Sons of Horus (the beginning)

 I've been collecting Warhammer 40,000 for decades now and was an avid reader of the Index Astartes and Horus Heresy books, so when the Horus Heresy boxed games were released with whole squads of old patterns of Space Marine armor I jumped on the opportunity to get a bunch of cool minis. Unfortunately for those minis they languished in a closet while my ever shifting attentions turned to my latest hobby project. Several collections of 15mm minis and still ongoing narrative 40K campaign with friends later and I have turned my attentions back to those minis hopefully in time for them to see some action on the tabletop for Age of Darkness Second Edition.

It's gonna be a while before we get
to this stage.

So where does one embark on journey that was abandoned once before? At the beginning of course, well inside a stack of bins filled with parts and pieces of temporarily discarded in a mix of apprehension and lacking attention. This time however I was older and wiser and more eager to finish these minis than I had been when I bought them (this what I tell myself anyway) so I dig in with both hands and extricate the needed parts and pieces. The first couple things I find are some converted Mk IV marines that I actually made to be Imperial Fists, I've always like the Sons of Dorn and have had an army of them in the past, but I also remember deviating from my original intent of building the Betrayal at Calth box as a bluefor and opfor. Under the stalwart defenders of the Imperial Palace I find what I was really interested in, my Sons of Horus Reaver Squad with jump packs.

When I had originally put these together I remember being conflicted about if I liked them or not, they were fine but they didn't resonate the way the art from the Horus Heresy books did with me. I wanted better, I wanted something fitting to field on a tabletop and proclaim victory for the Warmaster, I wanted cooler Space Marines. I gathered up all the kits I had from the Betrayal at Calth and the Burning of Prospero, I dug through all my cast off bits and organized as many as I could from the Chaos Space Marine kits and unusual bits that would breathe some life into my conversions. Many afternoons were wiled away by building backpacks and multi-part torsos while Law and Order played to drown out the existential dread... (stares off into the endless dark)

Out of this state emerged something better than my original concept. A force that would be more representative of the image of the Sons of Horus in my mind. I had plenty of components but I realized that to really make a collection that I could be happy with I would need some things I had neglected to get my first go round. Luckily a number of things had changed in the time in between the release of the Horus Heresy boxed games and my second attempt for Age of Darkness Second Edition.

I got started by adding the chains and trophy skulls prevalent in the Forge World art. The chain was easy enough to source, a single pack of fine jewelers chain from Amazon had me blunting my flush cutters. The skulls were quite a bit more in price as I went with the GW skull accessory kit but I was determined not to cut corners and leave myself feeling disappointed like the first time. I wanted to encapsulate the brutality of the lore in the posing and adornment of the minis, and to help with this aspect I added lots of bits from the older Chaos Space Marine kits, flayed skin behind holsters and pouches, long spikes with skewered human skulls, hooks and spikes added to arms and armor for maiming those who would stand against the Warmaster! (More than once I was asked to keep the maniacal cackling down by my partner.)

The extended building and conceptualization process really allowed my to cement an aesthetic that felt right. That's not to say that there weren't setbacks or changes in the way I was going about doing some things to my Sons of Horus force. More than once I would build several minis only to go back and change their poses or strip off their arms to replace them with something more desirable for my opinion what they should look like. I had to learn how to best attach those menacing trophy chains, something that until this project I had little experience with. Overall though things were progressing, I was getting two or three steps forward for every setback and soon my desk was covered with little traitors.

The whole project was becoming quite the undertaking but it was working and I could see my progress materialize as this vague concept was made into a collection of minis that I was really pleased with. Like all things my Sons of Horus army was something that could be broken down into stages and I was nearing the end of that first phase. I was fast approaching the time when I would have to knuckle down and paint this little horde of minis (gulp), especially if I wanted to get them ready in time for what I knew was coming sometime this year, Age of Darkness Second Edition. 

As you can already tell from the fist picture in this post the painting definitely happened, but I'll save going in to that for the next post in this series. I'm optimistic that my renewed excitement for my Sons of Horus and the upcoming Horus Heresy releases will drive more regular content on this blog. Thanks for reading if you've made it this far and I hope you've enjoyed my thoughts, maybe it will encourage you in some element of the hobby or I might even see you on the battlefields of the 31st millennium.

