Diggelchum Smegmarr's Chaos Trolls

Diggle was a little man of no account.  Small, ugly and a simpleton.  He had one talent, though.  He could talk to the bears.  Day and night, Summer, Winter, Spring, the little carnival bumped and creaked along the forest paths of Kislev and the Empire, moving slowly from village to Hamlet, always avoiding the great cities.  Some of the Carnival Folk complained to Shivv that they could make more money in the great towns, but Shivv kept them on the narrow forest tracks, always working the little communities where most folk never went more than twenty miles from their homes in their whole lives, and where the carnival people need fear no pursuit when a woman or a child went missing.

Diggle didn't talk to the others, much.  He had his bears.  The great beasts walked and rolled and tumbled and danced at his command, to the delight of  his audience.  At night he slept between their great furred flanks, needing no blanket, not even in the bitter cold.  They were his great, black-furred children, and while he had them, he had no need for the company of men.  One night when the little carnival had strayed south into warmer and unfamiliar lands, strange men came into their camp.  The men wore tall hats and long cloaks and their hard eyes caught and held the campfire light in a manner that made Diggle afraid. They poked amoung the wagons and asked Shivv many questions.  Then they left.  After that Shivv would have no more of those climes.  He led them east, into remoter lands, nearer the borders of the realms of men, where he hoped the people would be less clever in reading certain signs that were beginning to make themselves more apparent on the flesh of himself and his followers. 

They crossed many rivers and passed through many lands, but the people here were tough and wary of strangers, and the carnival found little welcome.  Women were chaste and not easily baited.  Men never walked alone, but always in little clusters.  Mothers watched their children like hawks.  There were no easy pickings amoung these frontier people.  Shivv had brought them to the very edge of the known world, in a strange, narrow country on the banks of a wide, dark river, when he decided to turn north again, and back to more familiar climes.  But then they began to get sick.

They had always been a somewhat sickly bunch, but this weird new malady laid hold of their bodies with a ruthless, withering gripe.  Beast and man sickened, and Diggle lay amoung his beloved charges, shivering and weeping to hear them moaning in their pain. Ecclavia said it was because they had given no sacrifices to the Master, that he was angry with them for ignoring him and that he had unleashed his terrible judgement like a fire within their flesh.  But there was little they could do.  When the people had seen the carnival folk begin to sicken they had driven them from them.  The little clutch of brightly painted wagons lay far out in a meadow, watched from a distance by mailed horsemen who carried tall spears.
On the last night Ecclavia was caught trying to steal a babe from the village to give to the Master.  It had been a desperate gamble, and it had failed.  The women of the town belabored Ecclavia with stones and Axe handles, and put flame to her flesh while she yet breathed.  Shivv and a few others who were still hale enough to move tried to make off north, following the river, but the horsemen espied them, pursued them, speared them and cast their bodies into the dark waters.  Then they went amoung the wagons, where they killed and burned everything they could find.

Diggle crawled off into the darkness, weeping, moaning, biting his flesh in his grief.  Behind him he heard his children, moaning and roaring in anger and confusion and pain as they died.  How he escaped the watchful eyes of the horsemen and the priests, he never knew.  Nor did it seem possible to him that he could have crossed the great river, for he knew not how to swim, but cross it he did, somehow:  some great power led him on.  The land east of the river was a great desert of sharp stones and tall dry grass.  He was thirsty and starving, and the fever burned in his flesh, melting him and changing him, but he hobbled on, searching for the Master, whom he knew was somewhere not far away.  Sometimes he thought he could see the Master in the clouds, a great, bloated, Kingly mass,a horned and eyeless head that seemed to stoop and study him in bemused mirth.  Later, he remembered long conversations with the Master in these moments.  He spoke of his pets, and of his grief at their loss.  He spoke of the greatness of the Master, and of  how he would serve, if only he could.  

