(artwork by Games Workshop and Fantasy Flight Games)
“The lights are wrong,” said the voice on the vox recording, his voice laced with wisps of static. “I repeat, the lights are wrong.”
The vox message then looped back on itself, as it had been doing for the past fifty-two hours. Sergeant DeSane kept it playing on his armour’s internal vox system, so that his helm’s internal sensors could keep a lock on its source, even as he backed away from the airlock door. The floors and walls of the hallway were coated in a thick rime of frost, and the doors were frozen solid, glittering with a thick patina of ice. The environmental controls of this silo had failed, it seemed, at about the same time as contact had been lost.
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
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.
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.
Hod’s Anvil: an ugly name for an equally ugly planet, Khyrus Vythorex thought to himself as he looked at the image on the ghostlight sphere at the front of his ship’s bridge. The planet on the viewer was little more than a dull brown ball practically squatting in space, its surface punctured with the grey and gunmetal flecks of forge-complexes, cities and fortress, and its oceans were a similarly faded grey in colour. Only humans could live in a place so squalid and filthy, and it did not surprise Khyrus to learn that Hod’s Anvil was home to a population numbering in the billions. There would be no shortage of captives to drag back to the Kabal, he thought wryly.
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.