+ inload: Badab +

+ Back to Badab +

+ A few inloads back, I showed I was working on casualties for Kill Team Clawthorn [+noosphericinloadlink embedded+]; here are the first four dead/injured versions, undercoated and ready for paint. +

+ A couple of new marines have appeared, too. Being fairly anonymous, I'm not sure whether to add them to the Astral Claws or start a second Kill Team, perhaps Star Phantoms or Novamarines. +

+ While I was undercoating, I took the opportunity to spray a couple of individuals: a squat and Titan crewman (thanks to the very generous Omricon for the latter). +

+ inload: Order of Solar Ascendant +

+ Adepta Sororitas Order of Solar Ascendant

+ The Order of Solar Ascendant are one of the numerous Ordos Minoris of the Adepta Sororitas that maintain a presence in Antona Australis. +

+ Disposition +

+ Established during the Fourth Scallop Star Purges (M37.778–789), the Order venerates the Crone of Iocaste, an historical figure whose tale became conflated with a number of local folkloric sources. The Crone herself, Badam Kaur, was an eyeless and earless mutant; who nevertheless came to lead a minor Imperial Crusade against the forces of the Archenemy. Beatified in M39, the historical Crone – a divisive and thoroughly fascinating mass of contradictions – has become lost in the shifting sands of Imperial records; and is now venerated simply as Saint Iocanthe, a flawless beautiful and scrupulously virtuous being who was martyred during the end of the Hesiod Romantic Rebellion. +

+ The Order maintains a number of Missions, both in Antona Australis itself and the neighbouring Prodigium Os Sector, but its largest grouping is the Commandery based in the Sarum system. +


+ Tinctures and Seals +

+ The Order of Solar Ascendant clad their followers in a split scheme; half their armour black as night; the other half bathed in the light of Sol, which the Order venerates as a symbol of the God-Emperor's beneficence. Their surplice-cloaks are the blue of the night sky, marked with symbolic star-markings that denote the Emperor's watchful eye over all of his worlds. +

+ As is perhaps inevitable, given the sheer size and exhausting weight of Imperial records, the Order's heraldry bears similarities to many other uniforms in Imperial records. This is far from exceptional. Of particular note, however, is the fact that the scheme is not merely similar, but identical to that of the short-lived Frateris Constantium – a formation that last operated in M35, during the Alien Wars of the Nova Terra Interregnum.

'The principal military force of the Nova Terran branch of the Adeptus Ministorum, the Frateris Constantium formed a mirror to the Nova Terran Army. Both were precociously well armed and equipped by their Adeptus backers, but where the NTA attracted the more puritanical, the Frateris Templar were swelled by those who sought ritual and reliability in a world of swiftly-changing fortunes. '
[+appendnote+: A number of ancient texts indicate that the organisation of the Frateris Constantium was the direct inspiration for the later Frateris Templar, under the infamous Eccleisarchs of later Millennia – +authorident: Unfortunus Veck+ +]
+ What significance this has – and if indeed this is naught but coincidence –has been the subject of Inquisitorial investigation by the aforementioned Unfortunus Veck during the Sun King of Cepheus affair. Records are currently cloistered for Scarlet-level Inquisitorial staff and above. + 


+ Representatives: Callistus and Makemeet +

+ Sisters Callistus and Makemeet are typical Errant examples of the Order; trusted Battle Sisters that are deputised as bodyguards to important Ecclesiarchal representatives. They are tasked with ensuring the physical and spiritual safety of those under their aegis. Service as a Sororitas Errant-Solar is necessary to progress within the order; though outwardly seeking such promotion is regarded as sinful. An Ordinate of the Solar Ascendant must be nominated by her Superiors to such a task. +

+ The symbol of the Order is a rising Solar disc, bathing the unworthy world in the light of the Emperor. This pict-capture shows the star-patterned cloaks well. +

