we are." She nodded once. "A test." "A glimpse," he corrected. "If he proves true, the tests will come later." Above them, a floorboard creaked. Neither flinched. Jagiełło’s voice dropped into a low, deliberate rhythm. "See to the invitations. Speak to those who carry weight. We do this quietly. No banners, no slogans. Just presence." Mona inclined her head, then turned toward the stairs, her cloak trailing behind her like smoke. He remained by the table, his hand resting on the cold metal, eyes half-closed. The time for silence was ending. But it was not yet time for noise. ----- They came in ones and twos, staggered and silent. No fanfare, no marked insignia, no outward sign of who they truly were. Just tired men and women in faded coats and dust-stained boots, making their way through a side alley or past a nondescript door tucked between a tannery and a closed chemist’s. Most gave a brief nod to the pair of armed guards flanking the entrance—no questions asked, no names exchanged. The building was quiet from the outside. On the inside, the cellar whispered with slow gathering purpose. Lamps had been lit low, casting a golden hue on the worn brick walls. A long wooden table stretched the length of the room, with crates and salvaged chairs pulled in close. Some leaned against the walls, arms folded, their eyes scanning each new arrival with practiced caution. They came from across the desert—outposts, trade hubs, water stations, mining sites. Veterans of too many small skirmishes to count. People who remembered the price of defiance but bore it anyway. They spoke in low tones, just enough to identify, never enough to expose. I came in last. Or near enough it made no difference. The guards at the door looked me over and let me pass without a word, but I felt their eyes on my back the whole way down the stairs. The steps creaked, the kind of creak that makes you feel like the whole room hears it. And maybe they did. I stepped into the cellar and stopped just inside the doorway. I’d never seen so many faces like this gathered in one place—not all at once. Hardened. Scarred. People with experience etched into every movement, every glance. Not one of them wore the Resistance's mark. They didn’t need to. I adjusted the strap on my lasrifle out of habit, not nerves. Or maybe both. I told myself to keep my eyes up, to look calm, like I belonged here. But I didn’t. Not really. Not yet. I could feel it in the way the conversations dipped as I walked past, in the way a few of them sized me up. Not with hostility—just the kind of scrutiny that says, "Who’s this one, then?" I found a spot near the edge of the gathering and stayed there. Silent. Watchful. Trying to breathe like my chest wasn’t tight. I didn’t know what Jagiełło had planned. Or Mona. But I knew this: I’d been called. I’d been seen. And now there was no stepping back. ----- The cellar buzzed softly with restrained conversation. Clustered around the long wooden table, the squad leaders murmured to one another in low tones, the sort of talk that never carried across a room. There was no laughter, only quiet familiarity, like the shifting of stone beneath sand. They wore no insignia, no rank markings, but the lines on their faces and the weight in their eyes told you who had seen battle, who had bled for the cause. The air was dry, tinged faintly with oil, old stone, and the distant trace of spice from a pipe someone had lit discreetly. At the far side of the room, half-shadowed by the flickering lamplight, Mona leaned against the wall, arms folded loosely. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes moved constantly—reading the faces, the silences, the hesitations. She wasn’t looking for agreement. She was watching for weakness. For doubt. For fire. Then Jagiełło entered. He moved without ceremony, no flourish or call for silence. He didn’t need to. One by one, the voices faltered. Chairs creaked as postures straightened. By the time he reached the head of the table, the only sound was the soft settling of dust. He looked over them, his gaze neither harsh nor welcoming. Just present. Grounded. From beneath his cloak, he drew a small metal flask and placed it plainly on the table. His voice, when it came, was quiet but carried all the same. "I don’t drink," he said. "But I was told a toast would be... appropriate." A few exchanged glances, unsure. Mona’s mouth twitched into the suggestion of a smile. Jagiełło uncapped the flask and raised it slightly. "To our first gathering. And to the storm yet to come." He took a measured sip and passed the flask to his left. It moved from hand to hand, each drinking in turn. When it came to me, I hesitated only a second before tipping it back. The liquid burned, but I swallowed and passed it on without a word. Jagiełło waited until it returned to the centre of the table, then swept it aside with the back of his hand. "Now. To the business we came for." He stood straight, hands resting on the table’s edge. "You’ve all seen what we recovered. The Malcador was the first. It won’t be the last. The sands hide more than relics. They hide power. Power we will need." There were nods around the table. Real ones. "We are not ready to rise," he continued, "but we will be. When the time comes, we must not be scrambling for rifles or hiding behind dune walls. We will strike with what was once theirs. And we will break them." Someone murmured an affirmation, barely audible. "Many of you have families. Sons and daughters. You know what the cost is. You live it every day. What we build here is for them. For what comes after." His voice remained low, even. "We are not a rabble. We are not isolated cells. We are a Resistance. And we must begin acting like one." He took a moment, scanning the room. "Every outpost under our shadow must be secured. Informants placed. Supply lines disguised. Weapons salvaged, repaired, hidden. We will not win by numbers. We will win by knowing more, moving faster, and never being where they expect us to be." There was stillness at the table now, the kind that comes when a room begins to believe in something. Even if only quietly. "That is why we are here. Not to celebrate, but to unify. To prepare." He paused. From within his cloak, Jagiełło produced a small dataslate—sealed, scuffed from handling, but unmistakably the same one that had passed hands at the toll booth. He placed it on the table with deliberate care, the metal clacking softly on the wood. His eyes turned toward me. I could feel the weight behind them. "Since you brought this to us," he said, voice quiet but firm, "it is only right you have the honour of answering its mysteries." There were murmurings then, soft but unmistakable. Not loud, not disruptive, but enough to betray doubt. I caught the words in the undercurrent—"miner," "Rakoczy," "green." Jagiełło’s gaze swept across the table. No words. Just the cold steel of his stare. The murmuring died like flame under sand. I rose slowly, heart drumming a little too hard in my chest. I didn't look around. Just stepped forward and reached for the slate. Mona’s eyes didn’t follow me. Not at first. She was watching someone else—one of the sergeants seated at the table, who had barely spoken, who shifted slightly when the slate was revealed. Her head tilted slightly. A breath passed. Then she gave a single, subtle nod. Jagiełło caught it without looking. The figure remained unaware. Nothing would happen yet. But they would be watched. The slate was cold in my hands. For a moment, I didn’t move. Around me, the room was silent, but I could feel the weight of every gaze pressing against my shoulders. I wasn’t like them. I hadn’t led raids in the sands or bled for outpost victories. I’d swung a pickaxe in the dark, counted rations by the week, buried comrades beneath collapsed tunnels. And now I stood here, a miner with a rifle, asked to speak in the presence of veterans. I told myself it didn’t matter. Rakoczy had trusted me. Mona had stood beside me. Jagiełło had called me forward. I drew in a breath, steadying myself, and tapped the slate awake. The flicker of code sprang to life across the display. Now, it was mine to answer. The code resolved into something surprisingly simple: a set of coordinates, followed by a fragmented schematic, flickering slightly as the slate worked to stabilise its old data. There were annotations in a hand I didn’t recognise, half-corrupted but just readable enough. A bunker. Remote. Long forgotten. I squinted at the identifier buried in the metadata, speaking aloud without thinking. "Iron Duke?" It came out uncertain, questioning. Around the table, a few of the veterans scoffed. Quietly. One shook his head, another rolled their eyes. Doubt, disbelief, even a touch of mockery—none of it loud, but I felt it all the same. Mona’s gaze didn’t shift from the sergeant she’d been watching. But something changed in her expression. Subtle. The figure’s mouth had twitched—just slightly. A flicker of concern. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But Mona noticed. And though she remained poised, relaxed, her attention narrowed like a blade being drawn.