Eyes of the Gods

Belshrek marched among the other warriors led by the notorious Champion Fangrak, leader of the Man-flayers. They had made ready to take battle to the Fangrak's mortal enemy, the dread Sorcerer Gah'neth Three Legs and his Disciples of Pleasurable Pain. The two warbands were prepared to do battle under a storm wracked sky among the tumbled ruins of some forgotten kingdom. Gah'neth's host had taken their place on a hill, a good defensive position that would be difficult to take, but the warriors of Fangrak's warband had strong sword arms that would be up to the task.

Coruscating lightning danced across the blood dark sky as the banners carried by both hosts whipped and snapped in the rising gale. Fangrak climbed atop a high rock and raised his barbed ax to the heavens, Belshrek cast his gaze to the Champion and raised is own blade as the warriors around him did, a salute to the gods and to glory of battle to come. With a blinding flash a single bolt of purple lightning lanced down from the sky and struck Fangrak, the Champion burst apart in a ball of green fire and charred black armor. The lightning jumped from the felled Fangrak and struck another warrior who smoked and sizzled where he stood.

The warriors of the Man-flayers began to break ranks some rushing forward to battle the warband of Gah'neth others turning to flee from what was a bad omen for the fighting to come. Belshrek decided that he would die with his blade in his hand and made to charge forward, the warrior in front of him had other plans and turned to flee at the same time. The two warriors collided and crashed to the ground, Belshrek struggled to rise to his feet as the panicked warrior grappled with him to escape the battlefield, both spat curses through their helms and soon began to trade blows. Belshrek managed to bring his blade to bear first and slew the coward with a deft stroke through the exposed neck of the man's armor.

Now coated in blood of what should have been an ally Belshrek rose to his feet, he looked in the direction of the fighting, the Man-flayers were struggling to climb the hill, they were met by twisted creatures, servants of the God Slaanesh who mutilated themselves in order to worship their God, they fought half naked and used hooked flails that tore at one another as much as they harmed their foes. The boom of thunder echoed over the cries of the fighting and dying warriors. As Belshrek surveyed the battle he spotted Gah'neth, the Sorcerer stood on a stone dais and gestured towards the sky, the mage looked back in the direction of Belshrek and for a brief moment he knew that Gah'neth was looking at him. The hair on Belshrek's neck stood on end, he suddenly felt himself enveloped in the same purple lightning that had slain Fangrak, biting pain and heat scurried across his body and with a deafening pop everything went black.

Belshrek floated on an ocean of blood, the sky was the same dark shade that had benighted the battlefield in his last memory, and a deep booming voice spoke within his head.

"Not yet... not till your death meets my purpose..."

Belshrek awoke as a crow tried to peck his eye through the slit in his helm, he set up and flailed his arms. All around him were the dead of the battle, their blood coagulating on the ground, carrion birds pecking at the exposed meat of grievous wounds. Some warriors were little more than smoldering heaps of armor, those felled by the Sorcerer Gah'neth. Belshrek looked about himself for any survivors and spotted a few barely clothed Marauders moving among the fallen, stripping the dead of choice trinkets. One of the looters spotted Belshrek and called out to his fellows in a tongue he did not recognize, the looters raised their flails and began striding towards Belshrek, he didn't know their language but he understood their intent. Belshrek gripped his sword and shield and stood to his full height, he would meet his death on his feet at least... the mysterious voice from his dream again echoed in his head.

"Not yet..."

The Chill in the Night

Lusien pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, the wind had picked up after the sun set beyond the western mountains and brought with it an unseasonable cold. The boy had an argument with his brothers and decided to leave the safety of the farmhouse and stand watch over the remaining goats of his family's farm.

The family's troubles had started a few weeks before when Lusien and his older brother Mytier had discovered one of the goats slain, at first they assumed that a wolf or some other predator of the night had killed it, but as they looked over the remains they were both dumbstruck. No meat was missing, and while the poor thing was seemingly torn to bits there seemed an unnatural order to it all. The goat's guts had been piled while its legs had been cast in odd directions. Repulsed and frightened the pair had fled back to the farmhouse to tell their father Coldyn, and other brother Ingall of the grim sight.

The family decided to leave one son and their dogs in the pasture with the trip of goats so they could catch the creature that had done such a gruesome thing. Mytier being the oldest and almost a man had decided to take the first few nights watch and for a time there was no loss of livestock. On the fourth night the hounds rose from their rest beside Mytier and bolted into the dark howling and barking, the boy bravely gave chase but soon the dogs fell silently and could not be found, shaken by the loss of the dogs Mytier retreated to his home and roused his family with the news.