+ Sister Callistus +

+ Sister Makemeet +

+ inload: Blood Angels retrohammer Dreadnought +

+ Furibundus-Perfidium Dreadnought +

+ A real blast from the pa... no, wait, a beautifully executed fan-resculpt; an affectionate update of the classic Rogue Trader-era Dreadnought. I'm blocking in a few bits here and there, and thoroughly enjoying it. +

+ Painting is progressing fairly slowly as I feel my way around the sculpt. This is, I hasten to add, no fault of the sculpting (great) or casting (beautifully clean), but simply that it's fun to work on a model that updates a real childhood favourite. +

+ The image above it quite a good example of what layering translucent paint layers (I hesitate to call it glazing, as the layers aren't as dilute) can do. The lower half has a couple of additional layers of Vallejo's Flat Red; the upper part is just Mephiston Red undercoat. +


+ Spot-On Models in Swindon was the only place I could buy models for many years (likely owing to the appearance of GW Swindon, it now specialises as a model train shop), and in amongst the racks of blisters from the likes of Grenadier, Marauder, Citadel and Old Crow was a second-hand area. +

+ Clutching a birthday fiver, I bought a Dreadnought from this stash, beautifully-painted in red. It got used as a robot for my Imperial Guard; turned up in Space Crusade games as a counterpoint to the ED-209 Chaos Dreadnought; and at my dogged insistence* once appeared in my (very indulgent brother's) Advanced Heroquest dungeon. It got boxed-up, uncovered, dropped, repaired, repainted into a quartered scheme – and then I lost it. +

+ A quick scale comparison shot +
+ Even through the mists of nostalgia, I can recognise that the original sculpt was fairly crude, but it's lovely to have a modern version. To modern eyes it may be blocky and unrefined, but it just absolutely radiates the Rogue Trader era to me. I'm delighted to have it in my army! + 

* Whinging.


+ inload: Painted Terminator +

+ One long painting session later, and we've got a painted 'truescale' Blood Angels Terminator ready to make war in the name of the Great Angel and Emperor of Mankind. +

+ I started with one of the line troopers – if such a term is appropriate for a centuries-old veteran posthuman, clad like a walking tank. I used the same approach here as for the rest of my Blood Angels [+noosphericinloadlink embedded+], with the simple substitution of Valljo's Flat Red for the mix of Merphiston Red and Vallejo Vermillion. +

+ I'm happy with the finished result, though may add a few honour markings. I'm slightly wary about losing the monumental feel, but he's currently looking a bit 'bog-standard'. +


+ How big is a Terminator? +

+ Since writing the tutorial [+noosphericinloadlink embedded+] – which has quickly became, and remained, the most viewed post on the blog – I've had a few questions about how big the results are. The base figures are expensive (particularly since the bits shops are now seemingly permanently bare!), so I think it's quite understandable that readers want as much info as possible on what the results should be like before they commit. Here are some pictures of them besides some other figures to give a better idea of size. +

+ If you do give the tutorial a go – or better yet, come up with a new species for the Alien Wars – please do pop it up on the + Death of a Rubricist + Facebook group, or use the #alienwars tag on Instagram. +

+ The Terminator (40mm base) next to a Primaris marine (32mm base). +

+ Dealing with some pesky Orks. +

+ Next to a baseline human (25mm base) – well, if Inquisitor Unfortunus Veck counts as baseline! +

+ ...and next to another work-in-progress; a Battle Sister of the Order of Solar Ascendant. +

+ What next? +

+ What use is one Terminator? Well, quite a lot, actually – but as you can see, his mates here demand attention too. +

+ inload: Truescale Terminators +

+ If you'd like to have a go at building some 'truescale' Terminators, the tutorial is in this inload [+noosphericinoadlink embedded+]. Please do feel free to share your results on the + Death of a Rubricist + Facebook group or on instagram with the #alienwars tag too – it's always nice to see how other autoscribes and datinloaders develop and push ideas in new (and improved!) directions. +


+ A bit of a clear-out last night – some models have languished near-finished for far too long on my station, so a dedicated push saw a few things finally ticked off. First off; Blood Angels Terminators for The Alien Wars

