+ inload: Iron Warriors trio +

+ inload: Scions of the 242nd +

'Footsore no more.' Ostrod murmured, half to himself. It was a peculiar half-honour. He wouldn't be making landfall with the rest of the 242nd Grand Company. Instead, he was being made a Palatarch of his own Chain. Sergeant, he thought for a moment, before considering that there was no reason – none at all – to use the old Terran term now.

+ Ostrod +

Promotion and transfer. He, along with two others, were on a shuttle to liaise with a new Grand Company. The other two sat opposite him in the mostly-empty bay. Masked behind his helm, he sat rigid as his eyes scanned them.

One was unfamiliar. Ubricz he knew in passing. In their plate, he could be the twin of Ostrod. Identical armour; only details differentiated them. Ubricz had a rigid approach to armouring; as coldly efficient and unsentimental as the Iron Circle that he so admired. Besides the temporary transfer marking that had been stamped above each of the new officers' primary hearts, Ubricz's armour was unmarked by any personal honorifics or personalisation. Ostrod felt a peculiar sense of shame at the spiked pauldron and pseudleather apron he bore; the skull-shaped finials at the end of each strap seemed somehow opulent; needlessly boastful.

Ubricz sat as rigidly as his observer, hands resting on his knees. Besides the occasional rocking of the shuttle, he might easily have been an empty suit of armour.

Admirable, for an Iron Warrior.

+ Ubricz +

 

Spitefully, Ostrod looked for faults. It came easily to him. He noted the non-standard backpack – doubtless some recent replacement. Even Ubricz, it seemed, was not infallible. 

Frustratingly, that seemed to be it. Even the combat blade at his belt was perfectly placed for cross-draw. 

Dismayed, he looked for criticisms in Ubricz's armament. Newly-issued bolt pistol – that matched his own – and a chainaxe. Peculiar. An unusual, though not frowned-upon, choice. The axe swapped speed and finesse for power and reach. Ostrod smiled thinly. 

Variance. Weakness.

Satisfied, in some strange, unplaceable way, Ostrod turned his attention to the third warrior. Ident-runes flagged him as 'Ixod Konstantz'. The Space Marine bristled and turned to Ostrod with a clanking of heavy plate and grind of pistons. Ostrod barely stopped himself – shamefully – from flinching. Active reports. Konstantz had clearly tweaked his armour to alert him when being scanned.

+ Konstantz +

Ostrod looked away, feigning disdain, and the other Legionary turned back to the combat-ready slump he had been in before. He had, in any case, seen all he needed. Konstantz's armour was older than Ubricz's, or his own. Mark III plate, battered and war-worn. Ostrod wondered if it was a 'pure' set, issued as Mark III; or a mongrel suit, adapted and refined from a suit of Crusade armour like that worn by the other two on the shuttle.

There was something of the fanatic in Konstantz, Ostrod considered. Bristling, reactive, angry. He even wore trophies: an old ork tooth – judging from the discoloration, from some ancient battle – and a human skull. Ostrod couldn't help turning back for a second.

No, not a human skull.

That had belonged to an Astartes.

+++

+ Commission complete +

+ After a wait for the final bits, these three vicious warriors are all finished and ready for deployment by their new commander. I thought I'd get a few shots of the finished models, and post up a couple of thoughts and notes. +

+ Everything looks swish in a bell jar! Trazyn the Infinite would be proud +

+ This was a really enjoyable project – small, self-contained, and a welcome return to a favourite army of mine. I always judge the success of a commission by whether I want to keep it afterwards. I'm pleased (if slightly regretful!) to say that these three pass the test. +

+ Part of the reason that I keep coming back to Space Marines – despite thinking of myself as a Guard player at heart – is that they have such a broad and deep background. Each Legion, Chapter or Warband seems to riff on the basic concept of 'Space Marine' slightly differently, so there's a joy both of familiarity with the shapes and building blocks, and of opportunity in going slightly further or in a different direction with each model. +