In the morning Coldyn gathered all three of his sons, they armed themselves as best they could mustering a brace of long knives and a pitchfork between them. The family set out in the direction the dogs had run beyond the pasture and towards the edge of the woods bordering the farm. In the early light of dawn beneath a large hearthwood tree they found their dogs, both skinned and seemingly bent backwards with their hind legs shoved into their mouths. Somehow the slain animals still stood on their front legs, posed across from one another like guardian statues of a temple. Young Ingall shrieked and buried his face into his father's chest. Coldyn gripped his son with one hand and made the beak sign of Viridia with the other. All four staggered back from the horror, "Back to the house!" the boys and their father fled running across the field the way they had come, the little group barged into their house and bolted the door behind them.

For a long time the family sat in silence, Ingall quietly sobbed while his brother Lusien tried to comfort him, the heartbreaking sight made up Coldyn's mind about what to do. Coldyn bundled up some dry cheese and stale bread, tucked one of the long knives in his belt and then kissed each of his sons on the forehead. "I must go to Northbank, there I can get the aid of some guards, perhaps a priest of Viridia. I will return with help and we can banish this evil. Please my boys, stay in the house. Do not venture out, there is salt meat and cheese in the cellar and I should be back in less than three days. Mytier you are the oldest, watch after your brothers." The oldest boy nodded sternly.

The boys did as they were bade and stayed in the house, during the day Lusien would gaze out of the narrow window by the door, he could see some of the goats when they would venture near the house. At night the three would huddle near the hearth and hope for the dawn to come and banish their fears. They did this for two nights and two days, when Lusien saw something move among the goats in the pasture close to sunset, a man, but not like his father or the other farmers in the vale. The man seemed hunched and yet tall, taller than he should be, clad all in dark cloth that draped about him like a shroud. Lusien watched the man for a time and wondered what he was doing, the goats didn't seemed startled by him even though there was something in the way he moved that made Lusien afraid. Suddenly as if sensing the attention from Lusien the man turned to face the house, frail and overly long fingers seemed to slide from the shadows of the man's sleeves and slowly rose to the dark shade of the hooded man's face. Slowly the hood slid back, in the waning light a pallid face with a wide smile and dark eyes was revealed, but as Lusien looked he realized that wasn't right, the man had no eyes just empty voids and that overly wide smile was just teeth as if the man had no lips. "What are you doing?!" Mytier shouted at his brother. For the first time Lusien was aware of the sound he was making, he had been screaming since the man-thing had turned to look at him. Broken from the spell by his brother's words Lusien had stopped, he looked back through the window but the man-thing had gone. "I saw something... someone... we need to go out there."

Lusien and Mytier argued for an hour or more till Lusien made up his mind to leave the safety of his house, he had grappled with his older brother and snatched up the remaining long knife, his younger brother had pleaded that he stay but Lusien needed to know what the man-thing was, grabbing an old horse blanket for warmth he set out to find out what the man-thing wanted with his family and their farm. Lusien stormed into the dark, wandering till he found the trip of goats. Hours past and the wind picked up, Lusien grew cold and finally decided to rest by the trunk of a small stone fruit tree. The sky was clear but the stars seemed dull, the moon hung low and full in the sky and it lit all the land in an eerie amber. "Did you like my craft?" The voice cut into Lusien thoughts, gone were the feelings of the cold night, replaced with a tight heat deep in his guts that made him instantly sweat, Lusien looked into the moonlit dark till he spotted the source of the words, seemingly wrapped in shadows the man-thing was just a few feet from the boy. Lusien stammered and coughed but couldn't find the ability to make words. "I could teach you. I have yearned for an apprentice who is both brave and curious." The words were like a rasp on the base of Lusien's skull, his eyes watered and his bile rose, just when Lusien thought he would be sick on himself words tumbled out of his mouth, "What are you?" The man-thing made a sound like pebbles falling into a dry well, it took a moment for Lusien to realize that the thing was laughing. "I am all that men of great power wish to be but have not the means to achieve. I am ever-living. I could teach you to be the same." Lusien wanted to weep, to jump up and flee into the dark from this twisted thing, to turn away from it and pray to any of the pantheon that it would leave him alone, but all he could do was quietly agree, he nodded and spoke through the dryness he felt in his throat, "Yes." The man-thing drew closer, its hood falling away from the skull like visage that was its face, it knelt in front of Lusien. "Your first lesson waits for you in that farmhouse." Lusien felt hot tears run down his face as he suddenly understood the nature of his first lesson, but knew he would do exactly what the thing expected of him, and for his obedience he would be rewarded.