+ Squad Redemptor, First Company +

+ Known more formally within the Chapter as 'Sustainers; First-amongst-equals of the War Eternal under Master Formosus, Lord of the Host, Master of the divided Legion and heir of Sanguinius', Squad Redemptor are the elites of my Blood Angels force. +

+ The minor tweaks are simply embellishments to the underlying shape, which have been in place for ages. +


+ Brother Lesandro (Caranial 6:18) +

+ Brother Martial (Agshekolah 2:09) +
+  The inspiration can be seen below, bottom left. This shot's interesting (well, from a nerd-archaeology point of view), because it's got the Dreadnought in – as far as I know, this is the only time it appeared alongside the army. +

+ A size comparison, showing the size of the Terminators next to a Primaris-sized model. +


+ Chapter Master Formosus +

+ Or, to give him his full title: Master Formosus, Lord of the Host, Master of the divided Legion and heir of SanguiniusLeonid Castivarus is the Chapter Master of the Blood Angels in M35.400 – so who's Formosus? Well, he's my own invention. The Rogue Trader-era Terminator Captain was an iconic model for me, though I never had one myself. This was a fun opportunity to give it a go myself. +

+ Since Formosus is suceeded by Castivarus, Formosus will have to die (or get lost) during the Alien Wars. That suits me. It's nice to create a character with a set 'end date', as it builds its own mini-narrative through gaming. +

+ The colour text below was how I introduced him:


Puglius bears a warning. "The Shint. The Confederacy of Muspa. The bone-eating Brachiacy. The Q'orl. The denizens of Angelis." The Chaplain-sabatine looks out across the vast table at the scanty gathering, which represents the voice of the Chapter. Many seats are empty.

"All recorded extinct since the time of Master Concio." Puglius goes on, his gaze level. "All have appeared in scryomantic reports from the Tower of Buto since the Kolonio last changed."

The Exortio leans forward awkwardly in the Siege Recorda, the throne reserved for the representative of the Librarius at Chapter Meetings. "It is no mark of disfavour that such beings return;  my lord – rather it is more likely a mis-classifi-"

He is cut off by a curt bark from the lone librarian still present in the Monastery, a lowly – and clearly resentful – Lexicanium who looms to one side and slightly behind the oversized throne.

"That remains to be seen."

The Exortio, a serf representing the Librarius at this Chapter meeting in the absence of the Chief Librarian and his Epistolary lieutenants, is uncomfortable, and poor at masking his turmoil. He squirms in the throne, attempting to address the librarian politely without turning his back on the gathered representatives, his face a mass of tics – and his voice an awkward, blurting mix of indignation, frustration, and no little wariness.

"With respect, Lord -"

 "Then grant me that respect; serf, and be silent." The librarian intones. It is clear from his tone that this is a well-worn argument, however new the topic. The Exortio turned back, his face pale and drawn, as the Lexicanium steps forward and addresses Puglius directly. "Xenos are gathering, Chaplain-sabatine, and this is a mark of the Emperor's disfavour-"

"Be silent!" yells Formosus, crashing his fist down on the ancient durwood table. In the hush that follows, Formosus rises to this feet. "This is not a matter of spirituality! This scholastic debate ends here! Now!" His breathing is heavy, his eyes ablaze. "For too long, the Chapter has mired itself in sophism and semantics, shying away from decision and duty."

Tycho of the Third and Abelard, the brevet-Captain of the Fifth, bristle. The Episcopate military-ordinaries who stand in for the eight absent Captains, remain impassive.

Accompanied by a dismissive gesture at the Siege Recorda, whose incumbent shrinks within his robe, Formosus' voice drops to a growl. "On one hand, I am served by withinlookmen, polemicists and navel-gazers." Here, he waves to the librarian, who removes his hands from the table as though it has suddenly become red-hot. "On the other, by intellectual fanatics and firebrands, who would have me turn on the Imperium itself."