+ One of the things that I wanted to do here was make use of bits that had appeared since I last worked on my Officio Monstrosa project – in the example above, a Space Marine Heroes series 2 Terminator. These figures are push fit and include integrated bases, which I think is one of the best things GW does in helping to create evocative poses. There are obvious drawbacks (for multiples, matching existing basing schemes), but where they work, there's no substitute for how integrated bases help with the posing of figures. +

+ A disdainful upright posture for this marine. I wanted to convey a confident, dutiful impression for this marine, so kept him largely clean. The resting chainaxe implies he's not at all on edge about executing his duty – the angle of his pistol suggesting finishing someone off, rather than honourable combat.+ 

+ As a rule, Iron Warriors are bitter and resentful types, restrained and efficient, and I wanted to get that across. As we know, 40k doesn't have any goodies – and it's sometimes good to reinforce that with a slightly swaggering, bullying posture for villains like the Fourth Legion. You don't have to be screaming to be evil. +

+ A plainer, battered and more traditional look for this last Iron Warrior, up-armoured in (appropriately enough) a battered Mark III Armourum Ferrum breastplate. With most Space Marines colour schemes, I think it's easy to fall into a trap of doing too much of their accent colours – Ultramarines with more gold decoration than blue, for example – and this is particularly the case with black or metal schemes, where any addition will draw the eye. The hazard striping so common to the Iron Warriors scheme has been restricted to the chainsword, where it adds Iron Warriors flavour without being too eye-catching. The combination of yellow and black is retained in a simpler, cleaner form on the pauldrones. +

+ Modern-looking Tactical markings and trophy-hunting makes for a stark juxtaposition. You can suggest a lot about an army with little details like this. +

+++

+ To finish, here's a little group shot. Onwards to victory! Iron Within! Iron Without! +

+ inload: Variance Hammer contest +

+ Meanwhile, in other news +

+ I entered a writing/model contest on a blog called Variance Hammer a few weeks back; and was slightly startled (and very flattered) to find out yesterday that I won. You can read about it – and see the other awesome entries here: [+noosphericexloadlink embedded+] +

+ The contest was themed around the 'unsung heroes of the Horus Heresy – my entry was Zaricus Cjarn: 

+ Centurion Cjarn: Aquila +

'Dheneb. The inhabitants might not call it that, but it is. It's an old one.' Zaricus Cjarn sat in the cold chamber alongside a scattered few of his Mustermates, listening to the gritty voice of the Palatarch of the Chain. He couldn't remember the speaker's name; or rather – like anything of little importance to him – he had determined not to remember it. The Kheledakos demanded discipline; and sometimes that required wilful ignorance. The lodge could always rely on its brethren to be circumspect.

The Palatarch continued. 'It's the last star in the zodiackal chart for the region.' Cjarn had remembered that. The fanciful shapes the Ancients had drawn between the stars might serve little practical use, but they were somehow iconic, unforgettable. They spoke to something deep within Cjarn, within the Iron Warriors as a whole: a need to draw patterns, forms connections.

Priding themselves on pragmatism, on the Imperial Truth, the Iron Warriors refused to confront or discuss this urge, even as they conquered the stars, even as they justified their irrationality to themselves. The Signs had demonstrable propaganda purposes, they reasoned. The Remembrancers shape their work into lions, and sea-goats, and weighing scales in turn as, one after another, the constellations came into the Emperor's realm. Humanity will respond. 

Even so, the primarch Perturabo would not have deigned to recognise this inefficient structure; but for the increase in recruitment for the Imperial Army – and the concomitant support for his Legion – that such  symbolism attracted. This star, then, was particularly special. This star marked the final point in the constellation Aquila.

+++

Ah, to the Legions, there is no speed too fast; no achievement too rich. They are too eager, too capable,  too fast for human frailty to concern them; certainly not to delay them. They are harriers loosed; darting out to find new lands, and bring them, forcibly if necessary, onto the stuttering, swelling maps of mankind. The Reserves become the IVth, become – briefly, quietly – corpse grinders, then spill over Olympia, and then...

And then... they make pause, for a little while. They are reforged; beaten into shape. They become the  Iron Warriors.