He came at last to a pool, a black welter amoung the sharp stones, and here the great beasts found him.  They were huge and tall and strong, like his children.  Much mightier than he.  He waited for them to rend and devour him, but they sat down around him in a crescent and studied him, as if waiting for him to tell them what to do.  At last he rose and went to the pool to drink, and there he saw his reflection, and now he knew why the great beasts seemed to wait upon his word.  He had changed.  The fever had melted part of him like candlewax, but the other half of him had grown massive and strong.  His face had formed into a parody of his former self, crowned with a pair of mighty horns, split with a wild grin that reminded him of old Otho, the Carnival clown.  His suppurating flesh was enclosed in splendid steel armor and in his one good hand he carried a mighty staff shod in iron that throbbed with the sacred Word of the Master.  He turned and looked at the great misshapen things hunkered by the pool, watching him in fascination, and he knew the Master had sent them to him.  He knew the Master loved him.

Digglechun Smegmarr is a Champion in the Chaos horde of Buzzgobb Phesterlick.  He Always goes into battle leading his 3 beloved "Children, " his mutant Chaos Trolls.  Mutant troll models are hard to find in Citadel lines, but I liked all three of these models a lot, and used them.  The 2-headed fellow is a Reaper model, the horned, skull-faced one is by RAFM, and the 1-of-everything troll is by Alternative Armies, part of their great ERIN line.  It's been months since I added anything to Buzzgobb's horde, (shame on me) but I'm painting furiously, trying to get to 3,000 points before the end of the year.  The painting table/pile has an Army Commander and Standard bearer and a beastmen regiment standing on it, partly finished. 

Must...finish...painting!

Lost Worlds Characters Pt. 1: Skeleton, Forest Troll and Gargoyle

 So my latest retro-gaming obsession, (like I need another one, right?) are these little Lost Worlds combat books that were published some thirty years ago by NOVA games, and which always looked interesting to me.  The fact that each one of the Lost Worlds character booklets was modeled after a specific Ral Partha miniature from RP's mid-eighties glory days whet my appetite even further.  Best of all, they're dirt cheap.  I got all of mine for $4 or $5 each, and about 90% of the minis are still available from Iron Wind Metals.  The concept looks very simple and entertaining. Good for whiling away an evening when friends can't stay long enough for a full blown game of Warhammerocalypse. 

Curiously, the miniatures don't matter one bit to the game unless you get one of the deluxe boxed adventure sets, both of which I got recently outrageously cheap on that glorious triumph of the free market system we know as ebay.  Woo hoo!  Got to love those auctions that end at odd hours.  The adventure sets each contain a 3-d tactical map of a dungeon setting in which your characters can maneuver on each other as they try to get hold of various ancient and powerful magical artifacts.  Eagerly anticipating their arrival in the mail.

Going to spend most of next weekend at my childhood friend and fellow geek John's house and am looking forward to trying a few games with these three fellows, as well as the Barbarian, Wraith and Dwarf.  (Which I obtained a long time ago but which I've yet to paint up.)

A quick glance through the books hints that each character has a set of strengths and weaknesses unique to himself, and the book points out that not all characters are created equal. Some are much stronger than others, and will probably have to be teamed up on by a gang of weaker characters.  The Forest Troll, here, for example, has almost three times the hit points of your average human character and can take on 2 opponents at once, something few creatures can apparently do.  The skeleton is weak, but can regenerate damage by picking up the bones you knock off of him and fitting them back into his frame.  The gargoyle is also considerably tougher than the average human character, and, obviously, has the advantage of a pair o' wings.

So...warming up the time machine, and we'll see how my weekend expedition to the Lost World of goofy 80's nerd-gaming goes.  With any luck, I shan't return.

Ogre: Pan European Artillery

Steve Jackson's Ogre was one of my first loves in wargaming.  My friend John and I played my plastic little boxed versions of Ogre and GEV until the cut-out counters and rule books practically fell apart.  Still love the game, but as I get to be older and increasingly tired-eyed and cantankerous, I found I've lost patience with tiny bits of card-board printed in eye-splittingly miniscule type jumping around on folded paper maps.

Miniatures, then.  The Ogre Miniatures game has been out for about a hundred years, but its only been in the last year or so that I've begun to seriously consider investing in it.  Recently I broke down and bought my first box of Ogre miniatures, and have started daydreaming scenarios during idle hours. The boxed sets available online are really reasonably priced, I think, given what some metal minis go for, and quite nice.  I was pleased to find that I could get enough infantry and vehicles together to play the Ogre basic scenario for only about a hundred U.S.  The only thing that bugs me is that the infantry minis are not in scale with the vehicles, but I can see why they did it that way.