The Lexicanium straightens, appears about to speak, but is silenced with a glare as the Chapter Master continues.

"How would you have the Children of Sanguinius serve? That is the question here. That is the only point of relevance. I am not ignorant of the risks and challenges of the twin Imperium; nor am I convinced by either side of the argument. No." His eyes narrow. "We do not shy from risk. We do not avoid challenges. We are the Blood Angels; with a proud history that dates back to the very formation of the Emperor's realms. We stand above these petty arguments; as symbols of something better."

He leans over the table.

"I have reached my decision."

The others, brethren and servants alike, are silent.

"We go to war."

The expressions on the gathered faces are varied; concern, anger, hope.

"I grow not hot with love for the denizens of Terra, nor still Nova Terra – we will not move against them. Nor still do we involve ourselves with the debates of the Ophelian and Terran Churches, however strongly some of you will it one way or the other. No. The place of the Blood Angels is not to determine the path of mankind – neither in spirit nor in body. Our task is to serve. I will not suffer humanity to huddle in its bastions and fastnesses, preparing war against each other; not while the Emperor's realm is cut and torn and raided from outside. Such decisions are not ours to make. Let righteousness lead mankind; and strength gird whichever side is in the right."

Formosus appears poised.

"Our duty is to war against the Alien, as He-on-Earth willed it. We will make a new war; and re-carve the borders of the segmentum. Too long have we fought guardedly, hindered by uncertainty and riven by internal debate. Now we shall fight gloriously."

He glares around the table.

"Such is the will of the Master of the Chapter of the Angels of the Blood; and through him the will of the Old Masters, and the First Angel; and through him alone, the Emperor. If you want an answer to the question of humanity's soul, you will obey me, as we lead by example. We will cast back and darkness and see which Imperium – old or new – and which priests, whether of Terra or Ophelia, follows us in our Emperor-appointed task."

"Thus, I declare the Alien Wars begun."


+ inload: Ork Deff Dread +

+ Fee Fi Fo Fum: The Car-Cemish Campaign +

The Car-Cemish Campaigns were a brutal, dirty war that broke out towards the end of the Nova Terra Interregnum, when the so-called 'Alien Wars' had reached a third peak in activity. It saw the Ironstave League – an abhuman Imperial Dominate in the Galactic East – defending their holds against the orks of Maggrod's Marauders, whose expansionist attacks were becoming increasingly daring and successful following the withdrawal of Battlefleet Potemkin from the region.

The League's mineral-rich Mining Worlds made them a target too tempting for the bloody-handed Maggrod, who invaded Lugnum and the recently-colonised Ichtar VIII in a twin-pronged attack. The squat's calls for aid initially fell on deaf ears from the nearby Imperial Commanders, but as the threat escalated, elements of three Chapters – all freshly drawn from the recent 10th Founding – moved to the support of the embattled abhumans.

Led by the bulk of the Protean Sons; the Astral Claws and Hammers of the Emperor also deployed in Company strength. The campaign was a bitterly-fought affair, with the greenskins forced to assault wherever possible in order to avoid being trapped on the brutally-hostile surfaces of the squat's worlds.

+ Astral Claws desperately engage an ork of the Marauder's specialised Torgox Skwadron, The three pictured battle-brothers were all killed; their remains unable to be retrieved. +
While Maggrod himself was killed relatively early in the war, and the orks largely driven back, one of his lieutenants – the infamous Skakhanak Mad-dagga was able to rally his reeling forces and defeat the Protean Sons in the the Bald Badlands Massacre. With the death of three of their senior officers, the newly-founded Chapter were forced to withdraw from the war, sweating bitter emnity against Mad-dagga's Marauders.