+++

The promethium-rich caverns of Dheneb Primary are a net of tunnel fighting; the Astartes of the Footsore 242nd Grand Company clashing with the combat rigs of the defenders, bottling them into boltholes and bringing down the fury of the Legion on them. Fury is not enough on its own. Reactive piledrivers give the combat rigs a punch that shatters ceramite; and debased STC trans-rifles give particles of heavy metal sufficient stopping power to reduce even armoured Space Marines to cooling corpses.

Cjarn is at the forefront, Comitas in hand. Cjarn fights well with the axe. The blade is flat-edged and a dull carbon-black at the apex of an unusually long handle. With the nudge of a runekey, it glows a subtle violet, just at the edge of sight – eye-watering and uncomfortable, like staring at an open fire from just too close.

The knob of the eagle-chased generator on the poll robs the bit of weight – but when your blade is hefted overhand by the swollen musculature and poise of an Astartes, and aided by the crackling, matter- disruptive technology of Old Mars, the difference is rendered moot.

In any case, the poll acts as a counterweight – which allows Cjarn the speed to de-power Comitas, add his other hand to the grip and heave. Ten foot tall and braced against the tunnel walls by secondary limbs, the combat rig nevertheless staggers forward, the axe embedded within the outer carapace like a fishing hook. The Iron Warrior releases his off-hand and reaches for a grenade, blindly.

His hand scrabbles at an empty belt. He turns his head to look.

+++

Deneb Al Okab Australis. The south star in the tail of the eagle. In truth, it was nowhere near the other
stars. As soon as craft left Terra, the lie was put to the constellations through simple astronomical
parallax; the still, glittering stars proving nebulous and reluctant to accede to humanity's dreams.

Reluctant. But dreams are sometimes irresistible.

+++

The distraction allows the combat rig pilot to rally; to whirl a primary limb down and across Comitas,
crushing Cjarn's hand and flinging him into the side of the tunnel wall. The rockface explodes with a
cloud of rubble and dust, and his armour begins to chime insistently, warningly.

He is bleeding. He is injured. He is furious.

Disarmed and scrambling backwards, Auto-gyros destabilised, he can't find his feet. His armour is dead weight; blank. It is coming back online too slowly. Cjarn skids over on the detritus as he tries to stand, the mass of his armour slowing him. Tearing off his helmet, Cjarn looks up at the looming combat rig, its primary arms raised to smash him. Comitas is lodged in its flank; yearningly out of reach.

His injured hand is bleeding angrily; the musculature clamping and spasming around shards of his gauntlet. He can feel the cold stone dust settling, turning the wet blood white. Scrambling backwards, his hand clamps around a cylinder. He doesn't look this time. Whatever the object is, it feels metallic in his dust-and-blood-caked grip. It feels solid. It will serve as a weapon.

+++

Cjarn is found, eventually. He is at the centre of a junction, breathing heavily amidst bodies. Blood – in great crimson loops – decorates the walls. Stimms and pain-suppressants render him near-insensible, his eyes wheeling and breath sawing in and out. The Apothecary pauses, before advancing warily towards him, palms up. Cjarn would not be the first Iron Warrior to suffer from combat psychosis.

In any event, the Legion recognises and rewards success. The events of Dheneb make Cjarn a  Palatarch, stepping into his dead sergeant's shoes. After Kolosos, the eye falls on him again, marking him as a brevet officer. And then... the Warmaster calls.

+++

Later, he can't remember how he had come to find the other axe – or rather, it is irrelevant.

He fights well with both, now. Comitas remains reliable; versatile. The other axe... is not. It is slightly too fast; the heavy head drawing on the shoulder. Where it strikes, it bites deep – too deeply, unless arrested. It requires more concentration to wield. Cjarn has had to adjust his expectations of what an axe can do; adapt his style. Now he can catch it by the throat reliably, collaring it. For all its shortcomings, it is a wonderful weapon.