The little campaign backdrop I'm dreaming up is set on the English Channel coast.  These guns belong to the 19th Normandie Division, one of the many territorial formations which were called upon again and again to repel raids by the Combine from across the English Channel.  If Steve Jackson Games ever released sets of decals for Ogre minis, I haven't been able to find them yet.  Too bad, 'cause I have zero talent for painting insignia free hand.  So, instead of the Pan European hoplite helmet device, I've marked these batteries with  their divisional badge, in this case, the Fleur de Lis common to many territorial divisions of the former French republic.

Next up will be an Infantry PanEuropean battlesuit battalion and command post, or a Mark III ogre, I'm not sure which I want to just yet.

Narchukk Tounge-Cutter's Arrer Boys

He came swimming up slowly from out of a deep slumber.  The room and the bed seemed unfamiliar to him, and waking, he wondered for a moment where he was.  Then he remembered.  The tiny cabin in the little fort on the bank of the river, built in great haste under the eve of approaching winter. Miles from home.  It had been the dogs who had broken his sleep.  He could hear them moving restlessly along the walls, where the light of the dying fire did not reach, whining and huffing, their nails scrabbling at the logs near to the ground.  Hans von Hirschfeld pushed himself up on one elbow and called softly.  The two great hunting mastiffs glided to him out of the gloom.  They were visibly agitated.  And now, outside the cabin he could hear activity; his men moving about, talking in low tones.    Von Hircshfeld  rose and dressed quickly.  Behind him his Bretonnian mistress sat up in bed and squinted at him for a moment in puzzlement, then as suddenly retreated into the soft shelter of their blankets and sweet oblivion of sleep.

Buckling on his sword belt, von Hirshfeld opened the cabin door and came face to face with Johann, his Corporal of the Guard.  "Sir, Johann said softly. I was coming to wake you. One of the sentries heard something and called stand to."
"Heard what?" Hirschfeld queried.
"Metal on metal, and a voice, in the trees opposite the gate."
"Who?"  von Hirschfeld queried again.
"Soderson, Sir."
Pieter Soderson.  A good man.  Trusty.  Not one to go jumping at night-birds.
Von Hircshfeld made his way across the diminutive courtyard to where the little fort's crude door hung on it's ill-fitting iron hinges.  A few men were gathered there in the light of a guttering torch.  They made their obeisances at his approach.  One of them was Soderson.

"On my life, I heard it, Lord.  said Soderson upon being questioned.  They're quiet as shadows now, but they're out there."  Von Hirshfeld's dogs seemed to agree.  They swept their muzzles along the ground near the gate and pushed them high in the air, scenting, listening, hackles high, eyes aglow in the dark.   

And who are they?  Von Hirschfeld wondered silently to himself.  No sooner had he finished his thought then they all heard a sound, a tiny sound they might well have missed in the light of day, but one which sounded like a cannon shot to their straining ears, a soft slap or a snap, as it might be a bough that had been pushed forward and then slapped back into a tree trunk or into somebody's eye.  There was a grunt and a muffled curse.

Hans von Hirschfeld drew himself up and shouted as loud as he could.

"Who trespasses in the lands of the Baron von Refn??!!  Make yourselves known, or should we see you, we'll shoot!!"

His voice rang loud under the still and silent boughs.  It was a black and breathless night.  No moon, and not a whisper of wind.  And the real dark of the forest night...Von Hirschfeld doubted himself for a moment, wondering if he'd made the challenge too soon.  In the shadows, images threw themselves up before his idle eyes.  The little village of Frog Hollow, the Tilean immigrants...burning houses...dead women, dead children...not just dead, but ripped asunder by unclean horrors from across the river, torn clothes and fleshy tatters hanging from the trees...The Baron had stayed at Frog Hollow to personally supervise it's reconstruction.  But he had sent Von Hirschfeld on east, to build a little outpost on the river's edge.  And here he was.  Himself, ten retainers, his page, Rolli, and three of the Baron's own men, stout swordsmen all.  Fifteen men.  Fifteen men against the wilderness.  Von Hirschfeld's imagination peopled the darkness outside the fort with horrors...had they come back, the Mad Hunt?  Or some other nightmare servants of the Chaos Lord Buzzgobb Phesterlick?  His heart beat slowly.  The echoes of his voice faded.

