+ inload: The Immortal +

+ The Immortal +

'Rest? We were not made to rest; we go on, unflinching, unstoppable, unending in our strength. The Emperor did not make us for such mortal concerns as hearth and home, vanity or contemplation; we are his engines of war, his hammers, beating out the fabric of existence into a vessel fit for Mankind to inhabit.'

attr. the Primarch Ferrus Manus in The Shadow of the Gorgon, by Czel Atternas

Turn the eyes outward.

That is the only direction for peace.

Even then, it is only the cold comfort of stars – and one could easily find himself lost in those. Staring out from the Nereid, my thoughts wandered to a lecture on void warfare strategy that Legion Master DuCaine had given, not long after Ferrus Manus had been found. It had been intended as an honour, a demonstration that the worthy once-leader remained vital, remained a part of the Legion now he had been sidelined by the Primarch, his superior in every respect.

The lecture was simple. Childishly simple. 'Look between the stars. That is where the enemy will reveal himself.' he had begun.

It was the lesson of a Terran, advice borne from experience in spotting the enemy up-close; from a man born and raised with his feet rooted firmly on soil. We had waited for him to expound upon this, to reveal some insightful twist that applied such advice to the complex multi-dimensional warfare of space.

He had demurred. His lecture was close-sighted; the tale of a man slightly out-of-time and out-of-step with the movements of the Imperium, but who was allowed leeway for his capability elsewhere.

'The void is – famously – immobile to the eye of man. All the wheeling of the spheres happens across vast timescales; any apparent movement of the stars can be owed to atmosphere.'

As he went on, and it became gradually more clear that his lessons were embarrassingly shallow, I looked about at the impassive but unimpressed war-leaders and specialists ranged about, gathered out of respect to hear their sidelined Legion Master once more. Not one showed a flicker of approval or contempt; which to me seemed all the more damning. I had cringed inwardly.

Of course, who was I – who am I – to judge the Legion Master?

As I looked out over the blank starfields of this backwater void, I mused on his words. They had, after all, come in useful on occasion. Though he had no fondness of me – in truth, I doubt I registered on him beyond our shared homeworld heritage – I had a certain regard for him, above and beyond by dutiful obedience. Piloting shuttles relied mainly on instrumentation, but the mark I eyeball – or at least, my occulobe-enhanced base biology, I reminded myself – was still reliable for those occasions when instruments were out or needed to be damped.

On this occasion, his simplistic advice may have saved our lives. It was purely because I was looking outwards, lost in thought, that I did catch something moving. A wrinkle; a twitch.

'The void is – famously – immobile to the eye of man.'

I raced down the black wood of the stairway, barking at the Dead Reckoner to confirm our location while pointing a steelshod finger at the navigatrix to hold her attention. Her already star-pale skin blanched further, her eyes wide. The Watchmaster, to his credit, did not bluster or demand an explanation. Without seconds, the ship was wheeling about, its movement shown through the shadows and highlights on the glittering dragon-prow.


The Immortal, however, did his duty; barging me to the floor with his shield and pinning me to the deck with a heavy mag-enhanced stomp, his blaster aimed levelly at my bare head.

'Explanation, Brevet-Lieutenant.'


His words were seemingly without rancour, but I was a better reader of men than most of my brethren. There was more than surliness behind that blank mask; more than the over-literal and bullying application of his role as bridge guardian. On a more personal level, he didn't like me.

I guess not even the retreat from Isstvan was going to weld us all together.

+++

+ The Medusan Immortals +

+ Owing (I suspect) a great deal of inspiration to the Spartans, one of the Iron Hands' special units is the Medusan Immortals, a band of dishonoured warriors who throw themselves into the most desperate fights as 'forlorn hope' troops. I like the imagery, and the concept is at the heart of my May You Live Forever project [+noospheric inloadlink embedded+]: offering an alternative answer to the question 'how do the Iron Hands react to the death of Ferrus Manus?' +

+ The narrator, a born survivor, answers that by burying and refusing to confront facts; Medardus with contemplation and withdrawal. The Immortal, already dishonoured and ashamed, finds a sour glee in the belief that all of his Legion are now fundamentally as damned as he is. After all, the Immortal corps is intended to offer a slim hope of redemption – but what purpose does it serve if the judge is dead? +

+ The paint scheme is nigh-identical to that for the rest of the force – a tutorial can be found in an earlier inload [+noospheric inloadlink embedded+] – though I'm not so happy with the application here; I went overboard with the weathering and smeared a flattening grey-brown over the subtler highlights. Not everything goes to plan! +

+ The main difference is in the lack of honour marking and Legion detailing, for background reasons: his Clan markings have been replaced with the large X (neatly, the Tenth Legion's numeral also represents a crossing-out or negation), and his boarding shield is devoid of ornamentation beyond the massive slab of the Legion symbol. This leads the model to being even more muted than the rest of the force, only his volkite charger and eyes being picked out in grey-white. +

The grey scheme extends to the shield's inside screen – predictably, as the part of the model of which I'm most proud, this is, annoyingly, the least visible! 

