Siege of Hod’s Anvil, Part 5: The Forlorn Hope

He could no longer remember how long he had been down here. It could have been a day, a month a year…time and memory had devolved into fleeting, hazy things in the wake of all of the pain, the blood, and the screaming. At least, he knew there had been pain, because his entire body throbbed with raw, incessant agony, and every time it dulled, his captor found some way to make it return, hotter and sharper than before. He knew there had been blood because he smelled its familiar copper tang, and felt it awash across his naked form. And he knew there had been screaming, because his throat was hoarse and raw. Beyond that, the details of how, why, where, when and who escaped him.

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The Siege of Hod’s Anvil, Part 2: Ambush on Furion Road

c. Games Workshop

The column inched its way down Furion Road with a ponderous, methodical slowness, looking from a distance like some vast dun-red caterpillar crawling across the wasteland. Rows of red-robed Skitarii marched in unison through the ruins of old outpost towns, their steel-soled feet clanging dully against the centuries-old pavement, marching in perfect, synchronous lockstep. Long-limbed Ironstriders loped around the edges of the column, looking for all the world like the vigilant desert lizards scanning for prey, their gunners swivelling twin-barrelled autocannons against the horizon as their mind-impulse units took in thermal information. At the rear, larger quadrupedal walkers stomped along with a trundling, beetle-like gait, their arrays of weaponry aimed skyward. Hulking robots, their forms squat and bulbous, stomped along on a pre-programmed path, the blank visors covering their dome-like heads flickering every once in a while with an electromagnetic glimmer of mechanical awareness.

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Battle Report #7: Into the Breach- Sisters of Battle vs Orks

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.

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That moment…

…when you are assembling a beautiful third party mini that you intend to use as your army’s leader, when and you try to transport it for the first time…

…and the tip of the blade snaps off.

It’s just one of those days, it seems.