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Wednesday, 28 July 2010

Patients is a virtue...

So back to Orc's Drift after a few distractions of an undead nature...

After scouring ebay for wounded and dying minis (a cheerful pursuit!) I have finally assembled enough poor souls for Ferndale Snart's field hospital in Orc's Drift! Can't believe I didn't think to look for wounded dwarfs and elves though to represent the three allies defending Palesandre!

Either way Ferndale's hospital is complete and I think that calls for a nice groupshot!



Loads of fun to paint - especially because they all have their eyes closed! Even tried my hand at a bit of modelling and sculpted (I use the term very tenuously!) some stretchers for them - should Ferndale persuade any of the defenders of Orc's Drift to leave their posts and help him evacuate his wards...




First to be admitted is Sir Malahed - a noble knight of the order of the Grand League. This brave warrior fell at the hands of a huge troll whilst holding back the advancing Goblin tribes around Ortar - taking a brutal blow to the head, Sir Malahed bought enough time for his brothers-in-arms to gallantly leg it in order to fight another day.





During the same engagement Lars Brett, a swordsman of the 2nd Ortar Volunteers, also lay badly wounded. With his regiment beleagured on all sides and the retreat ringing in his ears, Lars stood and fought only to be brought down by a cruel goblin scimitar.





Dumbledern an apprentice mage, called early from his studies at the college in Merlinas, also met his match in the struggle against the goblins. Seeing the destruction wrougt by the evil magic of the cackling shaman facing him, Dumbledern attempted to halt the onslaught by engaging him in a battle of minds. Sadly for the apprentice he was not ready for such an opponent and has remained in an uneasy coma ever since...




Lastly and by no means least is Laceras, a warrior of one of the hill tribes that dwell in the mountains above Kachas Pass. Seeing the danger posed by the Goblin attack many of these hardy mountain men have flocked to the Grand League's aid. Laceras acquitted himself well in battle - working himself into a bloody frenzy he dispatched no less than twelve of the green vermin before a curved and rusty blade opened him up. Unaware of the grievous wound, Laceras fought on until the fight was done and he finally collapsed from blood loss. His ox-like constitution certainly saved him that day and even now, slipping in and out of consciousness, he deliriously calls for meat and ale to assuage his terrible hunger!





Will these brave men escape a second doom at the hands of the Kwae Karr orcs? Will Ferndale Snart stay sober enough to tend to their wounds?

One thing is for certain - being a patient has one virtue - in their unconscious states they are blissfully unaware of the green tide that yet creeps towards them, while the dwarfs and elves who crouch behind their make-shift barricades know all too well the fate that will befall fair Palesandre should their last stand fail...

Monday, 26 July 2010

When Hell is full...

... the Dead will walk the Earth!


More plastic goodness from the old Citadel skeleton army. Got bits and pieces for a load more warriors, a few archers and cavalry, although I'm still lamenting the loss of the chariot!

Pretty quick paint jobs on these as I should really be concentrating on Orc's Drift - 5 weeks of holidays to get the painting done and the games played!


















... and the obligatory battle scene!


Wednesday, 21 July 2010

Disdain sanity and scholarship, the loftiest attributes man has been given...

And so the devil has you
And your soul is infallibly lost...
 
 
 
This is the woeful tale of what was once a man named Kraust.
 
A cruel and avaricious man, Kraust was Baron to a small fiefdom in the Western part of Ramalia. Dissatisfied by his inept and arbitrary rule the common folk also had good reason to fear him. As greedy as he was for material riches, Kraust was obsessed with the notion of hoarding life itself. With each night the air around his black tower hummed with evil magic and unnatural energies as he dabbled with necromancy and the Black Arts. 
 
The ceremonies grew more and more depraved until the peasants, driven by terror and desperation, gathered as a mob and marched on Kraust's residence. Pre-occupied with his studies, Kraust only became aware of the revolt as the flames licked at the door of his sanctum. Running for his life he escaped with terrible burns with only his robe about him.
 
He fled into the forest and wandered for days, cold, wet and hungry. Madness descended on him as he felt the life ebb away. Stumbling into a clearing, his last reserves of strength spent, Kraust lay down to die, alone and wretched.
 
Hours later he came to, a sybilent and insistent voice whispering in his head... 
 
Poor son of Earth, how couldst thou thus alone

Have led thy life, bereft of me?
I, for a time, at least, have worked thy cure;
Thy fancy's rickets plague thee not at all:
Had I not been, so hadst thou, sure,
Walked thyself off this earthly ball.
Why here to caverns, rocky hollows slinking,
Sit'st thou, as 'twere an owl a-blinking?
Why suck'st, from sodden moss and dripping stone,
Toad-like, thy nourishment alone?
A fine way, this, thy time to fill!
A blessing drawn from supernatural fountains!
In night and dew to lie upon the mountains;
All Heaven and Earth in rapture penetrating;
Thyself to Godhood haughtily inflating;
To grub with yearning force through Earth's dark marrow,
Compress the six days' work within thy bosom narrow,--
To taste, I know not what, in haughty power,
Thine own ecstatic life on all things shower,
Thine earthly self behind thee cast,
And then the lofty instinct, thus at last,
 to pluck the final flower!