+ The conversion was a minor variant of my usual Astartes conversions [+noospheric inloadlink embedded+]; using a torso plate from Games Workshop's Kataphron Servitors – kindly donated by my chum Lucifer216 – and a backpack from Forge World's Mark III techmarine. I was lucky enough to grab three of these in a second-hand bundle, so I'll be able to keep a little uniformity to any future Medusan Immortals I make for the force. +

+ I deliberately avoided using loads of bionics. I like the idea that Iron Hands in 30k go some way to cladding their bionics in power armour plate to further drive out and hide weakness. While I have used a few here and there, most bionics added before Isstvan are sufficiently advanced augmetics that they can be hidden. This enables me to show later injuries with bionics, as the resource-poor survivors are forced to make do with lesser equipment (e.g. on the narrator himself). +

+ This also leaves me with crude bionics available as a visual identifer for my Iron Warriors... +

+ inload: Posing for effect +

+ conceptinload: Visual contrast – the Brotherhood of the Nine Winds +

+ The events of Little Horus, my favourite bit of Horus Heresy literature, focus on Dwell, where the Sons of Horus are assaulting a planet called Dwell, defended by a group of Iron Hands along with a few waifs and strays from other Legions – the prototypical 'Shattered Legions'. +

+ Alongside my Iron Hands (above), I'm planning to include a few White Scars – they have a prominent role in the Little Horus story, and they're a great opportunity to create some contrasts and visual interest in the army. +

+ Creating character through posing +

+ When approaching things like this, it's best to plan, test and refine. It would have been relatively easy to simply build the White Scars in the same way as the other marines, and give them a different paint scheme. This would have given a certain visual cohesiveness to the group (i.e. the army), but that's not what I'm after for this. I want the army to look like it's made up of slightly off-kilter bits – to look broken and reforged. +

+ To achieve this, I want to make sure that the different groups – Iron Hands, White Scars and others – have their own distinct look. For the Iron Hands, I've gone with solid, slow and heavy visual cues:

The Immortal

+ The example above is rigid, unyielding, loaded down with equipment. Even their postures are generally simple triangles – wide base for the legs, going up to a central point (the head). Together with fairly neutral poses, they look reactionary rather than dynamic. +

+ Contrast this with a (WIP) White Scar from the Nine Winds: 

+ Despite being made from very similar components, there's much more of a sense of fluidity and movement in this figure. The eyes is led around the curves, and the centre of gravity is higher. Less massive pauldrons (I've used rimless and cutaway pads) help to create a faster, more streamlined look. While the curved blade and Legion helm are distinctive and important, I hope that the effect would have been obvious even without these identifiers – they should act to magnify the result rather than as a crutch to create it. +

+ As a better illustration, have a look at the White Scar on the left of the image below. He doesn't use any of the techniques I've described above: he's got the same neutral pose and heavy pauldrons of the Iron Hands; and he lacks any White Scars-specific components. As a result, even when he's painted in the Scars' legion colours, he's going to be more anonymous and less eye-catching. +

+ This suits me well as the chap on the left is destined to be part of a mixed squad – an individual recon marine seconded into a remnant team – so he needs to fit in a little more to avoid the visuals being too disjointed. The White Scar on the right, meanwhile, is a Legion veteran who will be part of a dedicated White Scar killteam, so he gets the 'full works'. +

+ Building the White Scar +

+ The model is based – perhaps surprisingly – on a set of Death Guard legs, which are in motion. I think they're from the Grave Wardens, but I can't be sure as I bought them as bits. I've trimmed away the chainmail loincloth (this lowers the centre of visual gravity and is also diagnostic of the Death Guard, so it had to go to 'sell' the figure as something else) and sculpted a new codpiece. The torso is a Grey Knight Terminator torso carved down and resculpted, and the arms and hands are drawn from various plastic kits. The pauldron you see above is a Grey Knight Terminator one. I like the cutaway for the White Scar, as it suggests the armour is lighter, more open and better suited to the Legion when compared with the massive reinforced bulk of the pads I use for my Ultramarines, Iron Warriors and Iron Hands, for example. +

+ The sword is a trimmed-down eldar Wraithguard blade. The pauldron visible here is from the standard Terminator kits – I trimmed off the lower 'nubbin' and used a sharp knife to carve two horizontal lines across the pad, dividing it into thirds. I then used green stuff to build up a ridge above each line, and an angled file to create a gradient below. This creates the impression of the pad being made up of interconnected hoops. +

 + The result is (hopefully) a figure that looks in motion from any angle. Note that the open hand, head and trailing foot are all pointing in the same direction. Having his face mirror his forefoot would have created more of a sense of a full-on run or charge; I wanted him to look nimble and responsive rather than berserk. +

+ inload: Minos Madrigon +

+ inload: Minos Madrigon +

Ignoring the crew's and serf's ritual obesiance, I walk steadily through the bridge, measuring my pace. I had found myself adopting a creeping, tense way of moving about in the days after the treachery, and was determined to reassert mastery.

