c. Games Workshop
“The False Emperor spread his corruption one hundred hundred years ago, tearing down the true idols amongst the stars. We are here to undo that wrong, make right the galaxy again. We shall sanctify the soil of Vigilus with the blood of the those who champion falsehood. We shall purify it’s cities of the Corpse-God’s lies, fill the hearts of the worthy with the Primordial Truth. We shall Crown this continent with the black of the void and in doing so consecrate this world in the name of my lord, Warmaster Ezekyle Abaddon, the Great Visionary. Fear not my friends, for you too may be in black and gold reborn.” – Dark Apostle Khaunt, First Confessor of the Masked Lord, shortly before the mass sacrifice at the base of a Noctilith Crown
So recently, my girlfriend and I decided to make a fearless foray into the frozen fracas that is Frostgrave (okay, I’ll stop). Two days ago, I played my first two games of Frostgrave. I had only had a small amount of time to skim over the quick rules summary, and barely knew what I was doing. As such, I went into both games looking to see them as a learning experience more than anything. Well, that, and to break out some of my old Lizardmen models that had been busy collecting dust since Warhammer Fantasy stopped being a thing.
c. Bethesda Softworks
Klaxons were blaring angrily all throughout Thule Omega district, accompanied by the customary, servitor-laden warnings for all civilians to stay in their homes. The entire district was going into lockdown, and patrols in the other districts were arming as well. At this rate, the whole bloody hive would be under martial law before long.
A few weeks ago, I got another game in with my Sisters of Battle. This time, it was against the same Blood Angels player whom I had fought a year or so ago in an Apocalypse game. I am never one to turn down a rematch, and so we agreed to a 2000 point game to test out the new bolter beta rules that had been printed in White Dwarf.
The skies above Dontoria Hivesprawl had been smothered in a blanket of thick smog for as long as anyone could remember. Biochemical effluent, manufactoria burnout, industrial exhalations and the smoke of thousands of unsanctioned sump-fires had long ago created a noxious shroud of yellow-brown pollution that settled like a second skin over the centuries, staining buildings and streets alike in yellow corrosion, seeping into ground, water and people’s lungs alike, and smothering away the sky and blotted out all natural light like a damp rag guttering out a candle. Entire generations of hive-crawlers had lived and died under the this blanket of smog, and in this way, the citizens of the Big Fug were oddly blessed, for they were shielded from the madness of the Cicatrix Maledictum in a way that the other hive-continents of Vigilus weren’t.
On this day, though, the drab brown sky was punctuated by fierce streaks of yellow as Ork warplanes and missiles streaked overhead.
So, recently I have started getting into Kill Team as an alternative to mainstream 40k. This is due to a number of reasons, the primary one being time: my schedule on weekdays is too tight to get a proper 40k game in, and I would much rather not carry my army case with me to and from the office on the TTC. Kill Team, on the other hand, is on so small a scale that I can easily carry a force (or two) with me in my backpack. My leanings towards Kill Team have been further reinforced by the fact that (1) my local game stores have been really getting into it lately, and (2) my girlfriend has expressed an interest in starting a Necron Kill Team.
c. Games Workshop Ltd.
Veteran Sergeant Amadeo leaned down and grabbed Tyrio by the wrist, hauling the Neophyte over the edge of the ruined hab’s second storey. Tyrio was always lagging behind his brothers, Amadeo noted, always falling to the rear in any operation or training session. For some reason, the young Astartes simply lacked the confidence his brothers found so natural, and this was an almost fatal flaw in a Space Marine. Tyrio must have been conscious of his Sergeant’s silent judgement, as Amadeo saw second-long flicker of humiliation cross the young man’s face before he hung his head and hurried over to the edge of the ruined windowsill, taking up an overwatch position on the grey ruins below. The roof to this place had long ago been torn open by Drukhari bombings, and filthy rainwater pattered down on them from the polluted sky above, spattering against Amadeo’s bare head unpleasantly.