A harsh, cracked voice called out, at last, in response.  "Oh, it's Baron Yar-Yar's country, is it?  I call this our country!  We wuz here afore you, I think."

Hans von Hirschfeld breathed a little easier.  Orcs, then.  Tough customers, to be sure.  But right now, anything seemed preferable to misshapen horrors from out of Lost Veguzz.  At least he knew what he was up against.

"You are confused, I think, in your geography, he called out.  The west bank is my Lord, The Baron's country, whatever foul ancestor of yours may have laid claim to it in elder days."

There was a cacophony of hideous laughter amoung the twisted bowels of the trees, a chorus of harsh, gravelly cackles, raspings and croakings.  Von Hirschfeld tried to count the voices amoung the echoes.

"'Ere, now! came a deeper voice, and closer than the others, from just beyond the gate.  You can sit in dere all night n' say it's your boss as runs dis land.  But who's hidin' behind walls like a scared rabbit in a thorn bush, eh?  And who owns da night all round ya?  Ere!  Boss Humie!  Listen up!  I like this little hut you got.  Tell you wut....you...you take your lads and march on out, right?  Tonight.  You can take yer weppons and yer gear and such...that's jest to show you you got no needs ta worry...and we'll let you go and leave ya be.  But leave us the hut and all the grub and sich as you got where it is.  An ya can keep yer heads.  An that's that.  Can't say fairer than that eh? Eh?  Anyhow I got a hundurd lads out here, so way I see it, my way's the only way you're ever gettin' out.  Whaddaya says, eh?"

In the dim yellow light of the torch, faces turned to look at Hans von Hirschfeld.  Some fearful, some confident, some smirking in their contempt for the greenskin's offer.  From out of the dark, the boy Rolli appeared with his arms full of Von Hirschfeld's armor.  With the help of some of the men near the gate, he began to array his master for battle.

"I believe you to be somewhat impaired in your understanding of our ways!  called von Hirschfeld over the gate.  You see, my Lord has tasked me with the defense of this fort, and until he commands otherwise, I will not budge from it.  Nor think you that you can pass us by and go west looking for gentler folk to rob and murder, for as soon as you are gone we will track you, and ours is not the only stronghold you'll find in your path. If you go further west you'll have foes to your front and foes behind and soon come to grief.  If you desire this fort so much, by all means, come and try to take it, but I'd advise against it.  I've got twenty fighters in here, which is about as many as you've got, unless I miss my guess.  There's nothing for you here but strong walls and hard knocks.  Best you go back across the river, where you belong!"

Silence, for a moment, from amoung the trees.  Then:

"Nar!  You can't squeeze twenty lads into that bitty little shack!  Anyway, I knows ya - you're the Red Hind chief.  We met in the little scrap on Bad Moon Rise, I fink you remember it...I put one a my arrers in ya in dat fight...'An I know you always travel with the same ten crossbow boys.  So ten's all you got!"  Orcs had difficulty speaking the language of the Black River folk, and found their names altogether un-pronouncable.  Therefore they often referred to individual knights by their heraldic devices.  The Von Hirschfeld insignia was a scarlet stag's head.  Clearly, the Orc chief understood the speech of his enemies well enough to use the feminine of the word for deer as a deliberate insult.

"Ten of my men and ten of the Baron's!"  Von Hirschfeld insisted untruthfully, while Rolli struggled to get his master's greaves on.  "But you needn't take my word for it. Come in and see for yourself, foul Narchukk Tounge-Cutter, as I know you, now, to be...and we'll settle old accounts!" 

