'May You Live Forever' – A Company of Bitter Iron

[Isengrin]

Great work with the Iron Father legs and overall composition of Medardus. It'll be interesting to see where this is going.

[apologist]

Great work with the Iron Father legs and overall composition of Medardus. It'll be interesting to see where this is going.

 

Cheers, and good spot on the Iron Father's legs – I like using parts from single-piece models as they're generally a bit harder to spot (owing to familiarity) when looking over a figure, helping them blend in and sell the model as something unique without extensive sculpting. Many of the FW and GW Terminator characters have more interesting leg poses than the stock 'troop' Terminators, so the torsos can be trimmed away to liberate a set of more interesting legs.

 

Doesn't help when people like you use your laser-like observational skills, though!

 

+++

 

+ Seven +

Seven of us turns our situation from a simple re-group into a consolidation. With the Immortal, Coalstan and two others keeping sentry, Medardus and a hastily-appointed section lead – another breacher assault specialist named Triumph – convene. I grimace as I start to report. 

"I can confirm Manos, Hanic and Wellsmyth are dead–" 

 

"We will remember." Triumph interrupts, his voice rich, deep and sincere; Medardus' voice hesitantly joins the litany, halfway through. I blink, then continue.

 

"Together with the dead, we account for ten. The 'bird was full, so given those proportions–" This time Medardus finishes my thoughts, a disconcerting experience, but welcome for its familiarity here on this black, dead world.

 

"Arms and ammunition – plentiful." states Medardus. "These containers hold sufficient small arms and disposables to re-equip the rest of the force – should we find other survivors. Given Triumph was towards the hold, and you were near the cockpit, our casualty rate might be lighter than expected."

 

"Unless the shot hit us midships," points out Triumph. "Then we might constitute all that is left."

 

"As optimistic as your name suggests, brother," I say sardonically, "but you may be right. Standard tactical procedure is clear."

The breacher, unmoved by the insult, nods.

 

"Redeploy to avoid detection and artillery; begin marauding until we can find Legion forces."

 

Triumph is right, and having something standard to enact feels reassuring. Injury or no, I am finding myself ill-suited to command, but Medardus' peculiar status prevents him taking over, and the others are – as all my brothers – obedient to a fault; unquestioning of my seniority, however meagre. Nevertheless, however tempting slipping into familiar drills might be, something nags at me. 

 

"I'm wary of standard procedure." I blurt. The others look askance at me, their helms cocked quizzically. "Look – we're certainly not going to struggle to find Legion forces; not with seven Legions on the surface. Friendly forces, however..." I trailed off. That silences the others. It is hitting home that we are dealing with an enemy force that is every bit our equal. Worse; they have the drop on us and the first blow in. It is hard to admit we are reeling. I press on. "My point is that sticking with standard procedure is what got us shot down. The fact we've not been shelled already demonstrates that they don't have a lock on our position." The others' heads are bowed, slightly; as though they are not paying attention – or are talking on a closed circuit. Before the silence stretches, Medardus raises a metallic finger.

 

"Actually, I suspect they do. Those barrages that keep sailing over? Those are targetting the site of the main crash. I can't think of any other reason for them to shell a position so far from the main conflict." That makes sense. I cradle my head, briefly. I should have seen that; particularly since the decision falls to me on whether the seven of us get into, or out of, the fight. "Truth." I concede. A pause. "...And that's why we're going towards it." Despite his great-grilled helm, Triumph manages to look simultaneously incredulous and disgusted. I press on, emphasising my words with a chopping gesture. "It's our best bet at finding other survivors; or at least an operational communicator. Intelligence is what we need. We are not yet strong enough to mount effective marauding operations – not against other Astartes."

 

+++

Brother Triumph

 

A mix of bits here – home-sculpted and cast torso, shoulder pads and hand from Master-Crafted Miniatures, and an Anvil Industry bionic arm (cheers for the heads-up, by the way, Luna707) are combined with FW and GW parts. I'm pleased with how he looks; particularly the trigger discipline!

 

I'm looking forward to tackling his Immortal colleage; I think it'll be fun to examine how the Immortals are seen in the Iron Hands, and how I can distinguish them visually from the 'standard' Breachers.