Driven on by the voice Kraust staggered on until he came to a low mound. A ragged opening scowled at him as he approached the dread dark within. Once inside a hideous strength seemed to fill him, the voice grew louder, urging him on. Before him lay a long dead warrior clad in macabre armour. Bones encased its head and upper body, forming a terrifying visage. With hands he no longer controlled, Kraust reached out and with near skeletal fingers placed the gruesome helm on his head.



The voice ceased and then continued with renewed vigour. He screamed as the helm seemed to fuse with the very flesh of his gaunt face. The pain was mixed with elation as knowledge coursed through his brain - his studies of arcane books was immediately eclipsed as his head became filled with chaos.



And so was born the scourge of Mevion. Not forgetting his treatment at the hands of his serfs, Kraust returned to wreak bloody vengeance. It was to be a twofold punishment he meted out to those poor souls as their cadavers jerked back to unnatural life at a word from Kraust. News began to spread as his Undead horde grew, bolstered by foul chaotics attracted by the scent of death that followed him - Baron Kraust's band of lost souls was on the march!









Thanks by the way to Goethe for the quotations!

Thursday, 15 July 2010

Things that go bump in the night...

Another addition to Baron Kraust's Band of Lost Souls...

To give a bit of variety I thought I might include a few ethereal characters - along with the three wights I have this old C series spectre will form part of a small ethereal host - I hope to pick up some more ghosts in the future.











Monday, 12 July 2010

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers...


For he today that sheds his blood with me, Shall be my brother; be ne'er so vile...

More of the bard but quite fitting I think!

A busy Sunday saw the last of the Linden Way militia finished and once I have secured a few more townsfolk for them to rescue I'll have most of the minis done for the Linden Way scenario... except for the Kwae Carr Orcs!

Here's the militia altogether, headed up by the Mayor Leofwine -






Making up this happy few are a disparate bunch of characters plucked from their everyday lives in Meledir to face the Orc invasion...

Luckily there is a small Norse community in Meledir formed from a small band of wanderers who settled there. Rekindling their inner berserkers thses formidable fighters are more than happy to join the fray.


Bruni Baegseg is one such Norse settler. Nothing annoys him more (apart from having his ale knocked over) than orcs threatening his, by Norse standards, peaceful life. Taking up his trusty axe Bruni is a valuable, if wild asset to the miitia - although try telling that to the poor soul stood next to him in the ranks once the red mist descends...



Some might say that a shield is a strange thing for such a warrior to carry - it is mainly there for him to chew on when he gets too angry!



Bruni's old drinking pal, Egil Ekbert, is never far away - mainly because Bruni owes him a flagon or two! There is considerable debate in the militia as to whether Egil's flamboyant hairstyle would strike more terror in the hearts of the enemy than the bloodcurdling oathes he enjoys shouting when a fight is brewing...




Making up the third of the wild bunch is Hroarr Sveinbjorn - said to be more closely related to bears than men, some say he got the name Hroarr because he says little else!





Pictured here with him is another traveller who blew in from the North in one of the worst blizzards the region had ever weathered. Most of the men are a little in awe of Lovtsevich the Kislevite trapper and with good reason. A man of few words and seemingly hewn from the icey wastes he appeared from, Lovtsevich has and needs no friends.






A more jovial addition to the band are the two woodcutters Grimwald Hollison (right) and Elias Brethilbole (left). This pair of merry men can be found of an evening at the best spot by the fire, well supllied with meat and beer and holding forth with many an entertaining tale. Elias in particular has a whole host of somewhat ribald yarns to tell of his amorous encounters with the sylvain and fey inhabitants of the woods... He didn't get the name Brethilbole for nothing - as he is wont to remind the lads! 






The last two miliatiamen represent two ends of the social spectrum among the peasantry of Meledir. Occupying a place relatively high up in the pecking order is Hrothgar Brindleson (right) - the local squire's head yeoman.




A valued asset to the squire's estate, Hrothgarr is well equipped in armour and arms in the hope that he will survive to return to his master's service. Gruff and short with those he considers below him, nonetheless Hrothgar is respected by the men and without him Captain Leofric would find his militia not quite the coherent fighting unit he needs... 





Next to him is Baledwynn Hogward, an illiterate and backward peasant whose ignorance and crude manners are worse than the pigs he is charged with keeping! Baldewynn is a superstitious man, constantly muttering abot bad omens everytime a crow darkens the sky - a fairly regular occurrence! Happy in the belief that his "magic" stick will protect him, Baldewynn marches towards his fate with the docility of a domesticated heifer.