In the deep shadow under night-clad pine and oak, Narchukk Tounge Cutter sat glaring at the fort and weighing the odds.  He had twenty...twenty...um...well, two tens and three besides, he thought...so, twenty...hrm...and some.  The humies?  Ten.  Maybe twelve.  Had to be.  The teeny little stronghold couldn't take no more...but then...humies was pretty small.  "'Ere! Zuggum!"  Narchukk's faithful drummer, Zuggum Frog-lip clambered over the tree-roots to his master.  Zuggum!  How many you fink dey got in dere?"
Zuggum thrust his moist, cavernous nostrils into the night air and inhaled deeply.  "Hrm...more n' ten, boss...maybe twelve...and a humie wolf...at least one...maybe two...or free..."

Narchukk chewed his broad green lip frantically.  He had more boys, but the humies had walls...and man-wolves.  Still, the advantage might fall to him...funny thing about humies...unlike Elves and Dwarves and Orcs, they couldn't see well in the dark.  An' Orcs was tougher than Humies...everybody knew that...well, it certainly seemed like it could work...and anyway, he couldn't back down now...he had led his lads out into the dark waters of the Black River...Orcs hated water...on a tiny flotilla of leaky log rafts, braving currents and deep water and that Gods-awful big monster-fish-snake-thing that had gone rolling by them in big, hump-coils...brr!  They had come all this way to get in a fight and nab some sweet loot.  And they had trusted him to lead them to it.  He couldn't back down now.  It might be a hard fight ahead, but that was all good...all they had to do was win!

"Come on, lads!  he snarled...Get ready!"

Suddenly Zuggum Frog-Lip began to pound out a frantic, mindless call-to-carnage on his drum...it was a beat he called "Napalm Death".  He didn't know why he called it that...it just sounded good...but it jarred a deep, warlike chord in the Orc boys gathered around the fort.  The blood began to pound in their thick skulls and arrows whistled and sputtered out of the dark, sticking in the log walls of the little stronghold on the banks of the Black River.

"Here they come, men!"  shouted Hans von Hirschfeld.

"Here, we go, boys!"  shouted Narchukk Tounge-Cutter to his lads. 

And they went...

High Seer Zargo Thrawl and his followers

 Whilst everybody else went to Nottingham and had a great old time, I sat moping around the house an ocean and a continent away, and worked on another war band for my upcoming online game with Private Weird and Thantsants.  Here is my version of the NPC Wizard Zargo Thrawl.  Zargo's forces will be controlled by Thantsants, who is to be our GM.

I love the ram-horn wizard figureThantsants is using for Zargo, (There are some who call him...Tim?) and intend to own him one day, but I don't have him yet, so I fished the classic Citadel "Kindly Old Wizard" out of the lead pile and painted him up with some other minis over the past few days.

Here is how Zargo and his band will look on Thantsants' table...

 ...and here are the minis I picked out to represent Zargo's men-at arms.  Some are newly painted, some are figures I pulled from units I had already painted up.  The knight with the yellow crest was not painted by me.  I got him in an ebay lot already painted.

These gallant arbalastiers and militia longbowmen of the Black River country volunteered to represent Zargo's archers and crossbowmen.

I don't have ten spearmen painted up yet, and I am trying to concentrate on the other two warbands involved in the game, so to save time I am going to use Mayor Broadbelly and some of his peasant militia to represent Zargo's other unit:  Captain Habris and hjis militia patrol.

Here is how Captain Habris  and his men will appear on Thantsants' table...

...and here is Mayor Broadbelly and the boys standing in for them...

So that's two war bands down, two to go.  The remaining bands are mutants of many shapes and hues and should be great fun to put together.  Unfortunately, I have to leave for a dumb school on Wednesday and will be gone most of the month, so not much is going to get done anytime soon...Hopefully some time in October we'll be ready to rumble.

Last Transmission From Task Force Fire Bird

Last Transmission of Task Force Fire Bird......

...Inquisitor T'Rasque reporting... 