A single piece of some curious metal, engraved and sculpted into a fanciful shape, the blade is otherwise plain. Unlike Comitas, it is unpowered; its technology begins and ends with being weighted, sharpened metal. To assist his grip, Cjarn has bound the whole handle with plaited leather. He did it personally, sceptical of the epimiletis-armourers' ability to match his requests.

+++

The Crusaders return to Terra, abandoning the cold constellations once more. Not in the winding manner in which the routes were found; not in a contracting halo, but in a spear-tip aimed at humanity's cradle. The maps of the Imperium are ignored. Lines and nodes collapse, like a chemical structure buckling; promising and hinting at possible new forms.

Too fast! too much!

+++

'Give me my armour! Give me my armour!' The phrase, which had started as a demand, had become a froth-laden bellow. The bondsmen, their backs to the cell, wince slightly as the marine begins to slam his fists against the dirty armourglass again. Over and over, he repeats his attacks, his hands little more than clubs of blood.

They try to ignore the battering, which continues frenziedly, without rhythm. His words – his mantra – become an atavistic howl, then a wordless shriek. One of the bondsmen nervously peeks over his shoulder. The naked Astartes' eyes are bulging in rage, unfocussed and pink with broken blood vessels. The armourglass is smeared with blood, with spit, with acid burns.

'Should we stum him again?' one of the bondsmen whispers. The other opens his mouth to speak, just as the door to the dimly-lit chamber begins to open. The great wheel in the centre turns, ponderously at first, then more freely. The bondsmen unlimber their rifles and bring them to their shoulder, trying to ignore the garbled, spitting demands of their charge.

'Pax.' The Iron Warrior's command is given as he steps into the room, and the bondsmen relax their aim and step back. As the caged Astartes sees the new arrival, the hammering slows, then renews. 'Give me my armour!' The last word trails off as the Astartes screws his eyes shut in rage and begins battering his  head against the glass, his hands open and trembling. 'I'll kill you! I'll kill you all!'

The new arrival steps forward, and raises a hand to place it against the armourglass, quizzically. He holds it there. It doesn’t so much as tremble under the other's barrage of blows.

'Is it meet to treat with us so, because a stranger is dead?'

The bondsmen look uncertainly at one another. Were the visitor's words a question? Again, the second bondsman opens his mouth to speak, and again stops short. The two Astartes lock gazes. They pause for a moment, their faces preternaturally alike; their individual birth-seed overcome and subsumed beneath the bleak dominance of the Emperor's genetic manipulation. Their faces, like so many of the legion, are scarred and imperfect reflections of Perturabo's; their features hard, as though chipped from a great flint. Their expressions are similarly bitter and bilious. Hard lines cluster around the free Iron Warrior's pinched, thin-lipped mouth. In its fury, the other's face has become a patchwork of strained white-yellow and red-purple, the skin pulled taut by muscle and clusters of tendons. Their faces are inches apart. His nose and brow are pressed against the glass, straining, desperate. His eye wheels, searching.

All of a sudden, as though a switch had been flicked, the caged Space Marine stops. His hands drop, smearing wetly down the glass. His breathing slows, though ragged puffs of condensation beneath his nostrils belie the suddenly-chilly exterior. He seems to relax a little, though his face remains pressed firmly against the glass, the flesh distorted, any nobility made grotesque under the pressure. The silence is as eerie as the rage.

He wets his lips, slowly. Then, his eye fixed on the visitor, and in a voice no louder than a whisper, he
speaks.

'Give me my armour.'

The new arrival appears to reach a decision. His face remained dour, but the bondsmen detects a hint
of amusement as he turns to address them.

'Give him his armour. Tell the centurion a very particular duty awaits.'

+++

The Primarch. Orders from the Primarch! Direct from his mouth; special orders, a special duty – and on
Terra! The hubbub, while low, is audible. The officers and specialists, variously seated or standing around the tiered chamber, try to anticipate Perturabo's purpose here; to find patterns or meaning in the choices of personnel summoned to the lodge chamber.

Cjarn, alone of those gathered, remains truly impassive. The others wear their masks: whether literally, in the shapes of their formal helms, or emotionally, their faces carefully – and wisely – blank as their mercurial Primarch steps in.