[Luna707]

I am in love with how you chose to introduce this new force. Such a creative way of introducing your characters and subsequent models

[Isengrin]

(...) Doesn't help when people like you use your laser-like observational skills, though!

Well, that...or I have spent way too much time staring at Iron Hands while contemplating my own truescale force. 

 

For that matter I might have to copy your use of the character parts. As you say, it really is a good way to mix up the troops without too much effort. You also do the little things like that finger off the trigger so well, it really makes them come to life.

[apologist]

 

Moving in twos and threes, we scuttle from cover to cover like cockroaches, our ebony armour proving oddly effective camouflage against the hard black ground. Coalstan leads, his footing and pace steady. As a sop to standard practise, we avoid a direct route to the crash site, instead approaching in a long curving arc that both avoids the great gouge it ploughed whilst keeping it in easy sight.

 

The Stormbird proves curiously difficult to find. It is, bizarrely, not there. The great gouge terminates in an empty crater. I look around. Any smoke that the might betray the location of the wreck is utterly lost in the burning rain of ash and fire of the raging wider battle.

 

I am unwilling to divide our meagre forces. We consolidate and form a small – too small – circle at my hand signal, ducking into a sheltered lee in the rock. Each marine crouches and faces outward; the three Breachers forming a laughably loose shield wall that brackets Medardus and Miredan, with the Immortal awkwardly positioned at their side. I am the centre.

 

Each Marine taps the brother to his right, and the Immortal turns to touch my boot. Involuntarily, I flinch at the touch of the disgraced soldier. His helm remains blank and impassive as he turns back outwards.

 

I realise have no idea what to do. My focus on the Stormbird was complete – dangerously so. Now it is missing, I am completely at a loss.

 

The six are looking outward, but I feel the judgement of each. Weak.

 

I pause and attempt to lift my helm away. The lower part grinds, then remains stubbornly fixed even as the top portion comes away. It falls into three large parts in my hands. The hot, dry wind of Isstvan grates over my bare scalp. It provides no relief.

 

Staying here is foolish. At best, the enemy have investigated and moved on. At worst, an artillery strike might fall in a moment. I try to clear my thoughts. Facts. We are near the peak of a mountain, though the topography remains frustratingly unclear. What little breaks in the pillars and natural columns exist are black with dust, ash and smoke and taunt our lack of vision. Without access to the noospheric battle-net that our support in the IVth should have had up and running by now, we have no idea of our position.

 

+++

 

Vo Colmach was a bear of a figure; taller than the rest of us by a clear margin, and strapped around with muscle-bulk. An experienced veteran, his armour and shield practically dripped with sigils, markings and honorifics that marked him as participating in more than a dozen extinction-level campaigns during the Alien Wars of the early Crusade.

 

His experience was vast; his adaptation to different threats – whether the speed of aspected Saim-Hanni, the bio-horror of the Arc, or the creeping precision of the Terror Lizards of Shrin – unparalleled. He had trained obsessively, modifying his body and equipment to cover incremental weaknesses and make himself a true god of war.

 

On any other battlefield, Colmach would have been invincible.

 

On Isstvan, he was merely the first of us to die.

 

+++

 

Even as I prepare to swallow my pride and ask for ideas, the Children emerge from the fog. Three of them, moving away from our position at an angle, their rear left sides to us. Remnants of a Seeker squad, judging by the markings, though these are non-standard. Less than a hundred yards away, they are seemingly as mazed by the smoke and din as we were, and show no sign of having seen us.

 

Their movements are sinuous, creeping and oddly hypnotic – though whether it is this or something else that makes us all freeze, I do not know. Instinct has brought my salvaged boltgun up, which alerts the others to my target through their armour's hoods, but none of us fire at the other Astartes. Their armour, opulent and saturated, looks obscenely lavish against the black, black rock.

 

+++

 

Time stretches. The rearmost turns, checking all angles. It is such a natural movement, so measured and by-the-book, that its familiarity disarms me. Isstvan feels like a training exercise. I give no order. For Colmach, my pause proves fatal.

 

The Emperor's Children have no hesitation at firing at us. The rearmost puts two bolts into Coalstan's legs even as he moves to stand, expertly targetting beneath his rising shield. The shots alert the other two, who dart forward, away from us and into cover.