Zona Alfa

Sergeant Zubarev slapped a dossier down on the table. "We're being redeployed to Adrosorvik."

The soldiers sitting around groaned, "There's fuck all to do there!" Niminev bleated, "Bunch of stuffy generals already drank all the booze and fucked all the whores!" the assembled soldiers laughed at the unit's clown.

The Sergeant scowled till the laughter died out, "I know you worldly gentlemen don't watch the news, but I'm sure you know that Adrosorvik was the site of a recent attack by the rebels, command has tried to keep a lid on the whole thing, but this was no normal bombing, half the city was wiped off the map by a device of unknown design."

The revelation took the levity out of the bored soldiers, Zubarev surveyed the room gauging the faces of his soldiers. "Listen up, the brass was there, I don't know why, but as of right now General Dovadov is the commander of all Guuseprian forces." A quite murmur of swears rolled through the men. "The Army has set up a perimeter and no one is getting in or out of the Adrosorvik region, they're calling it Zona Alfa. We're the lucky bastards that get to go in first and check it out."

Corporal Vadym Buserev piped up, "No one knows what happened?"

Zubarev picked up the dossier he'd set down and handed it to the Corporal, "We know there was a massive attack, it might have been nuclear..." Goldava kissed the cross he wore around his neck and folded in on himself. "Hey, we're the best recon unit in the Army, that's why we're going in first, the radiation readings are inconsistent..."

"Good, maybe we'll only get a little cancer." Niminev's joke failed to make anyone laugh this time.

"All precautions are being taken on this one, we're getting radiation gear and testing equipment, command is even giving us an armored recce with full contaminant scrubbers. If the site is dirty we'll at least be clean. We have to go in, whatever happened has to be found out and there's no radio or other transmissions coming out of Adrosorvik. Aerial recon is not going to cut it on this."

"Not surprising, when have those fly-boys ever got the job done?" Niminev succeeded in making the squad laugh, "Besides maybe we'll get super powers like the Icredible Hulk." The joker proceeded to flex and growl.

"That's the spirit. Our mission is simple, we go in, collect as much information as we can, command wants video, photos, readings on radiation in the air, soil samples, and if we can connect with survivors of the attack, rescue any of the missing VIP's." Sergeant Zubarev pulled his beret from his pocket and fixed it on his head. "Corporal, go over the particulars with the men. Double check all your gear. I have to head over to the motor-pool and get our special equipment. We leave at 19:00, it's going to be an overnight drive and we should be there in the morning."

Corporal Buserev stood and saluted, "Yes Sergeant."

The Gendarmes of Wallonce

In the Western Kingdom of Wallonce men of means and noble birth serve their lords and King as Gendarmes, armored horsemen able to crush the barbarians and creatures from beyond the Iron Spine mountains with a coordinated charge. To see the glittering armor and fine velvet of the gathered Gendarmes is to witness something both terrible and beautiful in equal measure, and just as there is a dichotomy in their appearance there is also one in the actions of the Gendarmes. For every noble horseman there is a bloodthirsty adventurer, for every paragon of Walloncian virtue there is a swindler of noble birth content to fatten himself on the stipend afforded to him by the King.

The Gendarmes are meant to share a singular purpose but like many things intent is not the same as result. Rather than being an institution with one leader, the King in the case of the Gendarmes, they are instead a loose collective of cliquish nobles, often more loyal to individual lords or in the worst instances loyal to the fattest purse. In the modern age this impulse has been curbed some by strong Lords like High Lord Brathburn of the Western Marches, but the High Lord has a fair number of powerful enemies and those Gendarmes who bristle at his edicts and decrees find ample patronage from those enemies.

Further splintering of the Gendarmes results from the numerous orders of noblemen that gather around certain activities, causes or the authority of influential towns and trades. These "Noble Clubs" do serve a good purpose often, keeping men interested in the arts martial and honing their skills in sport both equestrian and militant. One fine example would be the Order of the Silvered Blade, a militant order whose members pride themselves on skill with swords in full harness, its members often patrol the Western Marches at their own expense with the hope of practicing their craft against the foes of the Medial Kingdoms. Another example would be the Order of the Impassioned Lady, a romantic order whose members practice the courtly arts of dance, poetry, calligraphy and music, while its members may not be the most militant they serve a needed function as courtiers and diplomats.