This is a little montage of scenes featuring our narrator over the months since the takeover of Outpost Nowa Avestia showing his growth as the squadron's new, and until then, inexperienced sergeant. It shows, also, the slow and subtle growth of the Resistance's s influence on the every day people. The toll booth stood hunched against the desert wind, a squat collection of hab-blocks and a corrugated checkpoint arch draped with faded banners. The squad passed through without issue, helmets off, weapons slung in casual peace-time readiness. To the locals, we were just another patrol. Nothing worth noting. It was the toll-keeper who marked me as something else. He was gaunt, eyes sunken deep beneath the brim of his sun-bleached cap. His uniform hung loose, the fabric worn and patched too many times. As we passed, he beckoned me subtly with two fingers, shielding the motion from his comrades. I hesitated but stepped closer. “Desert wind’s shifting early this season,” he murmured, voice dry as old parchment. In his hand, almost concealed, was a dataslate, sealed and scuffed. I took it, hesitating for just a heartbeat, then slipped it into my jacket. The act was smooth, practiced — like so many exchanges in the underhive markets of Prawa Ten Drugi. Yet, as I rejoined the squad, I found myself touching the outline of the slate beneath my flak. It wasn’t the weight that stuck with me, but the look in the toll-keeper's eyes. Hollow, desperate, yet resolute. I recognised it — the same look I’d seen too often in the mines. The slate’s surface felt rough beneath my fingers, etched with faint scratches, like it had passed through more hands than it should have. I told myself I’d examine it later, when there was time and fewer eyes. ----- Salvager’s Row was always noisy. Even in the early hours, the clatter of tools and metal against metal rang through the alleyways. Stalls lined the cramped lane, cluttered with scrap, old parts, broken cogitators, and the ever-present scent of oil and rust. Sunlight filtered down in pale shafts through the hanging tarps, casting everything in a strange, fractured light. We’d come into town quiet, uniforms dusty but clean, weapons slung easy, faces unreadable. Just another PDF patrol passing through. The locals didn’t ask questions. Not out loud. I was waiting by one of the vendor tables, pretending to examine a cracked auspex casing, when she appeared. I didn’t see her at first—just felt someone hovering at my shoulder. I turned, and there she was. Thin. Pale. Her hair was bound up under a grease-streaked scarf, and her overalls were stained from engine work or worse. She didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Eyes wide, not with fear but with the weight of too many sleepless nights. The hard lines on her face, the roughness of her hands—these were things I recognised. I’d seen them in the mirror. I’d grown up among them, deep beneath Prawa Ten Drugi, where life was short and the dust settled in your lungs. "You’re one of them," she said, barely above a whisper. My fingers stilled on the casing. She glanced around quickly. No one was watching. Or if they were, they knew to pretend they weren’t. "I don’t want trouble," she said quickly. "I just... I need to know. If there’s a way." Her voice cracked on that last word. I looked at her properly then. She wasn’t looking for salvation. She was looking for meaning. For a chance at something better. Or maybe just something different. "You’ve lost something," I said quietly. She nodded. "Everything." I reached into my coat and pulled out a small, worn token—plain to most, but marked with the faint curve of a crescent and three stars. I placed it on the table between the scrap. "There’s a place outside town," I said, keeping my voice level. "North side. Just past the pipe junction. After dark." She stared at the token like it was fire. "And then what?" she asked. "Then you listen. And decide. No one forces anything. Not at first." Her hand closed over the token. She didn’t thank me. She didn’t need to. She disappeared into the crowd a moment later, and I turned back to the cracked casing, my heart a little heavier than before. We weren’t just fighting a war. We were building something. One soul at a time. ----- The fire was low, its orange glow flickering against the canvas of our makeshift shelter. We’d set up camp behind a low dune, far enough off the road to avoid attention, but close enough to move at dawn. The stars above were sharp tonight, scattered across the desert sky like shards of broken glass. Someone had brewed recaf that tasted like burnt mud, but no one complained. We sat in a loose circle, armour off, lasrifles within reach, fatigue etched into every line of our faces. "Remember the old mess hall in Shaft VII?" Laska said, stirring the recaf with the tip of her knife. "Back when a hot meal meant boiled ration bricks and sulphur-salt gravy?" There were groans and a few hollow chuckles. I smirked, shaking my head. "Only thing worse than the food was the shift foreman’s singing." "Ugh, have mercy," someone muttered. "He thought he was a choir-servo." "Sounded more like a dying generator," Varan added. "I’d have taken the generator. At least it didn’t try to chat up the pit boss with that voice." "Didn’t stop him trying, though," said Branka, one of our newest troopers, grinning as she leaned back on her elbows. "She said she’d rather kiss a sump rat." "A sump rat wouldn’t have smelled half as bad," Laska piped up, and the group broke into laughter. It was the kind of laughter that came when nerves had been frayed too long, when sleep was thin and the days too hot. But it helped. For a few minutes, we weren’t soldiers. We were just people again—miners in uniform, thrown into something far larger than themselves. I watched them in the firelight. These were my people now. Not just comrades, not just survivors. They looked to me now, not because they had to, but because they chose to. That realisation sat strangely in my chest. Heavy, but not unwelcome. No one spoke of the things we’d done. Not directly. But when the silence fell again, it was thick with shared understanding. Mona had once said that families were forged in hardship, not blood. Out here, in the dark, I understood what she meant. "Get some sleep," I said eventually, rising to my feet and brushing the dust from my coat. "We move before the sun’s up." They didn’t argue. Just nodded and settled in, one by one. I stayed up a little longer, watching the fire shrink to embers, the desert whispering in the dark beyond. The wind carried grit, but also something else. Something like purpose. And for once, I didn’t feel alone. Writer's note: I think the campfire scene is probably one of the cheesiest I've ever written. I was trying to convey, along with the other two scenes, their humanity. Instead, I got a B-movie sci-fi, haha!