 

Our return fire is sporadic. Even now, even now, we're firing to suppress. It feels wrong. Four shields come together, the Breachers' instincts to lock and protect, rather than attack. Bolt rounds shriek past and clang into the iron wall, and we step forward as one. No, not as one, I realise. I hear Medardus above the roar of blood in my ears. Something. Behind us.

 

The fourth Seeker – appearing over the rise behind us – has put two bolts through Colmach, one in the back of the neck, all but decapitating him, and another that sends his arm below the elbow whipping away. The veteran breacher's shield clatters to the floor, and he falls upon it, heavily. The shield wall is broken. The three enemies to our front are dug-in behind the rocky cover, firing at us.

 

Thank providence for brother Miredan – and thank Telerac for volkite. A thrumming, eye-watering, ray of emerald-ruby evaporates the rearguard, before the culverin-toting Heavy Support specialist turns the beam on the rocks. A second Seeker erupts into short-lived flame, his gaudy purple and gold turning as black as our carapace.

 

I spin to see Colmach's executioner jumping down and all but impaling Medardus with a long combat blade. My brother twists as he collapses to his knees, snapping the blade a foot or so above the quillion. The sheared-off remnants run through his gorget and out below his shoulder. Blood is sobbing out of the rent in his armour, washing down his flank. His left hand, silver and gleaming, is grappling with the Seeker, trying to stop the Emperor's Children warrior from finishing the job with the foot or so or the broken blade that remains in his grip.

 

My bolter is up. My breathing is ragged. My head feels close, and hot, as though wrapped and padded in wet felt. I have lost my Crusade. I have lost my craft. I nearly lost my head. I will not lose my friend.

 

My first angry burst of boltgun fire knocks the Seeker back. The second burst puts him on the floor. The third – finally – penetrates his armour, pulping and ruining the marine within, turning the traitor into charnel meat and boiling pink mist. Waveringly, I put a bolt round through the head of the purple-armoured warrior. My enemy neutralised, I whip back round to see my brothers advancing haltingly on the remaining Seeker, sheltering behind their great tower shields.

 

Triumph is face-down in the dirt, and Coalstan is stumbling. Smoke is rising from him, along with a stench of burnt meat. A bolt whips past the Immortal and punches into my side, cutting through me and spinning me onto my back. It burns. It hurts. The Emperor's Children's bolt-fire is punching through our armour and shields as though it were cloth. I look up to see Miredan stumble backwards, aspirating a great cloud of blood through his vox-grille. His culverin drops.

 

The Immortal stands alone against the remaining Seeker. He is a handful of steps away, his ineffective boltgun empty and discarded. The light is weird. He throws aside his shield, rent and punctured. The Seeker stands – arrogant – and blazes away at point blank range. Every shot hits, tearing through the Immortal's armour.

 

The Immortal is armour. Nearly every component of the disgraced Iron Hand has been replaced with cold, hard iron. There is little flesh to burn; few nerves to torment. The great punctures in his torso do not even break his stride. The light transfixes him, falling through his torso and leaving glittering red-gold shafts behind him.

 

He reaches the Seeker's paltry cover and vaults it before the marine can reload. One steel-cold hand bats the Seeker's weapon aside, the other wraps around the throat of Fulgrim's child, lifting him and slamming him heavily into a black pillar. The Seeker scrabbles at the hand at his neck. The Immortal closes his fist.

 

Victory. Of a sort.

 

+++

 

WIPs:

 

Triumph

 

Our narrator

[lionofjudah]

Damn... So good Apologist!

[Tyrannicide]

Man, I could read these stories forever. Love the way you've chosen to introduce the models and weave them into the narrative.

 

What do your future plans for the force look like?

[apologist]

I am in love with how you chose to introduce this new force. Such a creative way of introducing your characters and subsequent models

Cheers Luna – I'm really enjoying it. Who knows, by the end of the project I might have a little Iron Hands novella to go with my army  

Thanks for the invite to collaborate, by the way – I'd love to work something out :)

 

Well, that...or I have spent way too much time staring at Iron Hands while contemplating my own truescale force. 

For that matter I might have to copy your use of the character parts. As you say, it really is a good way to mix up the troops without too much effort. You also do the little things like that finger off the trigger so well, it really makes them come to life.