I don't feel comfortable here, and by the creak of the heavy black wood of the stairway beneath my feet, it is clear the machine-spirit of the Nereid feels much the same. Reaching and mounting a gantry, I keep my head fixed forward, though I am aware of the Immortal's gaze following me until my ascent takes me out of his line of vision. 

I had been taught that the Astartes were a precious resource. Indeed, we are celebrated, recorded, as humanity's shining champions. I had always felt a little discomfort at the reception with which we were met on worlds after Compliance. The pomp. The parades. The crowds. Always a little... I cannot put words to it.

Isstvan, however, put the lie to that; demonstrating just how expendable we were to humanity at the end. Not the battle. Not the war. No, by the fact that the crews of the ships in orbit seemed all too hasty to leave so many behind. I couldn't know for sure, but our evacuation, scattered and unplanned, had taken less than a tenth of the time as deployment. How could two Legions – and the heart of a third – have been safely lifted?

Impossible. The retreat from the black soil of Isstvan had been a scramble – rescue boats seemed only too happy to translate away once they had what their commanders considered a suitable load.

In the more saturnine moments to which I ration myself, I ask whether I would have done differently than the Nereid's Captain? Hanging in space, unsure of whether the craft around us – let alone the soldiers we had allowed on board – were allies or enemies, would I have stood firm? Would I have done so if I suspected my lord and his coterie were dead, and confronted with a superior demanding to take command?

Hm. A suitable load. A mixed Company of Iron Hands and a few waifs and strays. Less than a quarter of the craft's potential capacity, given the now-empty cargo holds. There are still Salamanders on board, of course, but they are outnumbered nearly twenty to one by the other Legionaries. All but a skeleton crew had descended to the surface in the assault; and of the remainder, half had semi-mutinied and scrambled to the surface after contact was reported lost with their own Primarch.

Upon finding the Salamanders had all but abandoned the craft, Arrowsmith had assumed command. The Nereid's Captain – a wiry, sunken-eyed man – had seemed distracted, uninterested. He stumbled off the bridge as though mazed. His movements were stilted; like broken clockwork. I am no expert in human psychology, but the situation had been less... tense than anticipated. He had retreated here, to the observation deck slightly fore and above the bridge. Here he had stood, gazing intently at nothing, until he was gently escorted to his quarters by aides. 

I do not wrestle with melancholy. I subdue it. It is in the nature of the Tenth – even one like myself – to do so. Nevertheless, In such circumstances, I am glad of the observation deck. It is not exactly a distraction as a reminder of scale. The vacuum of sorrow is made more humble – though no less unwelcome – by a comparison with the yawning emptiness of the void. 

The prow of the Nereid is mounted with stylised rose-gold girders that bear away into that emptiness of the void. The lines are clean and proud; extending outwards to form the maw of a monstrous wyrm. Ostentatious, to my eye, though I admit little appreciation of artistry. It was, after all, a craft of the XVIII Legion, though no home to them now.

I confess. Here I brood. If three Legions could rebel, were they best not left on the surface of that isolated planet on which they quarantined themselves? As a man, would I have unleashed Exterminatus on the surface? 

Steps behind me, measured as were mine. I tense, though make an effort to appear at ease, my arms crossed as I lean on the ornamental balustrade. I would not jump at shadows, nor admit to suspicion of treachery. Not in my brothers. Not even if they suspected it in me. That way lies madness.

"It is stylised after the Heliosan style," the other begins, settling himself on the rail a little way further along. His voice is duskily accented, and for a moment I remember Catabin, his blood wet and cloying on the black rocks. "The dragon, I mean. The prow." 

Standing as I turn, I meet the gaze of a helmed Iron Hand. No. Yes.

The dust and wear of Isstvan is still heavy on black plate. This is not unusual; many – particularly the Lodge members, like Triumph – have taken terrible and binding oaths to retain the damage and patina of Isstvan until such time as it could be avenged. Childish. As though it could be forgotten. As though it can be avenged.

But his armour pattern is unfamiliar, and his iconography unclear. His clan symbol faces away from me, hidden by his bulk.

"You are thinking of the Captain." He continues, and I bristle. That the Clan-Commander was spying on me was pathetic enough. That he sent emissaries to interrogate me was worse.

