The Canis Aureus

This is just a quick shout to my buddy Lewis who has recently taken the plunge into the grim darkness of the 41st millennium with a Space Wolves army. Check out his minis and fan-fiction over at the Canis Aureus.

Hooowwwwwlll!

It's rare to see someone develop such a zest for the hobby in such a short space of time. I look forward to the blog, and the army, going from strength to strength.

Flash Fiction Challenge - Omen

So for shiggles I thought I'd participate in the flash fiction challenge thrown down by Mr Wendig over at terribleminds. I got the song 'Omen' by Crossfaith.

OMEN!!

My thousand words is below for your perusal. Please enjoy/ignore/abhor at your convenience.

Omen

I entered the cell and glanced at its sole occupant. She looked utterly miserable. Cell wasn’t the word they had used to describe this room, calling it instead an “isolation ward”. I had been in enough prisons to know better. I glanced around the room, looking for somewhere to sit; naturally it was unfurnished. Just bare, grey walls coated in vinyl that would be slightly spongy to the touch. The door clicked shut behind me and I knew, without looking, that there would be no lock or handle on the inside face of the door; only a slab of timber offering no purchase or hope of escape. The thought sent a shiver down my spine; enough time spent here would shake the sanity of even the most rational soul.

                “Good morning Marie,” I said, taking a step forward “my name is Robert Williams, I’m a detective with the metropolitan police.”

                “Is it morning already?” The woman spoke softly, raising her eyes to meet mine. She was seated on the floor, one leg curled beneath her, the other sprawled out in front. I was shocked at the deep lines the last few days had carved into her youthful face.

                “Already past ten.” I tried to affect a cheery tone but it came out sounding flat.

                “Oh.” She responded listlessly, still gazing at me.

                “Marie, we need to talk about what happened at your apartment, two days ago.” I tried the direct approach. Marie’s face switched in an instant from an expression of abject misery to utter dread. Her eyes darted around the room as if looking for escape and she rapidly shuffled back until she was pressed against the far wall.

                “Can you see it?” She whispered.

                “See what Marie.” I tried to remain calm.

                “The writing…….on the wall.” She motioned with a crooked finger towards a blank piece of grey wall.

                “Marie, there’s nothing there.” My affected calm was beginning to waver. Marie began to mumble under her breath, just on the edge of hearing. Frustrated and concerned in equal measure I took a step towards her. As soon as I moved she fixed me with another stare, drew in a long breath and screamed at the top of her lungs.

                “IT’S AN OMEN!”

*12 Hours Earlier*

I trudged up the concrete staircase, familiar paint strips peeling from the familiar mouldering walls. It was the fourth time in the last fortnight that I’d paid a visit to The Lawn; an imaginatively named apartment block in one of the less desirable areas of town. As I reached the fourteenth floor I saw the yellow and black striping of police tape outside apartment 143. Passing the uniformed officer at the door, the scene inside was distressingly familiar. At a casual glance it was the same as the last three calls to this building. The dreary bedsit stank even worse than it normally would have; every available surface was covered with fluids that rightly belonged inside of a human body. I turned back to the uniform on the door.

“Any sign of forced ent…” I cut myself short. Ragged splinters of the plastic door were barely clinging to the frame. The majority of the door itself was lying on the stained carpet several feet away. Just as I was turning back to examine the room more thoroughly, the head of Met forensics, walked in through the remains of the doorway. I smiled half-heartedly.

                “What can you tell me Carla?”

                “Not much,” she knew me well enough to be honest “the apartment was leased by Mr Lars Anders, what’s left of him is now decorating the premises.” She made a vague circular motion towards the room with her pen. “Plenty of other prints and DNA throughout the place but none of it is immediately suspicious.” She paused and offered me a slight smile “Of course I’ll leave the conclusions down to you.”

                “It’s going to be the same as the others isn’t it.” I replied, trying not to sigh. Three other gruesome and suspicious deaths in this block in the last two weeks and not a scrap of useful forensic evidence.

                “I wouldn’t like to guess, but” Carla paused again “if I was a gambling woman that’s where I’d put my money.”

*18 Hours Later*

The phone was ringing, groggily I put out my hand, knocking the receiver onto the floor but handily answering the call. I scrabbled on the floor in the darkness before finally recovering the phone.

                “Hello.” I mumbled hoarsely.

                “Bob, it’s Sam from the station.”

                “Sam? What time is it? Why are you still working?” Surprise covered my annoyance at being woken.

                “Bob listen, I’ve figured it out, we need to get an armed unit over to sixteen-twelve immediately!” Sam said, feverishly. I was used to his eagerness, a young kid looking to prove himself. But being woken in the middle of the night was something new.