Words are spoken.

Comitas is belted at his waist. The other axe is in front of him. Cjarn's armoured thumb toys with a loose strand of the braided, bloodstained leather. The movement is not born of distraction. Cjarn's impassiveness is not a lack of care, or empathy. Nor is it a desire to reject this terrible duty – for the truth is that it is not merely onerous, not merely dangerous.

It is a duty monstrous in its implications: to cage and preserve a Primarch.

Neither for anger; nor cold revenge, but for the simple act of trapping an immortal in an eternal cage of iron, and allowing isolation to break the unbreakable.

Cjarn's humours remain in balance for one simple reason: because it is no longer just Cjarn that influences them.

+++

+ inloads: Iron Warriors 'Officio Monstrosa ' army shot +

+ Iron Warriors 242nd 'Footsore' Great Company and the Officio Monstrosa +

+ Is there any greater satisfaction – hobbywise, at least – than seeing an army you've painted laid out, and completed to the best of your ability? +

+ MIssing the tanks, but otherwise complete +

+ I found myself in the (unusual, for me!) position of having finished everything I need for an event with some time to spare, so I decided to double-check everything was complete. I ended up surprising myself with how much I'd done for the force. Because they've developed rather more organically – i.e. with less pre-planning than other armies I've done – I'd quite forgotten some of the models. It was nice to dig 'em out and get some details – I hope you enjoy the show. +

+ Tactical legionaries are at the heart of every space marine force I've ever done. I've ended up with nearly forty, all told. +

+ Perturabo hasn't seen table-time yet. Now the army's 'done' (though is any army ever really finished?), I'll have to twist the arm of Stuntwedge to face me with his Imperial Fists in a suitably large game. Perhaps that cowardly wretch Rogal Dorn will make an appearance? +

+ Zaricus Cjarn has led the force so far. A relatively lowly Centurion, I think he'll end up being superceded by a higher-level officer soon. I won't forget this axe-wielding loon, though. One of my favourite models full-stop.+

+ You see the benefit of 'boring' poses when you set out your models like this. Having more restrained marines helps the more dynamic poses stand out, and makes for a better overall look. +

+ Talking of dynamic poses, I think this chap is my favourite in the force overall. +

+ The stripped-back aesthetic of the Iron Warriors still leaves a little space for details that add a bit of narrative. Here a little wolf token – a gift from the XVIth Legion? A trophy from the VIth? – is there for viewers to pick out. Note also the hazard striping. I've deliberately kept that minimal. It's such an eye-catching device that it can really draw attention away from the metallics. +

+ Freehand banners. A lot of fun, and a good opportunity to practise your brushwork. +

+ New Destroyers. The damaged pauldrons come from Master-Crafted miniatures. The metallics here are ever-so-slightly darker than the rest of the army; to reflect the rad-soaked background. +

+ Multi-meltas – a perfect example of a unit made just for looks. They attract a lot of positive comments, which goes to show a change is as good as a rest, sometimes. One of my favourite bits of the army, they make heavy use of the Blood Angel helmet that I adopted for its sinister eye slits.  +

+ The new apothecary – see yesterday's inload [+noosphericinloadlink embedded+] – was designed to fit alongside the vignette of two injured Marines [+noosphericinloadlink embedded+] I made. +

+ Again, a bit of freehand detail really sings out against what is, at root, a super-easy metallic scheme. The little targetting panels were painted with the same blue accent I've used sparingly across the army. +

+ Rapiers are fun – small enough that I enjoyed painting them (unlike most vehicles), large enough to stand out. +

+ GIANT ROBOTS +

+ MORE GIANT ROBOTS +

+ ...and back to regular ol' troops to close. Converting every model is time-consuming and sometimes frustrating, but it really helps to make the army feel like yours; adding a very personal artistic touch. It also helps to remind you that even the 'basic' Space Marine is a distinctive hero (or villain), with the potential for own narrative development. This all adds to the enjoyment of every aspect of the hobby; from generating ideas for painting honorifics to suggesting storylines and plots for gaming. +

+ Iron Warriors Apothecary +

+ inload: Corpsemaker +

Respiration laboured. Palliative oxy-haemotics: thirty – no, thirty-five units. Commence auto-leeching to balance the humou- [SMALL ARMS FIRE]  Hmph. [SMALL ARMS FIRE INCREASES] [STATIC] To expedite withdrawal, Palatarch, I can give you three choices – you can detail two of your men to drag him back across the minefield; or I can extract and take back the gene-sperm. [ORDNANCE DETONATION] The third choice? Well, if we stay here much longer, I can take him and the rest of you back in a bucket.