"Arrowsmi-" I begin, but the other cuts me off.

"The ship's captain. Orioso, late of the Nereid," he clarifies. That shut me up. A psychic, then. Librarius. "Yes to the first, no to the second." His voice betrays a smile, though the words still sound odd. He continues. "Should Orioso – he and the Navy, that is – have argued against the Astartes cleaning house in person? For that is, in truth, at the core of the assault. There was a statement to be made. Honour to be upheld."

I narrow my eyes. I detect no mockery in his voice. Why is he asking something the Clans had debated back and forth? "Had we held back and bombarded Isstvan, we could not have reported to Lord Dorn that the traitors were brought to justice. Deployment was necessary," I said, warily. He merely nods, his gaze still outwards.

"True. Nothing could have guaranteed the Sons, and the Children, and the Hounds – the Eaters, I mean – were felled. Would you trust any malignancy to fell the Death Lord? I would not. We would have faced an eternity half-suspecting that some had escaped." He pauses. "But it was, nevertheless, a luxurious necessity."

"You object? You did not relish a chance to restore your honour?" 

He snorts. "No. And nor did you."

"Librarius or not, if you are psychic, you know I have little honour in the Legion." He nods again at this, but distractedly. "You also know your 'talents' are prohibited." A pause develops. I was annoyed, placelessly. This intruder had put off my meditations. "What do you want?" He unfolded at that; stood up, as though surprised. 

"Companionship?" He said, unguardedly. I hesitated, unsure if this were a question, or a test. "I apologise for the slip – I am used to my time with Medardus, who now plays Achilles, sulking in his tent, and brooks no disturbance. I merely sought brotherhood with another close to him. Nothing more. Brotherhood. There is precious little on this ship. Precious little amongst the Astartes."

I did not know what to say to this odd confession. In the pause, my martial instinct kicked in. Was he an infiltrator? "If you require guidance on morale, the Chaplaincy is wh-" He cut me off once more, and settled back onto the railing, looking forward.

"No, no matter. I mean no harm. A simple yearning for simpler times, perhaps. When there was no need to suspect those beside you." He turned that strange, archaic helm towards me, knowingly. "When we walked the storm on Terra. When we bore the lightning."

"I remember."

"Yes, I see you do." His voice brightens, loses that strange, wistful tone. "Brighter times, when the enemy was to your fore and the Emperor, blessed-be-his-name, was lock-step besides you." He rose once more, bowed lightly. "I apologise for any disturbance; brother."

I nod as he turned to walk away, that unfamiliar clan-sigil nagging at me. I watched him reach the stairway, place his black gauntlet on the guardrail, and watched until he passed out of sight.

We spent a long time within the Nereid; six months sidereal, but the experience felt more exposed than usual to me. Void travel usually felt like burial – the ships of the Tenth sealed the shutters tight, squeezing what cold starlight fell on our craft out. Not so on the Nereid. It had no shutters to close.

+++

+ Minos Madrigon +

+ An enigmatic addition to the force, I really enjoyed putting this figure together. A few details are intended to hint at his origins – along with a couple of red herrings! +

+ inload: Lex Talionis – an Eye for an Eye +

+ Lex Talionis – an Eye for an Eye +

Past the Immortal, upright and poised, were the Company Colours. They were suspended from the command dome, far above. They were – and were not – my colours. Familiar white and black, plus the green of a Neptunian night.

I knew the hue of the banner was called sea-green, but that reference never had much cadence for me. On the troubled surface of Medusa, fresh water lakes were mostly young and new; inert and crystal clear. I sailed the void before I ever saw a body of water much larger than an artificial reservoir.

Teslo Comitans was the colour-bearer for Clan Kreto, a minor clan from the Arctus Reaches, to whom the Nereid belonged. Comitans was not an Ancient; he was not honoured. He was simply the poor bastard who happened to be dragging the hated thing onto the Storm Eagle when Arrowsmith spotted him. 

To bear the colours of the Clan was an honour. Usually. When the Warmaster's treachery became evident, Kreto's colours were less an honour than a stain. They were evidence of an intermingling. The Clan had many ties with the XVIth Legion, having fought alongside them on a number of campaigns in the coreworlds – notably Corun and Synn, abhuman strongholds. Relationships were cordial. Their Captain, one Berabbadon, had sanctioned a binding banner, and presented it to Arrowsmith personally as a mark of respect.

At the time, Kreto were ecstatic – for Sons of Medua, at least. Comitans had told me, through the sneer that seemed to have become etched on his craggy features, that the colours had been skirl-piped around the Clan's leviathan upon their return. They had been placed alongside the most precious mementos of Kreto.

When called upon now to bear it aloft, Comitans' face twisted, as though handling excrement.