                “What are you talking about?”

                “The Lawn, The bloody Lawn Bob!” He drew a quick breath. “Listen, get down to the station right now and I’ll give you the details.”

So I found myself outside apartment 612 in the small hours with an armed escort from SO19. Sam had convinced me; he hadn’t found any new evidence, no groundbreaking forensics had turned up in the nick of time. But I was convinced just the same, he’d found a pattern in the apartment numbers, something so close to random that it would have been missed by anybody else. Suddenly one of the armed troopers spoke.

                “Contact, by the stairs!” There was a sudden glare of muzzle flash and the deafening report of a Remington shotgun; and then all hell broke loose.

*30 Hours Later*

“Robert, I’m detective Holroyd.” I eyed the guy suspiciously. A city type in a crumpled but expensive suit. From my seated position on the floor of the cell he loomed over me.

“Can you see it?” I replied venomously.

“See what Bob?” I could see the tension around his eyes.

“The writing on the wall,” I shook my head, suddenly exhausted “it won’t go away.” The numbers were crawling in my peripheral vision. I closed my eyes, it didn’t help.

“No Bob, I can’t see anything.”

“It’s…” I leapt to my feet as my vision clouded over “IT’S AN OMEN!”

The Legion Wars: Escalation

Well it's a stupidly hot afternoon here so you'll have to excuse any errors in this post. You'll also have to excuse the lack of pictures because I can't get hold of them at them moment. Damn technology!

The legion wars have continued apace with as many as twenty (gasp!!) models gracing the field over the weekend. Sadly my Night Lords ran riot in both games slaughtering the Salamanders left and right. So much so that both Berserkerbro and myself got a bit pissed off and started painting Dreadnoughts. Oh dear, the threat of mutually assured destruction looms! Once I finally finish the Contemptor (next week I promise) it will be photographed in all its glory. Shortly thereafter I fully expect to have its last hull point removed by its own plasma cannon........

Anyway, in lieu of photos, here's another short piece of Legion Wars fiction.

Bathinko was laughing again; laughing like a maniac and revving the engine of his ridiculous chain-glaive. Kromellus could hear him over the squad vox as he exchanged sporadic bolter fire with the Salamanders scouts crouching in the ruins to the North. Kromellus loosed a three round burst and dropped behind a stone parapet as he reloaded. As he crunched another magazine into his bolter; Kromellus couldn’t help but reflect on his situation. It was one thing to have dropped through the warp onto this forsaken world; it was entirely another to have to follow a raging lunatic into battle time and time again; at least he wasn’t screaming for a change.

As he stood and took aim at the green armoured figures, Kromellus saw a midnight blue blur in the corner of his retinal display. Bathinko had broken cover and was sprinting headlong towards the Salamanders position. “Get back here you moron!” Kromellus yelled uselessly into the vox. The only response was another wave of mirthless laughter. Instantly the targeting vectors of his enemies changed to bracket the new threat with a storm of bolter fire; Kromellus could make out two scouts emptying their weapons in desperation to bring down the charging giant. He watched Bathinko pause in his headlong sprint to prime a Krak grenade and hurl it fully into the torso of one of the scouts. The anti-tank warhead detonated with a dull thump, utterly destroying the scout in a pointless and gory display of overwhelming firepower. As Bathinko gloried in the carnage his grenade had created the remaining scout took careful aim and hammered three rounds into his bat-crested helm. Bathinko dropped like a rag doll, still burbling incoherent laughter into the vox.

As Kromellus watched his Sergeant fall into the dirt he realised he’d expended his last magazine. Opening a squad vox channel he called for his brothers “Sons of our father, with me! Murder them all!” With that he vaulted out of the rubble and ran towards the scout; he had just enough time to notice two of his brothers charging with him before all of them were engulfed in the searing torrent of a flame weapon. Immediately Kromellus dropped into the dirt, rolling in an attempt to extinguish the clinging chemical fire. His brothers did not react as quickly and were caught in a second burst of flame. From his prone position, Kromellus saw a figure clad in green ceramite emerging from the ruins wielding a chainsword and an ornate combi-flamer. He vaguely heard his brothers’ screams over the vox as the flames ate through their armour joints and they died in agony.