In the months that followed the firefight, the desert outpost changed—and so did I. At first, it was small things. The way the squad looked to me before moving. The quiet nods from older troopers who had once only taken orders from Rakoczy. They called me 'sergeant' now. I still wasn’t used to it, but I stopped flinching every time I heard it. The Cult dug in, not with banners and bullets, but with quiet persistence. New faces appeared at Salvager’s Row—traders with whispered affiliations. Civilians with hollow eyes who found purpose in Mona’s words. Mechanics who asked no questions as they overhauled old vehicles beneath the cover of darkness. Mona came and went like the desert wind—never still, never idle. Jagiełło remained elusive, but his influence was everywhere. Orders came down with clarity and purpose. Always one step ahead. My squad patrolled outward now—along dusty roads that led to other stations, waypoints, watering holes. And to our surprise, some greeted us with familiarity. A knowing glance. A gesture. An echo of the cause. We weren’t the only ones. There were others. In one station, a tollkeeper slipped me a sealed dataslate when no one was looking. In another, a chapel bore a strange sigil etched subtly into its foundation stone. And always, always, the whispers of readiness. Of waiting. Of patience. I learned to speak with command in my voice, even when I was unsure. I learned which words carried weight. I learned to lie—to keep up the façade of a loyal PDF patrol. To wear the colours of the oppressor while serving the truth beneath. My squad grew closer. They looked to me not just for orders, but for belief. We trained together. We laughed sometimes. We mourned Rakoczy in private, and then we moved on, because there was too much still to do. There were moments of doubt, still. Quiet ones. I would find myself alone, lasrifle across my knees, staring out at the endless dunes. Wondering if I was becoming what I had feared. If I had a choice anymore. Then Mona would appear beside me, silent and soft, placing a hand on my shoulder. And for a moment, the guilt would lift. We were not ready to rise. Not yet. But we were preparing. And I was becoming someone new.

Airsupport is crucial for any raging war. Whether it is supplies or protection that must be provided, maintenance of the aircrafts used is allways of utmost importance. This Landing Platforms provide maintenance and refuelling and therfore are crucial for any raging conflict. Combine this set with the Fortification Wall and or Defense Tower to create even more narrative on your tabletop. This PDF will give you a Landing Platform Design and four different Barrels. The Landing Platform and Barrels are fitting for 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 set here: https://www.wargamevault.com/product/457149/Tabletop-Battlefield-Scenics-Landing-Platform Create a mission where airsupport has to land or take of in time to win the battle. Or win / keep control over the Landing Platform to gain advantage in your campaign. There are lots of narrative possubilities! We wish lots of fun with building and playing with this terrain piece. C&C is welcome. Just print, build and play!

I'd like to say thank you to those who have been following the story of Prawa V. I appreciate your support. I've been writing about Prawa V and the 280th since the latter half of last year and I am way ahead of the passages I have posted here. I've found my writing has significantly improved over the past few months and I've also drifted away from writing the little vignettes as I feel I cannot convey everything I want in them. Thus, I am writing longer, fuller texts now and would welcome your thoughts and opinions. I'm posting a scene from later on in the story about the recovery of the final vehicle in the triumvirate of tanks the Resistance is collecting for when the final day comes. I've already revealed the Malcador (Brutus) and will reveal the second in a later blog post. You'll see some familiar names, including our narrator who has been leading his squad after the death of Rakoczy for some times, and some new ones. Laska has rapidly become my favourite character and she has some nice moments in other passages. As always, I welcome all constructive feedback. Let me know what I did well and what I can do better! Now, let me tell you of the recovery of the beast known as 329. The air inside the vault felt thick enough to choke on. Every step stirred the dust, curling it around our boots like smoke in the lamplight. The deeper we pushed, the less the glow of our torches seemed to matter. Darkness swallowed the beams after only a few metres, leaving the edges of the corridor murky and half-seen. I kept my lamp high, sweeping left and right. Riveted panels, rust-streaked bulkheads, and nests of corroded piping loomed from the gloom. The old Imperial eagles — cracked, pitted, and eaten by time — leered down at us with hollow eyes. They didn’t offer comfort, just a reminder of who built this place, and how long ago they had abandoned it. We worked like we always did — quiet, deliberate, no chatter beyond what mattered. This wasn’t a battlefield, not yet, but it carried the weight of one. The dust wasn’t just dirt. It was history. It settled on us like a second uniform. Every doorframe got a chalk mark. Every passage junction got a numbered entry on my slate. I logged every exposed pipe, every strange corrosion bloom, every half-missing panel without argument. We weren’t just looking for the Vulcan. We were building a map, one step at a time. Because down here? Getting lost would be as final as getting shot. Czajka worked in silence on my left. His stylus scratched across the surface of his dataslate as he sketched crude but effective floorplans. He didn’t need orders. He already knew what we were doing. There was comfort in that. I trusted Czajka to notice the things I missed. Laska, behind me, had less patience. She kept glancing at every side passage, fingers tapping idly on the grenade launcher slung tight against her chest. “I don’t like it,” she muttered, voice low enough not to echo. “You’re not supposed to,” I said without turning. And it was true. The vault didn’t feel hostile — not quite. But it felt still, heavy, like the air itself was watching us. I’d known that feeling in the mines before. It always meant something overhead was about to shift. Krystan trailed behind, one glove tracing the edge of the bulkhead as he walked. He wasn’t slacking — he was thinking. He always did this when the edges got tight. His eyes flicked over faded warning sigils and strips of flaking hazard paint, as if