+ A very enjoyable figure to work on; just familiar enough to be relaxing, and just enough extra detail for fun. The variety of lenses and panels here was ripe for experimenting, so I decided to paint the lamp using greys and freehand lines to suggest something like a deactivated car headlamp. +

+ The freehand apothecary symbol on the pauldron is just about visible here, along with the bloody handprint on his shin. +

+ Beyond the standard 'true-scaling', it was a simple conversion. I trimmed the hand from a Grey Knight Terminator apothecary arm (I think), replacing it with an auspex. The cool backpack details are from the Primaris apothecary; while the loincloth and helm are from the Mark IV plastic box. + 

+ I had a bit of fun experimenting with object source lighting from the auspex, too. Fairly subtle, but very easy to do on metallics, as you can simply glaze the colour on once the underlying metals are highlighted properly. +

+ The scheme is deliberately stripped-back. I decided against using an alternative white scheme for this apothecary. The impact of the whole force relies on the anonymity of the figures – no-one's allowed to stand out in Perturabo's army! +

+ inload: Space Marine Destroyers +

+ Officio Monstrosa: Destroyers WIP +

+ With a little less than a week until my troops invade the Deathworld of Akkar [+nooosphericinloadlink embedded+], I'm scrambling to get a few extra figures finished for the Iron Warriors. I had intended to take the Ultramarines (life imitating art here, as the poor Ultramarines get sidelined from all my Horus Heresy gaming!) but there was an imbalance of Loyalists to Traitors, so I offered to bring some baddies to solve it. +

+ With just 2,000pts to bring, I'm not under huge pressure. It's meant that some very patient models have been bumped up the queue, so I'm working on the Destroyers, an Apothecary and a Palatarch (sergeant) for my Basilikoi (Tactical Support Marines). +

+ Here's a few WIPs:

+ After the first few stages, the metal is coming along nicely. Note the marine second from left is complete. +

+ A little further along, the metals are all but complete, while the black gun casings and pauldrons are just blocked in. +

+ And the reason the Destroyers didn't get finished last night is that I was working on a couple of other Marines at the same time. A veteran for the Basilikoi:

+ And a much-needed Apothecary:

+++

'The best parasite remains undetected.'

+ Olympian aphorism + 

As I look over the new intake, I keep my face a blank mask. It is not difficult. Not compared with Olympia. Akkar will test these hurriedly-trained neophytes. Some will live; others die. The thought fills me with as much emotion and concern as might the expenditure of ammunition. It is all part of the mathematics of warfare; their addition or subtraction is relevant only to the correct result: victory.

The jungle. however. That concerns me. It concerns Cjarn, too; though our increasingly mercurial leader grows less and less patient with every battle; every swing of that scavenged axe. It is fortunate that we have been assigned an Episcopi. As Cjarn's patience degenerates, we will have need of a cool hand; and a lifetime of uncompromising discipline has refined Artabas' thoughts to a hard, mirror-like sheen; much like those of his robotic companions.

This Muster was drawn hurriedly from a nameless swamp of a planet. Its children lacks discipline. I lash out with my maul, striking one of the aspirant Phalangites on the hip. Unpowered, it causes no harm – but he adjusts his posture, straightening. If I catch a curse, it is wisely curtailed.

I do not break stride. Nor does my mind pause. There is little enough time before deployment, and the jungle is an abstract and complicating factor. It alters the equation; changes the probabilities. Reaching the end of the hall, I nod curtly to the duty-Palatarch. He returns a crisp salute. As I duck beneath the exodus-bulkhead, I hear the sound of the recruits closing in on their errant Mustermate.