The colours hung in the darkness now, the symbols of our Legions bound inextricably together. It was stained. Pitted. It looked as though it had been ritually besmirched. Perhaps we needed a totem; a focus for our disgust.

I looked at Kreto's colours without rancour. Before the drop, I think I could have understood the shame; perhaps even joined the chorus to bear it in battle and bury its treachery in revenge. After the events of Isstvan, it was hard to put it into perspective.

+++

+ Painting +

+ I do love a good banner. This is not the most complex design, but quite an awkward one. I introduced a new colour to the palette for this one in order to tie it into the broader theme of the army; the Battle of Dwell. +

+ The three figures you see above might form a Command squad, or might be split up into different groups. What do you reckon? +

+ inload: WIP Iron Hands painting +

+ By Whose Command? +

+ The Iron Hands are temperamentally unsuited to a phantom cell structure. Their way of making war is as straightforward as their Primarch. As straightforward, and as rigid. +

+ Rigidity, in war, can be a boon – the Iron Tenth's enviable record demonstrates this. Ferrus Manus' uncompromising focus and drive has made his Legion into a brute machine. +

+ It can also be a fatal flaw. A machine that meets an unmovable object will be shattered. I do not believe the warriors of the Tenth are psychologically suited to operating in any way other than as microcosms of their gene-father. +

– Analytica Tactica, Lieutenant Commander Ydris Chemosabe, III Legion. [REJECTED: identkey Maloghurst, Captain XVI]

+ Slow going over the weekend, but transfers, eye lenses and similar little bits have been completed on this little group. I've tried something a little different for the power axe – basically painting it grey, highlighting in the recessed join between generator and blade, then drawing the colour out in short feathered lines. Not quite sure of it at the moment, but I think it could work, with a little more care and attention. + 

+ The Immortal is coming along nicely, too. This stage is, to all intents and purposes, game-ready. However, the final details, weathering and addition of pastel powder goes a long way to adding interest and colour without compromising the starkness of the scheme. I thought I'd pop these up to show the contrast with the finished piece – which you can see (hopefully) in the next inload. +

+ I shortened the right arm a little – never be afraid to continue working on a piece if it's just not working for some reason. Better to bite the bullet and make the change before you really get stuck in. +

+ I'm in two minds about the shield. The other Breachers have received a braod white stripe, but the Immortal has been stripped of all his markings save the Legion symbol. Perhaps I ought to work the moulded symbol up in white? +

+ The banner bearer – I do like Mark V helms. There's something so brutal-looking, and they really evoke the Heresy for me. +

+ inload: Leviathan Dreadnoughts +

+ inload: Leviathan Dreadnoughts +

+ Strapping a mortally-wounded hero into a chassis of steel and pain for an eternity of war is pretty much the Ur-example of 'grim darkness'; and Dreadnoughts have always been a big favourite of mine. I don't think I've ever done a Space Marine force without one of the big stompy brutes. +

+ Leviathans take the concept of Dreadnoughts and crank it up to eleven – and then keep twisting until the dial falls off. They're huge and clanky and stompy, and I think they're awesome. +

+ Brother Zodios +

+ Hekaton Zodios is the Leviathan from Officio Monstrosa. Equipped with a storm cannon, siege drill, forward-facing volkite calivers and a phosphex launcher, this chap is almost stock; the only conversion being a little greenstuff reinforcing on his helm. +

+ I think the base took longer to put together than the model, if I remember correctly – the manhole cover (actually a decorative embellishment from Hobbycraft, I think) was placed on the base, then the Leviathan, and then cork tile was used to build up the base to the right level. This recessed the manhole cover and 'sank' the Leviathan in to give a sense of weight. Pumice texture gel was used to fill in the crevices, and static grass tufts added after the painting. +

+ The posing was – fairly typically for me – understated. I don't like Dreadnoughts that are too dynamic, as for me they should be relentless rather than racing. +

+ It's a very simple colour scheme; identical to the infantry – gunmetal, silver and grey. On reflection, perhaps it's a little too simple. There's muted and understated, and then there's dull. +

+ In action on the Space Hulk-style board at Warhammer World, when we visited last year. This shot better shows the effect of the silver ink I add to my metallics, which gives the paints greater reflectivity. Not quite mirror-effect, but enough to give them some 'zing'. +

+ In the forges +

+ With one for the Iron Warriors, I felt it only right to have one for the Iron Hands – for whom entombment is less a duty as a reward. This chap, who takes more than a pinch of inspiration from 2000ADs ABC Warriors, has been converted with a lead Command Head from the Adeptus Titanicus upgrades that GW used to sell for their plastic Warlord Titans. +

+ While Zodios is a brawler who prefers more reliable, relatively low-tech solutions, I decided to equip the Iron Hands' Leviathan with far more advanced and experimental weaponry – a melta lance and grav-flux bombard. +