 + (W)ork in progress +

+ The modern Deff Dread – or ork Dreadnought – model is one of those kits that I loved from the moment it was released, but never quite had a good enough excuse to buy. Eventually, I had a spare bit of scratch and took the plunge. So far, I've just been working on the underlying metals; using a mix of browns, black and silvers to give a lovely varied finish. +

+ The plan is to paint the metal plates, then add scrapes, knocks and bumps by using a sponge and back of a paintbrush to remove it while the paint remains wet. +

+ One of those rare kits that I just wanted to build stock, I was very tempted to use the cool ork 'mask', but decided on the vision slit. This is so I can stick with the Alien Wars core concept of 'what would old models look like if they were made now?' and do an homage to the cardboard dreadnought stand-in from 2nd edition. +

+ RARR! *mechanical grinding noises* +
+ You can see I've started by painting in that very 90s bright red front panel. It'll be an interesting balancing act to get it to both be recognisable as the artwork above, and also fit in with my grimy RT-themed ork force. +

+ Even just looking over these, I can see it'll be tricky – I think I'll end up using Charadon Granite (the core grey colour of the palette I used for these orks) as the basis for the black. +


+ ...and for those faithful few, those noble sons of the Homeworlds, I promise I'll be getting round to painting up the squats that I've been saving up. The Car-Cemish Campaign seems a perfect excuse. +

+ Daggerfall – Lamb's World atmosphere piece +

+ Daggerfall +

+ A little story set on Lamb's World; hope you enjoy. +

Sighing down, the rain swept across the moor as indifferently as a charwoman. Gun-arm slung, he cursed softly as his mount placed its foot unexpectedly, jarring him. His companion twisted her head up in askance, squinting into the falling rain, her head canted awkward owing to the slicker's hood.

“To roll one-handed, never the knack I found.” His voice was apologetic. Husky.

“Pass it here.” The man shrugged down the pouch and papers from the arecwid, and his companion haltingly rolled a stick, shielding the thin paper from the rain. “No lho?”

The man shook his head softly, the motion causing gathered rainwater to trickle from the brim of his hat briefly. No lho. No rations. She knew. It was an affectionate tease, in its way. Affectionate, but weary, worn thin. They had been moving on for days. His arm showed no signs of healing. She didn’t seem to have the nous to hunt. They hadn’t eaten.

The stick sputtered as he touched the taper to it, his eyebrows drawing together unconsciously; as though he could keep the rain off with a furrowed brow. He may not have had the ovi-hyrdr’s knack of rolling sticks one-handed in the saddle, but he could at least light one. Drawing in a lungful distractedly, he looked out across the skyline, blued and blurred by the rain. His shoulders were cold under the maud-shawl, as were his eyes when he blinked. He had been looking into the distance for a long time.

He gave the arecwid a gentle chuck with his heels.

“Move on.”

The rider and his companion pulled their shawls closer, and turned into the downpour.


The peat farted. Outdoor fires on Lamb’s World sputtered fitfully at best. Their flames were nearly invisible, and their heat negligible, but the smouldering sward would keep the chill from the hollow as they slept. The companion knew this, and the rider knew this from childhood. He lay uncomfortably on his hip; she with her knees tucked to her chest, and eyes on the flame.


“‘Colonel’, it is.” he replied, not taking his eyes off the horizon. She looked at him with the indignation only a child can muster. They sat in a silence broken only by the hiss and ugly arrhythmic sounds of a mountain woodland in the rain. The arecwid, sleeping, flickered a whickering ear up and then back over its eye, dismissing an irritant. The long-limbed, fleecy creature didn’t have a name. Arecwids weren’t given names, not on Lamb’s World. Names were precious things, and not to be given to soulless beasts. The colonel was an Emperor-fearing man, and he wouldn’t dignify a soulless arecwid a name. The name he hadn’t given her was ‘Ollanine’.

“Kernel?” Her voice held the mellifluous lilt of the Myrrfn.

His eyes stayed tracking the horizon as he replied, his voice terse and edged with fatigue. “Yes? What do you ask?”

“The Walkyr. Is it coming?” He looked across the hollow at her.