Situation Report Follows....
 ...I have made landfall on Planet's surface. Current Position:  Imperial Planetary Grid Ref:  HY/FU 38479/28663....Widespread, catastrophic failure of drive systems occurred aboard all Task Force Space Craft almost immediately upon entry into planet's orbit, resulting in all craft crashing into planet's surface at high velocity.  All Task Force craft destroyed.  Grand High Inquisitor Clenchstrangle dead.  High Inquisitor Ripthrottle dead.  Inqusitors Heng, Byrne and Smyte all missing, presumed dead.  Estimate 98-99% of all mission essential personnel dead or missing/presumed dead.  99% of all mission essential equipment lost.  I escaped with some of my staff aboard one of the few functional life-boats moments before impact.  Have made contact with personnel of two other life boats which landed safely.  No contact received or expected from any other life-boats....

Personnel and Equipment:  Myself, my Astropath and personal assassin, 5 Army personnel, 5 Space Marines and one Space Marine scout.  Ammunition:  Low.  Food/ water: Low.  Medical Supplies:  Low.  Battery Power:  Critically low.

Plan of Action:  Am continuing mission.  Am taking command of remaining Task Force equipment and personnel and will begin movement to objective in vicinity of Grid HY/FZ 59872/67899 within the hour.   Upon completion of mission, will set up astro beacon in vicinity of Grid HY GH 88900/72600.  If no beacon tansmits from this GRIDCO within 10 Terran Standard days, we have failed and are to be presumed dead....

 The Emporer Protects...Long Live The Emporer!!

So!  Spent the last 3 evenings painting furiously to get the 12 figures I needed to complete my warband for my  upcoming, experimental game with Thantsants and Private Weird.  Here's how my war band looks on Thantsants' table:

Obviously, we made an effort to get them looking as similar as possible.  This will avoid a lot of confusion later on!

 

Still got a long way to go to complete P.W.'s warband and the various NPC warbands which Thantsants will control.  I have many of medieval/fantasy infantry and Dwarf warriors already painted, however, so that will help a great deal....

Hope to post up some of the NPC warbands tonight!

Crusaders against Chaos: Old School Dungeon Party #2

 A handful of brave and probably doomed adventurers gather at Volstead Keep before setting off for the dreaded Caverns of Chaos.  The Keep lies near to the very edge of the inhabited country and it is well known to adventurers as an excellent base-camp from which to launch forays into the east, if one feels inclined toward that sort of thing.  Food, drink and shelter are to hand at two inns, one good, the other..."affordable"...and stout walls manned by the Lawful Earl Volstead's fighters offer security while adventurers rest, heal and re-supply.  The Earl's smiths are happy to take on extra work mending or making weapons and armor, and Clerics and Magic Users are present and willing to furnish potions, scrolls and other supplies...for a price, of course.  Above we have a Citadel Dwarf looking resolute and ready for a fight.

 A Grenadier female bard strums thoughtfully...Maybe this adventuring thing not such a great idea, she thinks.  maybe she could do just as well playing birthday parties and weddings here in the safety of The Keep...Nah.

 A gallant Grenadier female Cleric practices bringing the hammer down on the servants of Chaos...Yah!  Have at you!

 The strearn and silent Paladin.  Nobody knows what he looks like under that helmet.  He never takes it off.  Even drinks his wine right through the breathing holes in his visor.  Probably a complete madman, but also thoroughly lawful and doubtless a formidable enemy of Chaos.

 The Illusionist.  The adventurers are hoping that his phantasms will frighten the denizens of the Caverns of Chaos into thinking that their puny band is much larger and stronger than it really is...If only he can remember the words to them all...here he gets in some last minute practice...

Here are the ten adventurers I have completed so far.  I'm still struggling with getting the paint jobs to look decent on these antique minis... it seems much more difficult, for some reason, than painting my Oldhammer minis.  I think with the next party, I'll try a darker undercoat.... also, it's time to get some monsters painted...

2nd Company of the Muster of the Great Hall: Marksmen, 'Red Feather Troop'

"...on the other hand, the Dwarves' companies of marksmen, both crossbowmen and gunners, do not carry standards or adopt a common color of dress.  They do not make a great show of their brotherhood, appearing almost casual in their association with their parent units.  In fact, they take their devotion to their warrior fraternities as seriously as any of the fighters in the army of Thunder Mount..."