 

Hey, cool – I'd love to see some more like your avatar; great model

 

Damn... So good Apologist!

Cheers! Here're some other pics of the narrator:

 

 

 

 

A combo of Forgeworld, Anvil Industry and GW parts here.

 

Man, I could read these stories forever. Love the way you've chosen to introduce the models and weave them into the narrative.

What do your future plans for the force look like?

Always good to hear someone likes my burblings, so thanks

 

As to future plans, there are some hints and foreshadowing in the colour text throughout, but essentially, we're looking at the surviving contents of a single Stormbird.

 

We'll see the Immortal and Miredan, for example, along with 'the three that stood apart' mentioned in the opening story. (In fact, probably one of those later today, as I built him last night.)

[Bob Hunk]

More excellent work Apologist.  I remember with your UMs and SoH you've recreated some of the iconic HH novel covers; are you tempted to build some individual Iron Hands to match those shown on the cover of Fulgrim? 

[apologist]

More excellent work Apologist.  I remember with your UMs and SoH you've recreated some of the iconic HH novel covers; are you tempted to build some individual Iron Hands to match those shown on the cover of Fulgrim? 

That does sound fun! I'll have to have a closer look...

 

+++

+ Iter Mirabilis +

 

 

If I learn one thing from the skirmish, it is that inter-legionary warfare is swift, brutal and unforgiving.

 

The second lesson is simpler. It is important to be the last one standing.

 

I limp over to each of the fallen enemy in turn to confirm the kills with a blade. It is something more and less than expedient. Two are little more than blackened skeletons, and one took a boltgun round to the head.

 

I squat next to the Seeker with the broken neck. The Immortal's grip has nearly decapitated him. Is this knifework necessary, or tribalistic? I feel like I am exorcising my own hesitation. I shiver.

 

+++

 

Standing, I appraise the situation. We are mauled, but – with the exception of Colmach – we are not dead. Triumph and Medardus are not fit to fight; but Coalstan, the Immortal and I are functional enough to prove a limited threat. Miredan seems almost embarrassed when his injuries prove to be little more than flesh wounds. He is battle-ready. Iron Hands are hard to kill.

 

Hard, but not impossible. We are forced to leave Colmach. The Immortal stands back, respectfully, as the others place the fallen veteran on his shield and fold his remaining arm across his front. Bereft of a head, the corpse has precious little dignity.

 

Triumph pulls a small silver object – no larger than the tip of my finger – from a pouch, and places it gently on Colmach's torso. Medardus, swimming in and out of consciousness, mumbles along with Triumph as the Breacher coughs out his litany.

 

"Colmach is dead. We will remember."

 

Let them have their ritual.

 

+++

 

I order us back to the supplies. There was a functional narthecium suite in one of the armoured containers, I am sure. We limp back down from the mountain, Miredan taking point and the Immortal protecting the rear. We are slow, vulnerable. Weak.

 

A functional suite, I think cloudily, though none of us have the training to use it. A problem, I decide, for later. Activity. Purposeful activity.

We trudge heavily down the gouge, using the missing Stormbird's path as cover. No-one objects to the direct route this time. Having no orders, no command and control, has left me at a loose end.

 

Isstvan was full of miracles, but miracles are simply the confluence of seemingly unlikely events. The Imperial Truth provides clarity and guidance. It has little space for mysticism.

 

Finding an angel on the way down was thus a surprise.

 

+++

[Luna707]

I spy a son of Sanguinius!

[apologist]

Indeed – suddenly, Blood Angels!

 

+++

 

+ Ciraman Catabin, Adeplhos Phanuel 3:12, Darda'il of the Eleventh Host +

 

 

His name took some understanding, and not just due to his command of Gothic, archaic and accented by his upbringing on Baal.

 

We called him, half-mockingly, Cinnamon. Insofar as we could tell, he took it with good humour.

 

+++

 

Catabin joined us three years prior to Isstvan, as part of Lord Guilliman's Conmuto reforms. These were intended to alloy the Legions together by encouraging exemplary individuals to learn from and fight alongside their cousin legionaries. By the same wit, Bar-Krom of the Word Bearers and Holion of the XIIIth were attached to the Clan Caled, though the latter departed scant weeks after the arrival of the Blood Angel.