“It will be here, the Valkyrie, beloved.” His voice was still rough, but the gentle admonition seemed to have picked up some of the warmth of the peat. “To fear it won’t is a fool’s game.”

She turned. Her eyes met his. In the un-dark of the peatfire, her wet eyes glittered redly.

“Of the yrk, I am afraid.”


He woke with his head resting awkwardly on his forearm. The hunger was not present, and he was glad. He shifted, and blearily rubbed the heel of his hand over his face. The black and gold leafmould stubbornly clung to his cold hand. His face felt hot. He hoped he wasn’t becoming feverish. He rolled over, unconsciously favouring his injured arm. Awkwardly, trying to expose as little of himself to the damp air, he pulled his uniform from the bottom of the sleepsack and dressed. Pinching the sleep from his eyes, he grunted a greeting to his companion, who was tending Ollanine, running her chilled fingers through his sodden mane like a makeshift brush.

The rider, moving slowly to spare aching muscles, collapsed his paratent, then stepped over to the remnants of the fire and stirred it with a nearby branch. He had placed a pyre-charger in the fire last night. The device was metal. Placed in a fire, it gathered heat into itself and – somehow, though the rider knew not – succoured las-magazines placed into it. There was space for six lasquivers; each compartment recognisable to the rider as kin to the underside of his rifle. He snagged the pyre-charger with the branch and drew it out. Before it started to cool, he blew into the recesses to remove stray dirt and began palming his las-charge magazines into the waiting sockets. The casings of the magazine were cold and wet as they slid into the machine. He murmured a litany under his breath to the strength of the spirits.

It was good that they were cold. He remembered that. The tech-anchorite attached to the regiment had intimated to him during additional training devotionals that the machina-penates of lasgun magazines were – as he had grown to understand it – stoic and required ‘little beyond careful handling’ to serve a man, but they were best succoured indirectly through the ugly pyre-charger than dropped naked into the fire. The little man’s clockwork eyes had been unnerving. The rider had tried to conceal his distaste of the anchorite; his cloying oil-stench, his indoor pallor, his nearness and thin, clever fingers.

‘The magazine will charge in a fire’ the little man had said in his strange, toneless voice; and indeed, the rider’s experience told him the machina-penates would grow strong in little under an hour – but it made them lazy. Repeated immersions in fire might lead to their sloth during a tight spot. The rider had fought in many places. He knew tight spots weren’t important in the grand scheme of things. No cynings were crowned with tight spots. Tight spots didn’t hold the stars in the sky. Nonetheless, no sense getting stuck in one if you could avoid it. Tight spots got your head turned inside-out, if you didn’t keep your wits about you.


The kernel was staring at the pyre-charger, lost in thoughts. Siramie didn’t lose herself in her thoughts, as a rule. Nevertheless, Ollanine’s hair felt delicious under her fingers. She missed her own hair, sometimes. She knew the name the kernel had given to the arecwid. She knew its true name, too. She knew a lot of things most people didn’t know; and, sometimes, things people didn’t want her to know. Pragmatism – and a reserved nature – helped such children, growing up. Ollanine bleated wetly into her ear, and she smiled in mock revulsion as he push-pulled his head into the crook of her neck. His wool was matted, but too soft to be unpleasant. Siramie liked mornings. She looked up happily. The rain was, as always, present; but in the daylight it wrapped the woodland comfortably, reassuringly.


Ill, exhausted, he dozed; fitfully. He found himself back in training.

‘The sounding of an obstruent when the anode and cathode are touched to a conducive surface’ – and here the anchorite touched the nubbins of the magazine against the outer housing of the rifle, resulting in a fizzing click – ‘indicates the procedure has been followed correctly and the magazine is fully charged. The rifle can be brought to term by inloading the magazine to the housing while reciting the placatory verses...’ The sound of ten thousand rifles being loaded inexpertly had been accompanied by the susurrus of ten thousand tongues stumbling over the unfamiliar words of one of the numerous litanies of loading. Hard clicks, as the weapons were made ready, overlaid each another in the muggy cantonment.