+++

Thick and cloying and aromatic. Akkar is alive. Alive in a way I had forgotten; abundant to the point of choking itself. Branches bend under the weight of wildlife. Fruits hang so heavy they strain the vines; insects form deafening clouds around gaudy, pulpy inflorescences. Such vitality feels sickly and corrupt; an over-ripe fruit bloated with syrupy, over-developed flesh. The hoot-swingers and cacklebirds are swivel-eyed; frantic.

Even the new Iron Warriors are affected. I am pleased the Muster's Palatarch has instilled more discipline in them. Their observable reactions are subtle. Nevertheless, the signs are there, for those that know to look. A flushed look to the skin. Wide eyes. A microsecond delay in response.

The glut of sensation Akkar presses upon you is hard to take in. Doubly so for the intake. Knowing only their homeworld's foetid brown wastes under slate-grey skies, and the spartan lines of our vessel, it is a wonder that they do not behave as though inebriated. Their new, post-human senses hinder as much as help here.

Still. Discipline. Those momentary pauses will kill them as surely as a blade. They have scant hours to adapt. Imperial shipping is inbound. This will be Legion war.

+++

Vox heavy with distortion, words mangled, my orders are necessarily simple. Our new Mustermate, Aftrokratori, gives vox-click assent – assiduous boy, I murmur to myself through blood-pinked teeth. The click is – predictably – all but lost in a haze of static. The others simply tap their pauldrons. I can sense their reactions: disapproval, amusement, mockery.

A moment later, supplementing our battle-sign with a hesitant, embarrassed nod, Aftrokratori taps his pauldron too. Hm. At least he learns. Turning away, I place my pistol on the ground for a moment, flex my heavy gauntlet; test the malfunctioning rotator cuff again. All of a sudden, I feel tired. I feel every one of my eighty-seven years.

My fingers feel thick and clumsy and numb as I retrieve my bolt pistol. My blood fizzes with sickness. Running my tongue over tinny-tasting teeth, I am aware of the gradual, insidious, siege my terrible atomic weaponry places on me.

Aftrokratori will feel its bite soon. Heh.

Perhaps he will regret his elevation to our coterie. Perhaps he will embrace the firesong. I care not.

I ignite my jump pack, feeling the harness tighten and press on my armour. Before the apex of the jump, I jink; already firing down at the defenders, already feeling the sense of weight fall away, already my blood singing.

+ inload: Rad-toting, gunslinging, habitat-burning Destroyers +

+  Iron Warrior Destroyers +

+ It's Australia day today, so what better way to celebrate the nearest thing we've got to Catachan than the deadly toxic Destroyers? (I kid! I kid!) +

+ We had a look at the first Psiloi (my 'in-universe' name for Destroyers) a earlier in the week-cycle [+noosphericinloadlink embedded+], with Aftrokratori, a relatively new member of the corps in Mark IV armour. +

+ I had decided that the Iron Warriors would share none of the other Legions' reluctance to deploy the Destoyer's semi-forbidden weaponry, so I don't want to pick them out with a unique paint job or something similar – I want them to look like just another unit in the army. However, as I learned with the Basilikoi (my volkite-toting veterans), this anonymous approach can mean that they end up looking a little underwhelming; so the challenge is to find a balance between standing out and looking part of the group. +

+ The jump-pack bearing, pistol-wielding nature of Destroyers gives them a unique silhouette in my army, so that already distinguishes them from existing stuff. However, to 'future-proof' them from looking too similar to a potential jump-pack equipped assault squad, I want to make them slightly different without going completely off-piste. +

+ My solution was to dig into the background. I thought the Destroyers were an opportunity to explore some parts of the Horus Heresy that I've always liked, but have never found a good excuse to do – namely heavy battle damage and Mark V 'Heresy' plate. +