they might tell him something the rest of us couldn’t see. Zofia moved quietly on the left flank, a little behind the others, eyes constantly scanning the ceiling and corners. She never said much. She never needed to. What mattered was the way she checked every overhead pipe, every stress fracture in the walls, noting them in that worn medicae slate of hers. Always assessing. Not for treasure — for risk. The further in we went, the colder it got. The desert heat hadn’t made it this deep. Every breath came with a hint of metal and old oil. The echo of our boots returned sharper, like the walls themselves were awake. I kept marking. Every alcove. Every sealed hatch. Every pile of collapsed ductwork. Laska shot me a look when I noted a broken servitor arm half-buried in the rubble. “Really?” she whispered. “Record everything,” I replied without humour. It wasn’t superstition. It was survival. Too many had been buried under rock and rust because they skipped the little things. The corridor widened. The vault proper opened before us. A chamber, broad and tall, stretched into the gloom. Gantries crossed above like skeletal bridges, their railings sagging with age. Kerosene lamps, long-dead but recently rekindled, cast a dull orange glow along the lower platforms. I knew the shape at the centre before the others even spoke. Half-shrouded beneath a filthy tarpaulin stood a tank. Wide-set tracks. An angular turret. A squat, brutal hull. Bigger than a Leman Russ, heavier than a Chimera. Even under the cover, I knew what it was. The Vulcan. But we didn’t rush it. We spread out, slow and deliberate. Laska circled right, checking sightlines and covering the far doors. Czajka moved up into the gantries, the worn steps groaning under his weight. I paced forward, keeping my slate active, mapping every inch. Tool racks. Cargo crates. Supply lines overhead. Every detail. Krystan didn’t join us. He stood still, staring at the tank. One hand rested against its flank, brushing the dust aside to reveal a faded stencil: 329 The way he did it made me uneasy. He wasn’t examining it like a soldier. He was listening. We weren’t alone. I felt it, sure as the ground beneath my boots. Someone, somewhere, behind the maze of passages or the heavy bulkheads, was breathing the same dust. And sure enough, I wasn’t wrong. We were too focused on the Vulcan. That was the truth of it. The sheer weight of the thing had pulled us in, had us pacing it like shipwreck divers circling some ancient wreck on the seabed. We’d logged the doors, the gantries, the old winches bolted to the overhead girders — but we hadn’t logged who else was breathing our dust. The first lasbolt cracked from the left gantry, smacking into the floor by Laska’s boots. She ducked behind a stack of rusted fuel drums, but not fast enough. The second found her. I saw it hit — a sharp impact just below her collar, spinning her off-balance. She went down hard, pulling herself behind cover, gritting her teeth to stop a cry. Blood seeped between her fingers as she clutched at her shoulder. “Contact!” I shouted, bringing my lasgun up. They moved well — too well for a simple patrol. Three squads, minimum. PDF by the look of them, but tighter, sharper. Controlled bursts. Flanking. Pinning. They weren’t improvising — they had orders. Kasnyk’s voice rang out sharp from above. “Hold your fire! Stand down!” Liar. I squeezed off a return shot at the gantry, driving one of his troopers back into cover. Czajka had already dropped prone behind a rusted girder, working with terrifying calm. His rifle coughed once, and a PDF trooper tumbled off the gantry like a broken puppet. Laska, bleeding and pale, dragged herself into a better position with Zofia snapping to her side. Zofia moved fast, no words, just routine — cinching a tourniquet tight even as the air cracked with fresh shots. Kasnyk stepped into the open on the upper walkway, long coat trailing. His monocle pulsed faintly, flickering data none of us could see. He didn’t even flinch when another lasbolt sizzled past his head. “Your best option,” he called calmly, “is to—” I fired again, forcing him to duck behind the railing. “Ambush!” I shouted. “Flanks and gantries! Stay low!” The vault exploded into chaos. PDF squads swept in from three directions, forcing us back toward the centre of the chamber. Lasfire streaked through the dust-heavy air, hammering against rusted crates and collapsing old support beams. I shifted position and squeezed off another shot — but the lasgun jolted violently. I glanced down. The housing had split wide where a lucky shot had scored it. The charge pack indicator still glowed green, but it was dead weight now. A sharp breath escaped me as I stared at it. Useless. But had it struck me? A finger’s width higher and it would’ve cored through my chest. I dropped it without thinking. Laska’s grenade launcher lay half-buried near her, abandoned when she’d gone down. I grabbed it. Clumsy in my hands — too heavy, unfamiliar. Not like the rifles I knew. I fumbled with the mechanism, struggling to remember the sequence. Chamber open? Feed drum? I’d watched her work it a dozen times, but not like this. Not under fire. Not slick with dust and blood. Laska coughed, voice tight with pain. “Just rack the bolt and shoot the :cuss:ing thing! …sir.” I didn’t hesitate after that. Czajka, still working the gantry angles, risked a glance toward me — eyes narrowing as he clocked the grenade launcher in my fumbling grip. Rakoczy wouldn’t have frozen up, Czajka thought. He’d have made this look easy. He adjusted his sight, tracking a second PDF trooper. But Rakoczy’s dead. And you’re what we’ve got. He fired again, and the trooper crumpled. The battle swirled. Krystan was missing. My stomach sank. “Where’s Krystan?” I shouted, trying to mask the rising edge in my voice. Czajka didn’t answer. He was already moving, shifting his firing angle without breaking rhythm. Zofia finished cinching the dressing on Laska’s wound, yanking tight and earning herself a hissed curse from the corporal. “Hold still,” she said flatly. More PDF were flooding through the left passage. We were being driven into the open. The Vulcan loomed behind us — cold, motionless, indifferent. While the others fought for every breath behind cover, Krystan was already moving. I caught a glimpse of him slipping away as the PDF pressed harder — crouched low, weaving through the wreckage and rusted gantries. Not running. Moving with purpose. That was Krystan. Steady. Quiet. Always with a hand on the hull. He reached the base of the Vulcan without anyone noticing. His boots scraped against the dust-slick deck plates