Kromellus desperately regained his footing as the Salamanders Sergeant bore down upon him. The Sergeant hacked at Kromellus’ neck joint with his chainsword, the serrated teeth spewing sparks as they glanced off the layered ceramite. Kromellus drew his gladius and punched it into the Sergeant’s abdomen. He felt the point snag as it was deflected by torso plating, but the blow was enough to unbalance his opponent; instantly, Kromellus moved inside the Sergeant’s guard hammering his gladius downwards in a backhanded grip. The legion steel smashed into the Sergeant’s respirator grille, mangling the intake vanes and drawing blood. Just as Kromellus drew back his hand for another strike he heard a cry from behind “Kal’Dhanis!”, as he tried to twist to engage this new threat he felt a sickening impact against his right knee joint. Kromellus’ leg buckled and he lurched sideways as he turned, seeing the scout firing bolt pistol rounds point-blank at his exposed armour joints. With a snarl he drove his body forwards using his good leg and stabbed his gladius upwards through the jaw and soft palate of the scout and into his brain. Kromellus had no time to watch as the scout’s eyes glazed over; Sergeant Kal’Dhanis had recovered and was swinging his chainsword in a decapitating blow. Kromellus abandoned his blade and threw his forearm into the path of the descending blade. The teeth chewed through his armoured gauntlet, severing muscle and tendons and showering him in a spray of his own blood. Kromellus made a grab for the blade sawing through his arm and wrenched it away; hurling it to the ground nearby. In the same motion he smashed his head forwards, driving into Kal’Dhanis shattered faceplate with a horribly organic crunch. Kal’Dhanis reeled and Kromellus wrapped his fingers around his throat; using his armoured bulk to drive Kal’Dhanis onto the ground. For what seemed like an eternity he choked the life from the Salamanders Sergeant; green armoured gauntlets battering and scratching at his faceplate as the son of Vulkan fought desperately for life.

After the body finally went limp in his hands, Kromellus pushed himself back to his feet. His left arm was nearly severed below the elbow and his right knee would bear no weight. He had a nasty feeling that an augmetic replacement would be required for him to continue serving the legion. His retinal display registered a catalogue of damage to his armour; not the least of which was that he was still smouldering from the flamer wash. As he half-heartedly patted at the clinging flames; Kromellus heard a burbling chuckle over the vox. Bathinko was still laughing.

The Legion Wars Begin!

Ok, so it's been a while and I haven't posted any updates. You know how it is: Life, work etc etc. So what have I been up to? Well, shortly after swearing off any new hobby projects and committing to painting the models I already own, I went totally nuts and started putting together a 1000 point Night Lords Legion army for the Horus Heresy. Building and painting has begun in earnest and I'm thrilled with how the VIIIth legion are turning out so far.

I've also begun a small build-and-paint escalation campaign against Berserkerbro's Salamanders. Here's a little mid-battle photo of my Sergeant getting mown down by a bunch of scouts.

Sergeant Bathinko's last moments....

Here's a very short piece of fiction I wrote to accompany the photo and commemorate his defeat.

Sergeant Bathinko screamed as he bore down on the crouching scout. The vox caster built into his ornate helm amplified his screams into an inhuman roar. The Salamander reacted instantly, turning on the spot and unleashing hail of mass-reactive bolts. Most of the shots went wide, the few that struck home detonated harmlessly against Bathinko’s armour. As the scout drew his combat blade, Bathinko raised his chainglaive, the teeth of the brutal weapon whining as they cut empty air. His first stroke was a massive downward cut with both hands that would have cut an Astartes warrior clean in half had it struck home. The scout had anticipated his move however and stepped inside his guard jabbing viciously at the exposed cabling of Bathinko’s midriff with his blade. Bathinko’s retinal display lit up as his armour sustained damage to its power feeds and with another scream he swung the haft of his chainglaive outwards, knocking his opponent into the dirt. The Salamander reacted instantly, rolling to his knees and firing his bolter one handed. The single shot smashed into Bathinko’s faceplate scrambling his vision and severing one of the crests from his helm. Blinded and enraged, Bathinko swung the chainglaive downwards with all his strength. The pitiless chewing teeth sawed through the stock of the upraised bolter and into the torso of the kneeling scout.

                As his retinal display recalibrated, Bathinko’s sight returned. He looked down upon the savaged body of the Salamanders scout lying prone before him. His audio receptors picked up the distinctive sound of a boltgun slide being racked. Bathinko had just enough time to look up at the remaining two scouts aiming down at him from the gantry above. In the time it took him to draw breath he was bracketed by their co-ordinated fire; the barrage of shells shredding the grisly trophies attached to his armour and splintering the ceramite plating. One shoulder guard was completely torn away by the torrent; he tried to turn, to protect his head with the other shoulder guard only to be knocked to the ground, sustaining damage faster than his auto senses could track. Bleeding profusely from several serious wounds Bathinko used the last of his strength to draw breath and screamed.