 

The Iron Hands are, by and large, insular. An upbringing on Medusa demands self-reliance, and these virtues are honed by Legion and Clan philosophy. We form small circles, as tight-knit as a closed fist. Nevertheless, Caled were not as hostile to the Conmutii as some of the other Clans – some of whom had attempted  to bar such exchanges outright, in open disagreement with the Primarch.

 

After some initial reluctance, the earthy Bar-Krom and Holion came to be a part – albeit limited, temporary – of Caled's order of battle. The same was not true of Cinnamon. I could not explain quite why he seemed so other. His manner seemed nebulous, though unfailingly conscientious and dutiful. He was exemplary in all aspects of warfare. Full of virtues, yet soft-spoken and humble, he should have been excellent company. Nevertheless, conversations were stilted, stuttering to a halt. There was no similarity in outlook – on some ineffable level, his humours seemed to share no underlying structure with ours.

 

We are insular; and not given to self-reflection. None of us avoided the Blood Angel outright, but equally none sought his presence save on official business. For my part, I had little reason to associate with him. I had no duties that coincided with his, and so we might have ghosted past each other through the entirety of his tour with the Iron Tenth, were it not due to our presence in support of the Blood Angels' fleet prosecuting the Arc Reach campaign.

 

This interminable war necessitated Medardus being shuttled from place to place, and we visited a IXth delegation on more than one occasion. On one such flight, Catabin called on my cell to request – politely, quietly – the chance to accompany us; presumably to enjoy the company of his own kind. I had no reason to clarify, let alone refuse.

 

+++

 

We spoke little during the journey – I am accustomed to keeping my own counsel – but I overheard him conversing with Medardus as I attended to flight duties while on route to the Emblazoned. Medardus had asked him to elucidate on his name, which we had all found tortuously cryptic. He smiled then. Were I to attempt the expression, it would appear supercilious and arrogant. On the Blood Angel, it was warm, indulgent.

 

"My suggenia name is Catabin." His voice was spiced with gold, quite different from the reassuring bark and burr of Medusa. He raised a hand to ward Medardus' unuttered question. "It is a term of Baal; it means..." his voice drifted a little, then returned. "Suggenia means kinship, affinity. In Gothic, 'brothers in blood' is the closest translation, but that becomes... confusing. You have heard of the tribes of the Blood?" Medardus nodded.

 

"The inhabitants of Baal, of course."

 

"Yes, so Terrans call us. The Tribes of the Blood, the Suggenia. It is the same. It is similar to the Medusan caravans, I think?" Again, Medardus nodded in affirmation.

 

"So Catabin is your... tribe name? And Ciraman your given name?" This time, the Blood Angel nodded in answer to Medardus' question. "But what of the other names. Are they titles? Honorifics?"

 

"A little of both, I suspect." Catabin drifted then. The space was awkwardly long; I found myself wanting to speak, to fill the void. Medardus seemed as at ease as the Angel. After a meditative silence, he continued. "I am told recruits from Inwit take Gothic names upon their ascension." he began.

 

"Yes," said Medardus. "Fists replace their name as a mark of surety upon joining the VIIth. Some of the Tenth do so, too – those who feel a particular affinity with Terra. I am one; our attentive pilot another." He nodded to me, mockingly. I realised I had been tracking off-course, absorbed in eavesdropping, and corrected our path with a quiet grunt.

 

"My full name is 'Ciraman Catabin, Adeplhos Phanuel 3:12, Darda'il of the Eleventh Host'. The first part is... personal. We retain our birthnames. So much of us changes during ascension. It is good to keep a connection. The second part–"

 

"No, wait – adelphos – that's your terms for frater, I suppose?" interrupted Medardus.

 

"Just so."

 

"...and Phanuel?"

 

"That is my atroatican name. I cannot think of a good word in Gothic. It is just... Atroatican. I do not think it would mean much in modern translation. Perhaps choir? Ring?"

 

"A Baal idiom, then. Am I right in thinking 3:12 is a rank?"

 

"You are full of questions." There was mirth in the Blood Angel's voice then. Medardus' reply was clearly split by a grin, too.

 

"My apologies, cousin-adelphos." He did not stumble over the word; pronouncing the Baal term as fluently as the Angel.

 

"No, no. I enjoy this interrogation. It is good to remember Baal."