as he stepped closer. For a moment, he paused, one gloved hand resting against the tank’s flank. It wasn’t reverence. It was something else. Like he was listening. Then he climbed. The cupola’s hatch creaked open, metal grinding in protest. The chaos outside masked the sound — lasfire, shouted orders, and the hiss of ricochets filling the vault. Without a glance back, Krystan slipped inside. The interior swallowed him whole. Dim, dust-choked glow strips traced the edges of the control banks. The Vulcan was no Chimera. The controls were broader, cruder, older. Heavy levers. Coiled cables. Exposed gearing and half-familiar dials. He recognised some — drive levers, instrument gauges, even a throttle quadrant that looked like it had been lifted from a mining hauler — but most were foreign. His breath fogged faintly in the cold. Krystan’s fingers hovered above the mess of controls. Somewhere beneath the adrenaline, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself. Terrified? Absolutely. But this was it. This was what he lived for. Machines. Steel. Control. He whispered, barely audible, “Come on… you’re just a Chimera with a bad attitude.” He flicked a master switch. Nothing. He tried again, pulling at a lever, flipping a few toggles — only the dull clunk of inert machinery answered. No. He forced the panic down. Training. Focus. Chimera or not, everything had logic. He traced a row of cables until his eyes settled on a recessed primer coil, partially hidden beneath a mass of bundled wiring. “Old trick,” he muttered. He set his jaw and twisted. The Vulcan exhaled. A hiss of old fuel vaporised into the compartment. The whole machine vibrated faintly, like a slumbering beast shifting in its sleep. Krystan’s hand found the ignition lever. His heart hammered. The thought crept unbidden — What manner of monster do I awake? Before he could lose his nerve, he shoved it forward. The Vulcan roared. The engine coughed to life, clearing decades of dust from its lungs in a single violent growl. Every control around him shook. Gauges flickered. Amber warning lights blinked uncertainly. The floor itself trembled beneath his boots. A thrill surged through him. It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t safe. But it was alive. He adjusted the starter coil, working it gently, feeling the tank respond like a stubborn animal testing its reins. Slowly, he could feel the systems coming online — old hydraulics groaning, mechanical linkages freeing themselves. And Krystan — wide-eyed, knuckles white on the controls — couldn’t help but grin. He hadn’t tamed it. Not yet. But it hadn’t thrown him out either. The engine’s growl swelled. At first, it was just the deep rumble of combustion, rising steadily, but then the floor itself trembled beneath us. Dust sifted from the vaulted ceiling. The heavy beat of the Vulcan’s heart rolled through the chamber, oppressive and inescapable. I felt it through my boots, through the crate I leaned against, even through the air itself. The firefight faltered. Every eye — ours and the PDF alike — turned toward the tank. It shifted. Steel moaned. The Vulcan’s massive hull shuddered as old hydraulics flexed. Running lights blinked into life, pale and half-choked with dust. They didn’t illuminate the whole chamber, but enough to throw eerie arcs across the gantries and walls. A thin red beam lanced out from beneath the turret — the laser targeter. It swept slowly, searching, hunting, until it steadied on one of the PDF squads pressed tight against the far gantry’s guardrail. Then came the sound. It wasn’t the engine this time. It was the unmistakable whine of the Vulcan cannons spooling up, starting low like the spin of a turbine, accelerating with mechanical determination. The sound climbed, smooth yet unsettling, until the rotation reached full speed. Even without seeing the barrels, you could feel them — impatient, poised. The PDF froze. No shouted orders from Kasnyk. No clever flanking. Just a collective, dawning horror. The first burst came. A sharp, staccato roar, not like the shrill chatter of lasfire, but a deep, violent rhythm — each shell tearing from the barrels with purpose. Short, measured, two seconds at most, but enough. The gantry above us ruptured. Beams twisted. Men, metal, and dust cascaded to the floor in a tangled ruin. And then the casings came. Dozens of them, big as a man’s forearm, tinkling and bouncing down the flanks of the tank, scattering across the stone floor like spent coins. That gentle sound, so delicate against the backdrop of devastation, chilled me more than the thunder of the guns. The turret rotated deliberately. The red beam flicked to another squad. Again, the cannons gave that terrifying, staccato burst. Explosive shells ripped through cover, reducing men and steel to fragments. The shockwaves slammed against the vault walls, making the whole chamber feel smaller, tighter. The engine revved in sync, a beast exulting in its release, shaking dust and rust free from the ancient structure itself. Krystan’s silhouette sat hunched in the cupola, his knuckles white on the controls. From where I crouched, I could just make out the tight line of his jaw — exhilaration and sheer terror warred on his face. Czajka swore under his breath, eyes wide. “It’s... hunting them.” He wasn’t wrong. The Vulcan wasn’t simply firing. The twin cannons moved with unsettling intent, their aim sharp, precise, shifting as if seeking, thinking. Another burst. Another squad obliterated. The staccato rhythm ceased. The laser targeter dimmed. The only sound was the soft, continuous tinkle of shell casings still rolling across the floor, accompanied by the growling idle of the engine echoing ominously around the chamber — until, with a final sputter, even that faded into silence. None of us moved. I wasn’t sure if we had taken control of the Vulcan. Or if we had simply set it loose. The last shell casing had barely stopped its slow roll across the ferrocrete when silence returned to the vault. Not peace — just silence. The heavy kind, the kind that presses against the skull and leaves you waiting. We crept out from cover like miners from a collapsed tunnel, every movement cautious, half-expecting the Vulcan to open up again without warning. It didn’t. Its guns sagged slightly, steam curling from the barrels, the turret idle. The squad stood in a rough circle around the thing, weapons half-raised. No one was brave enough to lower them fully. Krystan stood by the tank’s hull, eyes flicking nervously between the squad and the controls still faintly glowing inside the cupola, as if waiting for the thing to reprimand him. He wasn’t grinning. No one was. Czajka broke the quiet first, voice low. “Some say the old ones think for themselves,” he murmured. No one laughed. Not even Laska, though pain had pinned any levity to the floor. Krystan shifted, not looking at us directly. “...It felt like it wanted to fight.” He thumbed toward the still-smoking barrels. “I just... pointed it.