+ A particular note of thanks to Luke from Forge World customer services at this point – I had bought the arms from Warhammer World directly months ago, and thrown away the receipt before I came to open the blisters. The elbow joint was sadly missing, but FW came up trumps and sent out not just a replacement elbow sprue, but a whole new Grav-flux bombard! Thanks to the team's understanding, the Iron Tenth have some heavy support and a very happy customer. +

+ I'm looking forward to getting some paint on him. Perhaps I'll try something a bit more creative than the Iron Warriors one. +

+ inload: The Myth of Tithonus +

+ inload: In Which Our Narrator's Name is Revealed +

So also golden-throned Eos rapt away Tithonus who was of your race and like the deathless gods. And she went to ask the dark-clouded Son of Cronos that he should be deathless and live eternally; and Zeus bowed his head to her prayer and fulfilled her desire. Too simple was queenly Eos: she thought not in her heart to ask youth for him and to strip him of the slough of deadly age. So while he enjoyed the sweet flower of life he lived rapturously with golden-throned Eos, the early-born, by the streams of Ocean, at the ends of the earth; but when the first grey hairs began to ripple from his comely head and noble chin, queenly Eos kept away from his bed, though she cherished him in her house and nourished him with food and ambrosia and gave him rich clothing. But when loathsome old age pressed full upon him, and he could not move nor lift his limbs, this seemed to her in her heart the best counsel: she laid him in a room and put to the shining doors. There he babbles endlessly, and no more has strength at all, such as once he had in his supple limbs.

I would not have you be deathless among the deathless gods and live continually after such sort. Yet if you could live on such as now you are in look and in form, and be called my husband, sorrow would not then enfold my careful heart. But, as it is, harsh old age will soon enshroud you—ruthless age which stands someday at the side of every man, deadly, wearying, dreaded even by the gods. 

And now because of you I shall have great shame among the deathless gods henceforth, continually. For until now they feared my jibes and the wiles by which, or soon or late, I mated all the immortals with mortal women, making them all subject to my will. But now my mouth shall no more have this power among the gods; for very great has been my madness, my miserable and dreadful madness, and I went astray out of my mind who have gotten a child beneath my girdle, mating with a mortal man. As for the child, as soon as he sees the light of the sun, the deep-breasted mountain Nymphs who inhabit this great and holy mountain shall bring him up. They rank neither with mortals nor with immortals: long indeed do they live, eating heavenly food and treading the lovely dance among the immortals, and with them the Sileni and the sharp-eyed Slayer of Argus mate in the depths of pleasant caves; but at their birth pines or high-topped oaks spring up with them upon the fruitful earth, beautiful, flourishing trees, towering high upon the lofty mountains (and men call them holy places of the immortals, and never mortal lops them with the axe); but when the fate of death is near at hand, first those lovely trees wither where they stand, and the bark shrivels away about them, and the twigs fall down, and at last the life of the Nymph and of the tree leave the light of the sun together. These Nymphs shall keep my son with them and rear him, and as soon as he is come to lovely boyhood, the goddesses will bring him here to you and show you your child. But, that I may tell you all that I have in mind, I will come here again towards the fifth year and bring you my son. So soon as ever you have seen him – a scion to delight the eyes – you will rejoice in beholding him; for he shall be most godlike: then bring him at once to windy Ilion. And if any mortal man ask you who got your dear son beneath her girdle, remember to tell him as I bid you: say he is the offspring of one of the flower-like Nymphs who inhabit this forest-clad hill. But if you tell all and foolishly boast that you lay with rich-crowned Aphrodite, Zeus will smite you in his anger with a smoking thunderbolt. Now I have told you all. Take heed: refrain and name me not, but have regard to the anger of the gods.

+ Hesiod, Hymn V (To Aphrodite) +

+++

+ A return to May You Live Forever, my more narratively driven project. It's been six months since I've worked on these chaps in earnest, and there's lots bubbling under the hood. However, I realised I never actually told anyone the name of the narrator, our Iron Hand outsider. It's Tithonus. +

+ Or rather, Lieutenant Tithonus, since we're now six months down the line and heading for Dwell... +

+ There'll be a bit more from Isstvan, as we tell the story in hindsight, but we'll also be meeting a new narrator. He's a scion of the Nine Winds, instead. Who are they? +

+ inload: Morlocks +

Time passes. One after another, the mortals perish to bolt rounds, matter impeller beams, mortar shells. Two kilometres out, we are alone. Our vehicle throws a track when we hit impact mines. We debark without comment, without pause, and begin running forward.