The blade being unsheathed – inexpertly, far from silently – was enough to snap him back to the present. He spun to see his companion crouched next to the arecwid, the saddle half-secure, her head tracking back and forth, her knife clutched in damp fingers.


+ inload: Badab Fever +

+ Heightened Tension in Badab +

+ The High Lords have sanctioned the Tyrant; and even now Space Marine forces are hastening to battle stations. The belligerents so far are:
  • Omricon – Salamanders (Squad Phoenix).
  • Stuntwedge – Sons of Medusa and Mantis Warriors.
  • TrojanNinja – Loyalist dream team! A mixed Kill Team including a Space Shark, Exorcist, and Fire Hawk.
  • Bob Hunk – Lamenters.
  • Apologist – Astral Claws.
+ I'm looking forward to sharing the others' kill teams with you in a future inload. +

+ In the meantime, you'll have to put up with more of my stuff – and here's another marine. Most likely another Astral Claw (to give some variety and choice when it comes to picking a team), he may end up as another Chapter. Who knows? +

+ The base figure is the slightly awkwardly-posed sergeant from Dark Imperium. A few cuts here and there, in combination with some parts from the multi-part Intercessor kit, and I think we've ended up with something a bit more natural. +

+ I've left the long bolt rifle on here, as I felt the strap added to the sense of motion. It also offers an option of representing a stalker bolter or some similar specialised equipment. +

+ A bit of spare greenstuff has been used to make a few semi-abstract blocks on the ground. When I have some left over, I often use it to help add interest to a base.+

+ But why did I have some spare? Well, I've been trying my hand at simple moulds. The injured Astartes below is the result. Some of the detail is quite soft, but he's perfectly acceptable as an injured figure, I think – more battlefield debris than focal point. +

+ inload: Kill Team Clawthorn completed – part III +

+ Brother Baraqu +

The oldest member of Clawthorn by nearly two decades, Baraqu was ruthless and deadly. His hard-won experience and cold demeanour made him a deadly foe. Known to have survived to the bitter end of the Badab War, he was not counted amongst the dead at the Palace of Thorns. His body may have been lost or utterly destroyed, but it is possible that he lives on in exile with the Tyrant himself.

+ In addition to the tiger's head heraldry, the Tyrant's Star of Badab is used prominently. As faithful followers of Huron, most of the squad wear this in preference to the head. I thought – foolishly – it would be easier than the cat's head, but it proved quite a challenge! +

+ In addition to the Maximus helm, note the preponderance of gold on heat vents and pauldron trim – I thought this was a good way to mark him out as a veteran. +

+ He bears the wheeling sun symbol of the Maelstrom Warders on his knee – perhaps a memory of happier times? +

+ Another angle. Some figures work best from a particular view – the sergeant above is a good example – but the most successful have multiple 'good sides'. +

+ Brother Ahmos Soter +

Surly, uncommunicative and curmudgeonly, Soter was equally feared and loathed by the humans under his command during his time in the Tyrant's Legion. A vindictive streak sealed his reputation for cruelty – but it also made him amongst the most effective heavy weapon operatives in the Chapter, doggedly pursuing his foes to the limits of endurance. Prior to his death at the hands of what proved to be an equally stubborn and hard-to-kill Son of Medusa, he had made seven confirmed Astartes kills.

+ I never need much of an excuse to show Mark V helms. +

+ As seen in an earlier inload, I think he's a good example of trying to be clear-sighted enough to adjust 'completed' figures. By assessing and changing a single unsuccessful figure, I ended up with two I really like. +

+ Nothing hugely exciting here, but it does shows the subtle weathering around the feet rather nicely. Spending a few minutes ensuring your figures are rooted in their world helps to create a sense of realism – even in space knights. +

+ ...and a shot showing the braced pose. +


+ To finish off, here's some shots of the squads together. +

+ Would love to hear your thoughts – particularly for future expansion. What more does an Astral Claws Kill Team need? +