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t me doing all of it.” The words sat heavy. We’d all heard the stories. Machine spirits. Ritual rites. The old gear with habits. Soldiers drunk enough would spin those tales for hours. I’d never cared for them. But standing there, staring at the Vulcan with its idling engine and faint heat haze rolling off it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe this wasn’t just wear and tear. Zofia Malmgren knelt by Laska, methodically working through her field kit. She’d stayed quiet through the fight, and now she worked with steady hands, cutting away the flak's melted edge and dousing the wound with something that made Laska flinch and swear under her breath. Zofia didn’t so much as blink. “You’ll keep your arm,” she said softly. “But you’ll curse me for it.” Czajka helped ease Laska upright, steadying her as blood loss made her legs weak. Between them, they got her standing, if not walking straight. That’s when the Vulcan twitched. A soft creak from above. I snapped my head around just in time to see one of the upper hatches unlatch and swing open on its own, groaning as if stirred by a passing breeze. But there was no breeze down here. Krystan flinched. “I didn’t touch anything.” We froze. No one dared speak. Then, slow as a hunting animal, the front heavy bolters shifted. Their twin barrels settled squarely on Czajka. He went rigid. I swear even Laska held her breath. The bolters paused, locked, then sagged down harmlessly. A second later, a flicker of orange danced across the far wall — the lazy flame of a sponson flamethrower’s pilot light, like the Vulcan had merely cleared its throat. Krystan stumbled back from the cupola. “That’s not me.” His voice cracked slightly. I could see it — the unease creeping behind every pair of eyes. This thing had teeth. Too many teeth. “Alright,” I said, trying to mask the tremor in my voice. “We prep it for transport. Now.” Czajka and Zofia got Laska seated on a nearby crate. Krystan climbed back up reluctantly. I could see the tension in his shoulders. He handled it like it was liable to bite him. While the others moved to secure tow cables and mark the vault’s exits, I noticed it — just beneath the grime on the Vulcan’s flank, half-obscured and worn by time, I found it. A faded stencil. 329th Armoured — Katedra Pancerna. The designation meant nothing to me. Nothing official at least. And it made me uneasy. Kasnyk trudged through the dust-choked wind, boots dragging. The squad — no, the survivors — followed, heads down, rifles slung limp. He wasn’t thinking about the wounded. Not about the missing. He was thinking about the tank. The Vulcan. A relic, yes, but not dead. Active. Moving. And worse — used. This wasn’t scavenging. This wasn’t the panic of starving deserters. It was planned. The precise coordination, the fallback positions, the crew discipline, the vehicle recovery. It all clicked into place now like a slow-turning cog. He had underestimated them. Not rabble. Not desperate fools. A resistance. His fingers tightened around the strap of his dataslate case. He had to reach Prawa Ten Drugi. He had to report this before the desert or the shadows took him first. And for the first time in years, Kasnyk tasted something bitter in the back of his throat — fear. The kind that settles when you realise you’ve stepped into something vast and moving, long before you noticed it.

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.

Writer's note: I wasn't happy with Rakoczy's departure, so did a little rewriting of things to make it have more impact and give him the dignity he deserved as a good squad sergeant. While we didn't know him as a character, I wanted his lasting memory to be that of a good leader, leaving some big shoes to fill. Thoughts welcome. The fires had burned low by the time Jagiełło arrived. The smoke still clung to the rafters, curling like lazy ghosts above the wreckage. I stood near the entrance, rifle slung and fingers twitching, watching him move through the aftermath without pause or hesitation. He didn’t speak right away. Just looked. At the bodies. At the scorch marks. At the spilled drinks that had mixed with blood in dark pools on the floorboards. Then, quietly, to no one in particular: "Strip the bodies. Remove armour, weapons, insignia. Anything that can tie them to this place." I turned to the nearest fallen PDF. He was young. He hadn’t even made it to his feet when the first volley landed. I knelt beside him, fingers trembling as I unclasped the straps of his chestplate. His skin was still warm. Jagiełło continued, voice steady. "Seize all recorders. Data-slates, cogitator logs, vox units. Everything. If it has memory, it is erased. If it cannot be, it is destroyed." A few of our tech-savvy comrades moved quickly, heading to the back room where the station's hub was kept. I heard the crack of a boot against a locked cabinet. The buzz of a cutter. I kept my eyes on my work. Mona was speaking quietly with the proprietor, who sat behind the counter, pale but still. He had not run. He had not screamed. But fear sat heavy on him now, the reality of what he had witnessed settling into his bones. "And the network?" someone asked. Jagiełło looked toward the comms array, a squat metal box blinking idly by the far wall. "Disconnect it. Temporarily. The less it stays silent, the less suspicion it draws. We stage a withdrawal. Make it look like they left in a hurry." The man nodded and moved to obey. I kept stripping gear, folding it into a canvas sack that was quickly growing heavy. The faces of the dead were starting to blur together. Havel’s was the only one I couldn’t stop seeing. That flicker of confusion when it all began. That last flicker of recognition. Mona moved past me, her hand brushing my shoulder. I didn’t look up. "He needs to be handled carefully," she said softly, to Jagiełło. She was speaking of the proprietor. "He is frightened, yes. But he sees the tides changing." Jagiełło didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. We would either carry him with us—or bury him with the rest. I went and 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, 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?

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.