Here on Isstvan V, our Morlocks – Clan Avernii, and representatives of other Clans they deem strong enough to fight beside them – have hammered into the Emperor's Childrens' lines like a wedge driven into green oak. Here there is structure, of a sort. Blood, armour shards and heat-sweat is rising over the line in an aerosolised cloud. I have never seen anything like it. Even from our vantage a few hundred of yards back, the cacophony of Astartes-on-Astartes combat is rising over the general din.

As we watch, aspects of the line are swallowed by fireballs and missile impacts, or cleared by graser-sweeps and detonations, murdering conquerors of worlds and heroes of humanity like chaff. Such is the martial pressure that such gaps are closed near-instantly as rageful Legionaries pour forward to clash over the falling corpses of their brethren.

The Morlocks are driving forward furiously. There must be thousands of Iron Hands, each stepping forward with heavy tread to combat the glittering lines of the Emperor's Children. The line of advance is too broad to be centred on the Primarch; but for a glorious moment I see Ferrus Manus emerge from a storm of fire. His armour is aglow, his weapon – the mighty Fireblade – culling Fulgrim's elites with each sweep. It is glorious. It is an exemplary massacre; executed with all the skill and power the Tenth can muster.

It is monstrous in its fury.

It is also – I realise, with an unfamiliar cold twist in my guts – far from certain that it will be enough.

On Medusa, the Morlocks are apex predators. The arrival of the Legion saw their brutal demotion; just as all xenos species – sentient, sapient or otherwise – was put firmly underfoot by the Imperium. Here on Isstvan, I recognise a similar result. Clan Avernii are powerful, but they are outnumbered. From our position in the rear, I see the strength of the Emperor's Children as the Avernii's flanks are overwhelmed. It is slow – I am sure too slow for the IIIrd Legion's liking – but inexorable. Predators, Land Raiders and Rhinos begin to curl around the Iron Hand line, supported by clades of marching purple-armoured figures. Furiously as my brethren fight, the line is being attentuated, draw thin as the Morlocks vainly try to keep pace with Ferrus.

I turn back, searching for our Primarch in the swell of destruction, even as we continue to sprint. We find ourselves walking over a field of the dead and broken; our pace broken by the curve of armour and forced to sidestep smouldering tank-wrecks. We meet and pass Avernii casualties, vainly limping or stumbling forward, their faces and limbs twisted into fury that borders on lunacy. We are swept up. There! Ferrus has emerged at the head of a knot of Iron Hands, who club and brutalise their way through the shimmering bladework of the Phoenix Guard. They stand at the base of a craggy hill, driving upwards.

Onwards to the peak! Onwards to Ferrus!


+++

+ WIP shots +

+ Some Clan Avernii veterans (i.e. command squad people), plus the Immortal, who I think needs a couple of tweaks to his arm.

+ inload: Ferrus Manus conversion and painting +

+ inload: Ferrus Manus Illuminated +

+ Like many hobbyists, I like playing the underdog. Apart from anything else, the narrative of knowing your army is doomed takes away the sting of defeat :P +

+ In any case, I find the narrative of the Tenth Legion Astartes very attractive. Their background best captures the pathetic aesthetic of 40k for me: betrayed by its allies, bereft of its father; it is a leaderless, rudderless and seemingly futureless Legion, which fights as much through spite and rage as through honour and duty. There is no hope for the Iron Hands, and this doom has a certain poetry to it – not that you'd get a Medusan to admit it! +

+ I've wanted to build and paint a version of Ferrus Manus for a long time. He's a great character – there's a note in one of Forge World's books that the Heresy might still have been averted, were it not for the murder of Ferrus. He is a key linchpin for the underlying story of Warhammer 40,000. The official model from Forge World is stunning, but I wanted to have a go at giving the piece my own twist. This would also let me make a few tweaks that better fit my mental image of the Primarch. +

+ Starting points +

+ I had intended to make this a step-by-step tutorial, but quickly realised that it was both rather complicated, and very specialised! As a result, the WIP shots are fairly thin. I started with a second-hand Perturabo, (this had a pretty nice paint scheme, and I felt a bit bad about stripping it using Fairy Power Spray). +

+ I used a craft knife to cut the body into sections, then began to scrap away much of the detail that relates the piece to the IVth Legion. Note that I've been careful to keep some elements like the cables intact – details like this help 'sell' the finished piece as something original, rather than a conversion. +

+ I blocked together the main structure of the figure to work out the pose, pinning every element centrally to allow for maximum flexibility. The figure uses Perturabo's legs along with Vulkan's torso – respectively the largest parts available in the Primarch range to get a sense of mass and power – and some from Simon Egan's Ferrus (left over from my Guilliman conversion), such as the hands, shoulder pads, head and backpack. The arms are from an Ork Nob; the sword a conversion from the Grey Knights Terminator kit. +