More controversial orders do exist, orders whose members pursue goals that are not always inline with those of the Kingdom of Wallonce. The Order of the Withheld Guilder is perhaps the most powerful of these and the most dangerous, at odds with almost every other order and despised by many of the most loyal Lords, the Gendarmes of the Withheld Guilder are primarily not of Noble birth, but they have extensive means as merchants, tradesmen, and guild authorities, their only goal seeming to be achieving power through trade and wealth, they have organized and taken up arms so they can refuse to accept certain taxes and edicts. Due to their power over the markets and trade of Wallonce and their ability to muster substantial military force they have not been brought to heel, but it is only a matter of time till there is a reckoning between the Order of the Withheld Guilder and the Throne of Wallonce, whether this will result in a yoking of the merchants or the appointment of a puppet king is uncertain.

Gloomburg

Shrouded in mists, both mundane and mystical, Gloomburg rests as a dim bastion of Sigmar's light in the Realm of Shadow. Its human populace labors daily to eke an existence from a harsh land benighted by the ravages of undeath and the dire machinations of the followers of Chaos. Despite their hardships, the free peoples of Gloomburg thrive in a unique way, they are able to harness useful vapor from the mists and bring light to winding dilapidated streets of their city bringing a measure of safety to the vulnerable citizens who dwell within its walls.

Gloomburg is centered around a once forgotten shrine to Sigmar, the verdigris dome of this structure is much like the people of the city, stained from exposure to the Realm of Shadow but standing defiant with a noble purpose and resolute solidarity. Around this temple mount are clustered the homes and shops of the citizens of Gloomburg, each building is festooned with the curious gas-powered lights and slow burning torches that provide the illumination needed for day to day life. Beyond these structures lies the Great Mausoleum Fields, many square acres of graves and shrines that hold the Sanctified Dead, those who rest quietly after their entombment. The final edifice of the living is the long curtain wall which rings the Great Mausoleum Fields, the garrison of the wall is called the Mystguard, these brave souls stand in defiance of the terrors that would see all the people of Gloomburg slain or worse.

The people of Gloomburg do not stand alone in their struggle however, the Stormcast Eternals, heavenly champions of Sigmar, maintain a small presence in the city; these noble champions buoy the spirits of the suffering people of Gloomburg and fight those threats too dire for the Mystguard to handle by themselves. The Stormcast are not the only allies of the free people of Gloomburg, a small community of duardin live withing the city, and more extraordinarily the Kharadron Overlords operate a trade dock that brings in vital supplies in exchange for the right to exploit the the aether-gold present in the mists around Gloomburg.

The Fallen Hold

Nobran stalked through the damp corridor, the aroma of mildew and squalor overbearing in the dark space, acrid smoke hung in the air made by the dim braziers that dotted the once ornate walls, grime now caked the impressive and continuous etchings that decorated the hold. In its heyday the hold was the pride of the local dwarf lord who owned the mines and trade of the region, now the mine was half filled with water and effluvia, the decaying scraps of those who fell victim to the current residents of the hold, two of those denizens straitened as they heard the approach of their master.

The bulky creatures clutched crude and menacing weapons, their beady eyes glinting in the dim as they spied Nobran, both bowed their heads and one made to speak, a voice like ripping cloth crawled from the crusted lips of the beastly guard.

"We have done as told, the thing is bound, weak it is and ready for breaking, master is pleased?"

Nobran nodded, his lackeys were strong and cruel as all of his ilk should be, but they knew his wrath and feared him as much as they obeyed him.

"Good," Nobran's voice reverberated like a distant avalanche, a thing filled with malice and promise of death, "I will see to the breaking, I will teach the creature fear and pain till it knows nothing else."

The two beasts opened the door they guarded and stepped aside for their master, beyond them in another squalid chamber was the subject of Nobran's attention. Almost twice as large as Nobran, the hill giant knelt between two stone columns, its arms bound by ropes that wrapped around the impressive structures of the room and anchored to iron rings in the floor. A brazier smoldered near the giant's face, a set of irons rested within the guttering flames, the fickle light danced on a crude table covered in the tools of a torturer.

A cruel smile split Nobran's face, his sharp and menacing teeth bared in a display that would curdle the blood of even a hardened warrior, he strode towards the table of implements, his clawed fingers finding purchase on the handles of a large set of pliers, his gaze shifted to the shaggy head of the bound giant, its head bowed and fists clenched, Nobran would see to that, soon it would know only to recoil at his presence, know only to cower at his voice and obey his command without hesitation for fear of his wrath.

The verdigris stained door to the chamber creaked shut, a sound soon forgotten among the muffled howls of a stubborn creature learning the proper order of things, an order ruled by a tyrant bugbear and his minions.