"...This apparent indifference developed out of necessity and as a product of their battlefield role.  As my friend Haakon Stahl explained to me, and as I have since had occasion to observe in battle with the Dwarves against the Goblin tribes, the marksmen break up into small groups in combat, standing in wedges in the narrow space between the tightly drawn-up Dwarven battle-companies, or working their way round the enemy's flanks. Thus companies are regularly broken up into independent teams of ten or even fewer Dwarves who may be obliged to maneuver and fight some distance from each other, often as skirmishers in broken and difficult ground through which they must move with stealth and speed.

"All this makes the presence of standards and brightly colored garments among the marksmen impractical.  This does not mean that they abandon all show of unit affiliation, however.  On speaking with a stout blonde-bearded arbalesteir of one company, I learned that each troop of crossbowmen fletch their bolts with  feathers of a different color.  One company uses the azure plumage of the jay, another the obsidian dress of the crow.  The marksmen of the second company of the muster of the great hall use the scarlet feathers of the cardinal.  The act of bringing one of these small, brightly feathered birds down with a shot from his weapon is part of a recruit's rites of passage into the unit.  By observing the the color of bolt driven into a kill, a dwarf can quickly determine which company brought the enemy down, and the separate companies are fiercely competitive amoungst one another, keeping careful count of the numbers of enemies they've slain and boasting loudly about it.  Indeed, the hay-bearded marksman showed me one of his own quarrels and explained to me that each Dwarf in a company arranges his fletches in a pattern unique to himself, and this allows him to count which of the dead enemy are his own personal kills.  The number of kills a Dwarf crossbowman can count as his own is considered the true test of his marksmanship, for, as the stout trooper explained to me, it's one thing to shoot a target on a target range, and quite another to find one's mark amidst the terror and tumult of the bloody  field..."


                                                                                            
                                                                                                         -  From Olorrin's Journal
                                                                                              

It's common enough for me to sit down with my crumbling old copy of Warhammer Armies and pencil out an army I'd like to field.  It's considerably more rare and pleasant to draw up an army knowing that I have all the painted troops I need for it!  These marksmen are the last troops I needed to complete my 2,000 point Oldhammer Dwarf Army.  Woo Hoo!

My favorite figures in the unit by far are these Old Glory fellows...I love the Swedish Viking/Russian look to their clothes and gear and the cocky  "Yeah. We're veterans."  attitude that comes through in their poses...

Conan the Barbarian: The Musical (Arnold Schwarzenegger)

                                                  Hear da lamentations of da wimmin!!

Lead Belcha!

 This dreadful weapon appeared on the battlefields of the Black River country some years ago, and has been wreaking havoc in the ranks of Men, Dwarves and Chaos servants alike ever since.  How the wretched and degenerate goblins came by it is still unknown, as they lack the intellect to design and assemble such a thing themselves.

 The Orc Warlord Big Blackie clearly understands its worth, however, and invariably surrounds it with troops of tough Orc and Goblin infantry, so that it has eluded several attempts to seize it in battle, and at least two expeditions by the Rangers and the Dwarf Slayers of Snorri Headbiter to capture or destroy it.

 Several theories exist as to how the 'Lead Belcher,' as the Goblins call this terrible organ gun, more fearsome than anything in the Baron's own arsenal, might have come into the hands of the Goblins.  One is that 'Lead Belcher' was captured by them from the Dwarves of Thunder Mount, and twisted and re-sculpted to fit their own foul tastes evil purposes.  If this is true, however, the Dwarves aren't admitting to it.   Another is that the weapon was built for the Goblins by the Renegade Chaos Dwarves known to reside in the Chaos Lord Buzzgobb Phesterlick's squalid encampment at Lost Veguzz.  Certainly these twisted parodies of the noble Dwarves of Thunder Mount have been known to use gunpowder weapons, and Lead Belcher shows the stamp of their workmanship, with its grotesque baroque carvings, but the reason why the Chaos Dwarves would surrender such a potent machinery of destruction to the Goblin can only be guessed at.

"Hee hee hee!   Ka-boom!  Ka-boom!  This is gonna be Great!!"

Whatever the weapon's origin, it's destruction remains a top priority for the men and Dwarves of the Black River Country...