 

Again, that interminable silence. I gritted my teeth.

 

+++

 

"3:12 is a binder; a codifier. The atroatican names are ancient. There are not many. As a result, there are many repetitions. At first, we used suggenic names to distinguish between us – Ambriel Hemas and Ambriel El-Aster, for example. After the arrival of blessed Sanguinius," he paused. My eyes were pointedly fixed on the pict-screens in front of me, but I had seen him sketch a brief gesture in the air on the other occasions he had cause to mention his Primarch, and supposed the ellipsis owed to this, "We grew fast. There were many then. Many hundreds of Ambriels, many hundreds of Kerubiels, many Phanuels... and so on. You understand."

 

"And so you took numerals, too? So there is a Phanuel 1:11, for example?"

 

"Yes – Phanuel 1:11, and many like it. Phanuel 17:4, Lucifer 2:16, Tzaphqiel 19:19, and so forth. The numbers remind us we are Imperial. We belong to the Angel, and through him, to the Emperor." Both paused at this point to chorus the familiar first-amongst-us-all before Catabin continued. "In any case, we were uneasy about using the suggenic names. It is good to know where you come from; but more important to know to whom you owe your loyalty. That is who you are."

 

+++

 

He went on, explaining he was the twelfth in his Choir, which was the third in his Host. I took these to be equivalents to companies and clans, or possibly squads and some other grouping, though by this point, I was starting to make adjustments for the approach and could not spare the concentration. By the time I was finished, he was explaining the term Darda'il to Medardus. They had chuckled at the similarity between the Librarian's name and the Angel's title.

 

"You are a traveller, then?" said Medardus.

 

"Indeed. It is a new rank; one coined for Lord Guilliman's reform. The Darda'il of Baal travel to learn; but they also travel to watch." He uttered it as airily as anything else he had said, but there was a sudden air of tension. Medardus' voice took on a note of poorly-hidden suspicion.

 

"Watch? What for?"

 

Catabin's voice took on an edge of its own.

 

"We look for those who remember His name. We watch that it is kept."

 

+++

 

The conversation had finished more abruptly than it had started. We had landed shortly afterwards, and the Angel had given a stilted, formal bow to Medardus and myself before he hurried away into the depths of the Emblazoned. Neither Medardus not myself spoke of that conversation, not while we were accompanied by the IXth's Honour Guard, nor again once back on Medusa.

 

In truth, I had rarely thought of that troubling memory in the time since, until the Angel appeared to us amidst the smoke and ash that cloaked the burnt-black surface of Isstvan.

 

+++

 

 

 

 

[Sandlemad]

Wonderful. Ciraman - and Medardus, in particular - are excellent, really enjoying the character you've developed. The background to the Baalite naming conventions is also great, really impressed by how naturally you brought it up on the shuttle. In some BL books this kind of thing has been relegated to a sort of sudden infodump but here it fits so well to the narrator's voice.

[apologist]

Cheers – very kind, and I always particularly appreciate any feedback on the colour text I write. :)
I'm always startled how little the Blood Angels' background has been looked at in the Horus Heresy series, so it was fun to delve into how (at least part of) the Legion's operations differ from their 41st Millennium incarnation.

 

+ A short interlude +

Background stories aside, I'm aware that this project has been all mouth and no power-armoured bodysuit for a while, so permit me to demonstrate there is some painting going on behind closed doors! 

 

 

From this point on, I'm aiming to present the background along with painted models, rather than built/undercoated versions. From experience, the Iron Hands have a fairly quick paint scheme, so I don't anticipate it taking me too long to catch up. 

 

Catabin may take a little longer, as I've got something a bit special in mind and am waiting for an order to come in. One of the reasons I wanted to include the two Conmuti in this project is that they provide a perfect opportunity to experiment with more unusual materials – the other is that they'll provide a refreshing break from boring old black.

[Xin Ceithan]

These are great - the Models along with the stories. Can't wait to See them painted - especially teased by your take on the Blood Angel. I am struugling through painting red on my current knight project. I have a feeling you are going for something metallic - even if it is not red....

[Isengrin]

I won't complain about more painted models. 

 

To make a conversation on naming convention so engaging is quite a feat. Great text. That teaser pic has a couple interesting additions, notably the banner-bearer and the hammer dude. I can't wait for some close-ups.