+ The arms were intimidating. Simon Egan's version has bracers, but I wanted to use bare arms as his silver hands are iconic of the character. Scale was important; so I ended up carefully scraping away and resculpting the musculature on the forearms using a craftknife, then marrying them to plastic arms. This stopped Ferrus having comically large hands, and kept them in proportion to his face. +

+ There's not a huge amount of greenstuff used here – beyond extending his midriff to give the correct height proportion, it is mainly restricted to filling holes and to add detail to the sword, Fireblade. Fireblade is the weapons Ferrus uses during his fatal duel with Fulgrim, and since I wanted my Ferrus to be firmly located during Isstvan, I armed him as such. +

+ These pictures probably illustrate how I work a bit better than a bare step-by-step. You'll notice bits turning up and disappearing (such as the Hand icon on his chest, the base) organically as I work. I'd love to say there's some masterplan, but beyond a very basic plan, I like to see the piece develop as I work on it. Some elements gel, others don't; and so I often chop and change bits. +

+ The base is a 40mm one, and because the pose is similar to the original, he should still work together with Fulgrim (as yet unplanned...) I undercoated him black, a departure from my usual grey primer, both because he would be predominantly black, but also because it gives a dirtier, dingier result – well-suited to the doomed Primarch. +

+ The head is separate (yeah, yeah, start the jokes now), and knowing this would be the focal point, I started with it. I painted the arms at the same time in order to ensure that the fleshtone was similar (though note I've used more red on the face to make him look angry. The silver to flesh transition on the arms was achieved by wet-blending the silver of the arms (a mix of Boltgun Metal and Sotek Green) with the skin mixes. Combining metallic and non-metallic paint will generally result in a flat result, as seen in the WIP pict-capture above. To reintroduce the sparkle of silver to the transition area, I later painted silver ink (from Winsor & Newton's calligraphy range, I think) over the area. Thin glazes of this will give a metallic effect without altering the hue as much as silver paint. +

+ 'Not angry enough', I thought, looking at the face. 'Too pretty, too.' Further layers, reworking and touches of sepia ink were added to build up a proper scowl and add depth to the eye sockets. +

+ Fireblade also used silver inks. It was painted in light yellow, with orange and red paints and inks added wet-in-wet. A mix of brown and red was used for the tips of the flames. While not strictly accurate, compromises have to be made to render light in paint. +

+ Painting the sword was also a delicate balancing act. As it's emitting light, Fireblade should be the lightest-toned element in the composition. This has to be balanced against drawing the eye too much from the face. I approached this by using greys for the 'white' areas on Ferrus. In combination with the 'black' – actually an off-black grey – the tonal contrast is reduced, leaving more space for brights and darks in the sword and face. The sword would still have drawn the eye if it were not for the framing elements. Note how the licking flames point to the face, and the line of the arms, sword and back-mounted claw frame the head to draw attention to it. +

+ There was only one choice for the dead marine Ferrus is trampling. A vibrant purple gives a visual break between the Primarch's dark armour and the dark base. It also links with the narrative. At core, the Emperor's Children and Iron Hands Legions are mirrors of each other – both obsessed with perfection and with leaders as close as brothers can be. In another universe, their positions might have been switched. For this reason, the same purple used on the corpse was incorporated into the palette for Ferrus. It's used in his skintone and in the dark mix of the black. The gold elements of his armour are washed with Leviathan Purple – all to suggest how close and intertwined the Legions' fates are. +

+ Note the white shoulder pads at this point. These would later be painted purple, to avoid drawing the eye too much (see below). +

+ Similarly to the principle of a shared palette explained above, I chose to paint the Emperor's Children laegionary's eye lenses grey. The shoulder trim is broad, so to avoid it being too 'bling', I painted it with fine gold spirals on brown, rather than pure gold. +

+ The completed figure. +

+ ... and finally +

+ I couldn't resist a shot of my two heavily-converted Primarchs together – particularly as this conversion uses a lot of the parts left over from Guilliman, which goes to show that even a lavish conversion doesn't need to cost the earth. +

+ On that note, I'd also like to say thanks to the Heresy Trading group on Facebook, without which it wouldn't have been possible for me to make this chap. In particular, W. Binns and M. Johnston; you're both gents! +

+ In closing, I'd like to mention the eyes. These posed a problem. Ferrus' eyes are described as silver, but this robbed him of pupils; which in turn gives him a blind, directionless look. In the end, I stuck to my guns and left him without pupils, but it was a difficult decision. I think it's the right one, however, as it is an important distinguishing and fantastical feature that helps him stand out against his brother. The comparison image above hopefully shows the size of my interpretation of Ferrus, who is mentioned as being exceptionally tough and strong, even amongst the Primarchs. +

+ I'd love to hear what you think – and if you have any parts from the Fulgrim, Corax or Konrad Curze models, please let me know... +