I'm going break character a moment and preface this entry with a little context for you. I've never liked the Genestealer's Kiss mechanic; it's always felt like a bit of a McGuffin to me in terms of story, a quick and easy way to move the story along. So, as this blog continues and follows our narrator, it's going to become obvious he's not been taken by it. He has met the Patriarch, though he does not know the true horror of its monstrosity, being shrouded and cloaked but the encounter has left him nervous. However, he is in a desperate position, so he has tried to set aside these thoughts, but they are still there, gnawing away at the back of his mind. I'm yet to write this encounter; I'm not sure I have to, to be honest. I may just leave what happened hanging in the air, as I don't want the Patriarch to feature heavily. I prefer the idea the Cult is bonded by pure action and the sheer force of will of its leaders, such as Mona in the previous entry, and Jagiełło, who we're about to meet. The Patriarch only uses the Kiss on a very specific few individuals, such as these two. Thoughts, constructive criticism, commentary most welcome. The first time I saw Jagiełło, he was standing in the half-light of the bunker entrance, his silhouette framed against the cold glow of the excavation lamps. He did not move like the others, those we had brought into the fold with whispered promises and slow, careful persuasion. He was not one of Mona’s converts. He had always known his place, always understood his duty. He stepped forward, boots grinding against the sand-covered floor, and the men around him straightened instinctively. They did not salute but there was something in the way they moved that betrayed their reverence. They knew, as I did, that Jagiełło was not like us. He was something honed, something sharpened. A weapon in the making, waiting to be unsheathed. His voice, when he spoke, was measured and clipped. “Show me.” One of the PDF officers, a man who had once worn his uniform with pride, led him down into the depths. The air grew thick with dust as we descended, past rusted bulkheads and shattered lighting fixtures. The bunker had been sealed for centuries, its purpose long forgotten by the Imperium. But we had not forgotten. Our Father had not forgotten. When we reached the vault, Jagiełło paused. His gloved fingers traced the worn aquila carved into the ancient plascrete doors, lingering just long enough to make the officer shift uneasily. Then, without a word, he stepped back and gestured for the charges to be set. I watched him as the detonators were placed. He did not flinch at the thunderous roar of the explosion, nor did he shield his eyes from the dust and debris. He simply waited, watching as the past was torn open before him, revealing the weapons that would shape our future. Mona spoke of destiny. She wove dreams and promises. But Jagiełło? He did not deal in futures. He dealt in the now, in the cold steel and fire that would bring the Imperium to its knees. And, in that moment, I understood. He was not our leader. He was our saviour and executioner. I did not realise he had noticed me until he called on me. "You. Step forward." I stiffened, my fingers clenching at my rifle’s sling before I forced them to relax. The others moved away as if the command had not been given to them, leaving me exposed beneath the dim bunker lights. Jagiełło regarded me with a cold, appraising stare. Not cruel, not angry—just weighing something, as though he were judging the strength of a blade before deciding if it should be kept or discarded. "You are 280th Sunward Watch," he stated rather than asked. I swallowed. "Yes, sir." His head tilted slightly. "A soldier. But before that?" "A miner," I admitted, the word tasting like dust on my tongue. It had not been long since they pulled me from the shafts and thrust a rifle into my hands. My back still remembered the weight of the pick, and in my lungs the ever-present grit of the tunnels. "And now you dig for something greater," Jagiełło mused, his voice quiet but edged with certainty. "You understand toil. You understand obedience. But do you understand purpose?" The air in the bunker felt heavier, though I knew it was only in my mind. The truth clawed at my throat, tangled in fear and something else—something that had begun growing ever since Mona first whispered to us in the dark. "I..." I started, then faltered. The hesitation made my stomach twist. I expected dismissal, maybe even contempt. Instead, Jagiełło’s lips curled into something almost resembling a smile. A ghost of one. A fraction of a second, then it was gone. "You will learn," he said, turning away. "Keep up. The time for doubt is ending."

There are three great Hive Cities on Prawa V: Prawa Prime, Prawa Secundus, and Prawa Ten Drugi. Ten Drugi is my home, the home of my brothers and sisters in the Miners' Guild of Shaft VII. The Imperial overseers rule with iron fists, their myriad bureaucrats ensconced within towering spires, tallying each unit of ore we rip from the rock. They ensure that every shortfall is met with punishment—banishment to the sands rather than execution. After all, our labour is vital for the sector, despite no conflicts in the Prawa system for over a century. Long ago, war raged across this world. Beneath the shifting dunes, the carcasses of great war machines lie entombed, waiting for a call that may never come. Every three or four Terran years, the rains come. Torrential downpours turn dust to flood, swallowing our mines, drowning my friends and family by the hundreds. The overseers do nothing. They call these losses acceptable. No protections are given, no warnings sounded. How many times can we watch our kin be swept away before hatred takes root? A deep, festering resentment—a slumbering ember, waiting for a desert wind, a scirocco, to fan it into flame. Until that time, we toiled, cowed beneath the yoke of our oppressors. Then she came. She walked out of the desert with grace, grit, and the storm at her back—our desert wind. Mona. She was a vision—her beauty sharp and untouchable, her voice soft enough to soothe yet strong enough to set hearts ablaze. She whispered truths we had only dared mutter in darkness. Small acts of defiance followed—barely noticeable at first. A misplaced tally. A ‘forgotten’ shift. Meaningless in isolation, yet exhilarating in our veins. For the first time, we felt control. Months passed, and then came the stranger. Cloaked and silent, always in the shadows. Mona told us he, too, was a victim of our oppressors. That he hid his scars from us. Still, she called him Father. Spoke of his wisdom, his kindness. At first, we only glimpsed him—a shifting figure at the edge of firelight. Watching. Waiting. Then, one day, Mona took me aside. She asked about my family. About my dreams. What would I do to make their lives better? To free them? To ensure they never feared the floods or the overseers again? I had no answer. What could I possibly do? Small acts could only take us so far before the overseers uncovered our defiance and sent us to die in the sands. As much as rebellion stirred my heart, it would never be enough. Mona leaned in, her lips close to my ear, her voice like silk over steel. “Family is everything,” she whispered. Her cheek brushed mine. I felt the warmth of her breath, scented with cinnamon and cloves. My pulse quickened. “He is ready to see you now.” A shiver coiled down my spine. Who? Mona’s smile was radiant, knowing. The shadows behind her stirred. “Father.”

Through the years in the hobby i always had a love-hate relationship with terrain. It is a absolute must to have a fun and balanced game experience and it tells the story. Building your own with scrap, foam or whatever and then painting it up is very time consuming. Most terrain you can buy is very expensive and then takes a lot of time building and painting to a decent level. As a fan of papercraft modeling i decided to combine my skills and hobbylove to create some papercraft terrain that is neither costly nor tremendously time consuming. A friend of mine, a very skilled digital artist, joined the journey and creates all the fantastic looking surfaces for our models. In this BLOG we present our new and growing modular table-top-terrain-system that enables you to expand your battlefield without limits and customize it according to your wishes, to experience the greatest possible gaming fun. Buy once and print the sheets as often as you like. Under the following link you will find an overview of our entire and expanding product range with buildings, terrain elements including additional parts and usefull gimmicks. https://www.wargamevault.com/browse/pub/11303/mpconstructions Paper Terrain, is the smart alternative! Create stunning looking gaming scenery pieces without any painting necessary. Combine our different kits and create worlds full of excitement and adventure. Save time, money and the environment. Just print, build and play!