[Dagoth Ur]

Oh my, just perfect! Beautiful modelling and painting! The writing is just as I had imagined, gritty, introspective, a perfect mix of detached and disturbed. Can't wait to see that Blood Angel!

[apologist]

 

Turn the eyes upward.

That is the only direction for peace.

Even then, it is the cold comfort of stars.

 

We stand, weapons raised. Chem-aggro stimms layered on pain suppressants and fatigue make my flesh itch and crawl, but my boltgun is unwavering. Under my arm, Medardus is slumped, barely remaining upright by hanging on to me.

 

Catabin's blank, narrow-eyed helm gives nothing away. He makes no move – neither towards us, nor away. He watches.

 

"Kneel! Lay your weapon aside!" cries out Miredan. For one horrendous moment, with the guns of six Iron Hands trained on him, Catabin remains motionless. 

 

Medardus stirs. He raises his head. His voice is a wavering croak. 

"Catabin..." It takes on an oddly pleading tone. "Catabin, in the name of the Emperor."

 

That gets a response.

 

 

+++

 

 

+ Paintwork on our narrator +

A productive evening of painting. There are notes on the specific techniques used on Death of a Rubricist, but I thought I'd keep this blog fairly uncluttered for the story. Suffice to say I'm pleased with how he's come out; but I'd love to hear your thoughts and feedback.

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you've got any suggestions for the scheme – or indeed, requests for things you'd like to see, please let me know. Thanks for all the encouragement and support; I'm glad to have you along for the ride!

[Isengrin]

Man, he's awesome as hell! That skin tone lends him a really gloomy feel. I also like how you desaturated the white of the bolter casing, so it's not too much of a distraction, while still giving a nice contrast to the rest of the model. 

 

Now, Cinnamon...what's up with him? 

[Luna707]

LOVE that skin tone

[apologist]

Cheers guys – the skin is the same mix as the weapons casing, with the addition of a little Dark Flesh and Golden Yellow. 

 

Work progresses (albeit slowly), and brother Miredan is starting to come together. Aside from basing, weathering and perhaps a tweak to his augmetic optics, he's all ready. I thought it would be interesting to show quite how boring they look before this vital final stage; just to demonstrate how a properly finished base can enhance a model.

 

 

I think this Telerac-pattern Volkite Caliver looks awesome

Deathrays FTW!

[Xin Ceithan]

Nice. You may continue to bore us ;)

[apologist]

 

I let out a quiet sigh when I realise I have been holding my breath. I put my hand on Miredan's arm and gently press down until he lowers the weapon. His gaze follows Catabin as he advanced on us, warily.

"Make yourself known." My voice is cracked. There are protocols to follow.

"I am the Darda'il of the Eleventh Host," he began, "and I am pleased to find others who remember His name."

 

+++

 

Comparing notes as we marched back to the mobile apothecarian, Cinnamon had also been flung free. He had come across four of our comrades; all dead. Triumph and Medardus murmur in turn as each name is recited. The Stormbird's location is unknown to him, but he has found the war.

 

+++

 

Twenty minutes sees us refreshed and back in some semblance of operational fitness – though I harbour no illusions that the eight of us we will be conquering worlds any time soon.  We have a plan. Forget the Stormbird; head towards the Urgall Depression.

 

+++

 

+ Painting +

 

+ The painting on the first  seven is now complete, and I'm pleased that the palette seems to be working. A test model is all very well, but I don't think you really get a good idea of whether the scheme is right until you see it as part of a group. +

 

 

+ I decided to use a gloss red effect on the targeters, and keep this as a very minor accent. An eye-catching 'hot-spot' draws the eye, and since the scheme is naturally fairly muted, it can use the help to define the helmet. +

 

+ The first Breacher's shield looked a little plain, so I've added a broad diagonal stripe across the other two. +

 

+ I'm pleased with how Medardus has emerged, too. I'll likely do some individual model pics soon. +

[Bob Hunk]

Lovely group shot, and good call on the stripe on the breacher's shield. 

[apologist]

Cheers! Here's a (rather brighter) picture of the three Breachers.

 

Left to right: Triumph, Korannan and Coalston.

 

Meridan

 

Medardus