+Bolt pistol-armed Destroyer with bionic arm (rear of shot) +

+ The brutal appearance of this armour type marks them out visually, and fits perfectly with the background: the Destroyers' rad-weaponry and tactical application makes them particularly vulnerable to damage and degradation, so it seemed fitting to give them the low-tech but functional Mark V, which in the background is a stop-gap mongrel suit, with plates issued to replace the higher-tech and hard to repair Mark IV. +

+ Having the newer members of the unit (such as Aftrokratori) in Mark IV, and their older, more battleworn comrades in increasingly complete Mark V, is therefore a nice way to segue the visuals from the rest of the army (mostly in Mark IV) and give them a distinctive look. +

+ Destroyer with suspensor-assisted missile launcher. One of the few models in the game who can have both a jump pack and a heavy weapon! Note the bionic leg; a standard part of the Iron Tyrant kit +

+ You'll also notice that there's some battle damage on the armour – a detail made easier by Master Crafted Miniatures, who (after a little pleading!) have produced some awesome battle-damaged pauldrons. I've also included some exposed bionics. Generally, I prefer to keep bionics in this army relatively subtle and hidden, as it leaves 'design space' for my Iron Hands [+noosphericinloadlink embedded+], who have a much stronger association with augmetics. However, given the Psiloi Destroyers' elite status, I thought it'd be fun to add some exposed bionic limbs. In addition to providing some visual flavour, it also hints more broadly at the Iron Warriors' genetic proclivity for accepting bionics, something that could be lost if I had none in the army. +

+ Here's a shot of the four members awaiting paint. I'm not sure if I'll expand them or not just yet, but they were fun to do. Relatively quick, too, as the arms for the dual pistols required much less chopping and reposing than is typical for the boltgun-armed marines. +

+ inload: Personalities of the Iron Warriors' 242nd +

+ Dramatis Personae +

What price victory?

Victory is priceless.

Motto of the Officio Monstrosa

+ Kolossos Kalamatas +

+ A traditional Olympian term for standard bearer, Kolossos is mostly reserved with the IVth legion to describe the Legion's heralds, rather than the more commonplace Company standards. +

+ As with other Legions, the Heralds of the Iron Warriors were highly-skilled warriors and diplomats both: exemplars of the Legion. By the later stages of the Siege of Terra, honour came to mean less than raw strength, and many of the later Kolossi, Kalamatas included, were elevated to their position for little more than their aggression and fearlessness than any of their less belligerent traits. +

+ So it was in those later stages that as the surface of the Iron Warriors was abraded, a darker alloy was revealed beneath. +

+++

+ Corpsemarker +

+ The grinding nature of Legion campaigns often left Apothecaries splitting their duties between battlefield first aid, geneseed retrieval and implantation. In many Legions, more onerous duties were often leavened by scheduled meditations or less draining combat training. +

+ The typical efficiencies of the IVth, however, streamlined this, cycling apothecaries through punishing tours of monotasking; leaving an individual on extended front-line tour; before being cycled immediately back to sort the geneseed of his fallen brethren for weeks on end. Such an approach doubtless had a brutalising effect on the Iron Warriors' Apothekarion as a whole. +

+ In addition, the Iron Warriors' unusual affinity for, and ready acceptance of, bionics meant that Iron Warriors casualties tended to be either quickly treated and pressed back into service, or dead. There was little post-injury care; with the pressure on the apothecaries resulting in their wards being viewed as tools to be repaired, or equations to resolve. +

+ Perhaps surprisingly then, the haunted, drawn visage of Apothecary-ordinary Constantine was a regular attendant at Lodge meetings of the Dodekatheon. Was he attempting to grasp at what slivers of brotherhood he could find amidst the gore; or had he become so inured to pain and injury that he felt no compunction to remain beside his charges? +

+ Constantine's honorific 'Corpsemaker' was equally cryptic – respect from the 242nd for his skill at arms and willingness to fight on the frontlines; or merely a veiled reference to the number of their dead he gathered? +

+++

+ Palatarch Oneomaster +

+ Honoured of the Basilikoi; a true 'Iron Warrior'; Oneomaster was nevertheless not Olympian-born. +