Communication of Information is crucial for the outcome of any battle! Defend or destroy the tower to gain a vital advantage in the raging war your troops are fighting. Combine this set with the Fortification Wall to create even more narrative on the tabletop. This PDF will give you a Tower Design with Communication and / or Defense Tops. The Communication / Defense Tower 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 set here: https://www.wargamevault.com/product/480630/Tabletop-Battlefield-Scenics-Communication---Defense-Tower?src=newest_since We had a blast in our mission where on player had to place detonators at the Communicaton Tower and the other player had to stop him. I hope you have lots either. C&C is very welcome! Just print, build and play!

Original thread start from here. First posts are copy-pasted as regard 40k content, the rest will be running updates. Welcome! This is the log where I'll post anything which I've converted and/or painted for others. Most of my hobby work is not done for my own armies, but rather for my brother's and our friends' collections. It's a great way to experience modelling and painting all miniatures in Warhammer without buying them. Background might be added later on as my friends work that out. This update is however not about something as lethal as cats. It's about something pathetic in comparison, namely a Maulerfiend conversion I've been working on-and-off with for a Skaven-collecting friend of mine. It's based on a sketch he drew. My buddy magnetized a rectangular base so that it could be used as a K'daai Destroyer. He was so eager about the conversion that he managed to sneak it past other projects in my queue... Still, the sculpting was surprisingly quick work and was over before you knew it. Couldn't have done it so fast three years ago: And here's the painted version, alongside his brother. Not painted by me (though the Squats in the foreground are): The CSM-collecting friend, let's call him J.A.B, inspected the newer starter kit Chaos Space Marine lord and Khârn, as well as the new Primaris Marines and probably a few older Space Marine character sculpts. He concluded that hip armour looks good and solves the silly look achieved by the thin thighs of plastic Space Marine legs. Some weeks ago, he visited his parents, brought a gaggle of heretical Marines and asked me to make hip armour on them. Quicksculpted, without time-consuming rivets, difficult spikes or suchlike. He was content, and after returning home to his study town he sent down Berzerkers to receive like treatment, and a FW Necron centipede which needed replacement antennae. I've tinkered with them since they arrived yesterday. Below are the results. Note "KIL KIL KIL" on the knife Berzerker's segmented plates. Also see his painted Lord of Change. http://i.imgur.com/6BKPi38.jpg WIP for my brother's little power armoured collection. Grey Knight legs and helmets and Sanguinary Guard shoulder pads and torsos. Hip plates added to remedy thin thighs syndrome. Cloaks from Anvil Industry to be added later: A Dark Eldar turned into an Eldar Fire Dragon converted for my brother. He thoroughly checked the Dark Eldar sprues back when they were new, and meticulously came up with ways to turn all manner of DE weaponry into Eldar Aspect Warriors with a little converting. More to come: Converted Slaaneshi Daemonprince for a friend: My friend told me to axe the @$$ and instead go for a lean Daemon Prince of Arrogance look, not Lust. As per his instructions, there is now also shin armour plates with images of Elf torture: What else? I also added two lone flowing pteruges dangling from its belt. I'll show you the painted end result whenever he finish this creation: Kill Team A mate of ours has moved back home after years of studying abroad, while a friend of my brother have returned to the hobby after a long break. Combine this with the recently released Kill Team, and we've got a hobby frenzy cooking with making characters, goons and terrain for a mash-up campaign between Kill Team and RPGs. Here is the first harvest of quick-sculpting and conversions, soon back to commercial sculpts. Kastellan Ironstrider, a mate's cyborg: Badoom! Broadbeard, a loudmouth one-Dwarf illegal radio station sending live from his heists and battles. My character: Gnorke Radfizzle, a Gnome sharpshooter with rad weapons, for my brother's friend: The gang so far: Gnorke Radfizzle's car: The friend who has written all the rules and organizes the whole effort has had me convert a gaggle of goons. Here's psyker Spikeskull: And Badoom! Broadbeard's hateful rival, Adman: And finally Gnorke Radfizzle painted by said friend (I had nothing to do with painting). My brother's mate is in for a treat! I've painted nothing of the Kill Team stuff, only converted it. All painted by Johan von Elak, for your display here. Badoom! Broadbeard: During most of our Kill Team-RPG games we've actually had music playing to represent both the immediate sonic barrage emitted by Broadbeard's loudspekers, and the music he transmits across hacked radio channels (with comments of media moguls jumping from windows as their enterprises gets destroyed by Broadbeard's escapades). He obviously also report live from the field, and is the lousiest sneak, at skulking up on enemies, you've ever encountered. Clearly, the audio-disturbed mister Broadbeard has ruined many lives through his noisome adventures. Which leads us to...

Storming the fortress or defending it, is one of the coolest scenarios for tabletop battles in my opinion. I proudly present the first element of the coming fortification series. Highly modular and versatile you can build a fortified site any size you see fit. This PDF will give you a modular Fortification Wall Design. The Fortification 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 set here: https://www.wargamevault.com/product/481421/Tabletop-Battlefield-Scenics-Fortification-Wall During the design process we had lots of fun planing, building and storming our fortress. I hope you have lots either. C&C is very welcome! Just print, build and play!

Hello all! I wanted to share my current project I work on. It is an Exorcist class grand cruiser I named Basket of Thorns. Since all ship models in 40k are taken from epic miniatures and small figurines they are never portrayed as proper works of arts, namely Gothic style cathedrals in space. In addition, they all have wonky proportions, never truly describing their giant size. They do not make sense when taken a closer look, like a macrocannon shell in diameter of 100m or a gold cornice 100m wide. Not happening in real world, baby. Not even with Imperium's grand waste of resources. So I made one. It is still WiP as finishing it off will take some time, but for time being, I can at least present some progress as It is almost 90-95% complete and all that remains is to add engines. And revise detail to be more precise. It DOES have 7.8 km length, 3.4 height and every meter has been accounted for. Maybe not EVERY as there are still blank places, but still. Coming in hot. For now, some overview. :) - - Since I perceive all WH40k proportions of ships as ridiculously bloated and out of realism (more about that later) here is some my depiction of what could be an orbital laser chamber. Located in underbelly of the beast. It has diameter of 190 meters, a little bit over 620 feet. And my version of Nova Cannon. this one is as according to current lore, with 50m diameter bore for its shell, not the puny nonsense SM2 tries to portray. And top view of the crown That's it for now. More renders later