Hund of the Morraine

(All Them Witches)

In the hither Northwest, where mountain hames perch 'midst the bluffs of the groaning vale, and the trails are marked by cairns of unknown heritage, there are some who insist that not all stones are as they seem.

These are regarded by their neighbors as—at best—eccentric. Ever are they moonlight-rambling up the trails and passes with leathern satchels of bizarre tools: tiny hammers, calipers, bits of colored chalk.

When happens a likely-looking boulder, these instruments they will use to tickle and to prod the belly of the stone. If one were to ask, for instance, 'Dear Rooblin, why is it that you so vex the stones?' He might reply: 'because this stone, THIS stone is just pretending.

'At it's heart is the wily soul of a primeval beast, forefathers of the hund, or the geit, or the ochse, that was deposited here when the world was but an icy thought in the mind of god...'

And here will they become pensive, perhaps winding and unwinding the handle of their tiny chisel in the tangles of their beard. 'I could show you...if I could but make the creature pay heed. Many is the time that I've seen a stone rouse into the form of a many-hornéd beast and slake itself at the lip of a black mountain tarn...' 

Slagscape Conservation Collective

A picture-heavy post today showing the progression of my Nuclear Renaissance warband, the Slagscape Conservation Collective. 

My initial idea was that they are some kind of weird anarcho-primitivist cell that is utterly, fanatically devoted to the preservation of the molten, blasted wastelands of their home planet.

...more on that later, probably. Above and below you can see the figures all undershaded in grayscale, in preparation for glazes and inks.

I have to say that I really love this ApeX figure from the Reaper Bones line. So goofy and delightful.

In the background you can see the soupy, orangey inks applied to the bases. That's a soil composition unique to the slagscape. Rust colored. Mildly radioactive. Natural beauty.

Here I'm starting to do the skintones. This is a time-consuming but necessary step since the dry-brushing undercoat method does not make fro realistic skin.

Hard Joe Grubber

Once that's done, though, everything else moves pretty quickly, as a thin glaze or two on each area provides just enough tint to the undercoat to color it, while still retaining all of the highlights. This gives kind of a soft and warm old skool effect that I adore.

Emma Roadburn

Graf Moxxie

Mach Grezza

The above figure from Reaper cost like 7 bucks, but I could not resist. A spec-ops style armadillo man? Brilliant! I didn't like his little microphone much though, so I painted it up as a little cigar. He's pretty hardbitten, for an armadillo.

Lucy Havoc

Janx Moogin

Sprightly Jiles, Stunbrella Duelist

The Brain of Dr. Parcival Blythe, in the labotomized body of a Gorilla

What do you like most about the Slagscape? The pristine floes of molten metal? The hills of lovely and steaming cinder? The geysers of amonia that arc so prettily in the dying sunlight? Let me know in the comments below.

Glimmergulch

In radiance set the sun, pursued at a careful distance by the pinkish mist that obliterated cairn and chasm even in their moment of crepuscular glory. The only thing exempt from the forgetfulness of dusk was the hunched but significant figure of a man as he sat on the brow of a knoll above the fog, tending the nascent curl of a campfire, his back against the stump of a wasted tree.

To this prominent figure, as to a beacon, young Soupcrumb made his way along the sodden track. He was hungry and tired, and his feet were scraped and raw. There was black mud between his toes.

Soupcrumb crawled into the fire's gathering radiance without remark, but without bothering to hide either. For a while the huge man did not seem to notice his presence, but at last he broke the silence with a not unfriendly grunt: "And what finds you here, little waif? Fey thing, are you? Come out of the mist to play my eyes for fools? Some Spinney-scamp come to lead me into a depthy swale?” The question did not seem serious to Soupcrumb. It was as though the big man had been expecting him, and that his surprise was some ineffable kind of joke.

Soupcrumb was not scared, and the big man seemed to notice this. “My name is Glimmergulch, boy. Now tell me why you soil my fireside.”

At last Soupcrumb spoke: "No Spinney-scamp am I, though as much I may become. I was a Skeldkryk farmer's son. But I stole away. Raising cabbages is a shit life, and my Pa's a cruel arse. I set fire to his shed and then I ran."

There was a voluminous pouch by the Glimmergulch’s side, partially concealed in the many hides which he wore draped about him. Shifting the stave that protruded from its mouth, he produced a crust of dark bread and an ale skin, which he offered to Soupcrumb. The boy filled himself eagerly.

Glimmergulch scratched his copious whiskers as he watched the boy drink. "So you are here now, and hoping your Pa will forget about you. There are many such in these parts. Mark me boy!" Soupcrumb looked dizzily up from his meal, for the ale had been strong and it clouded his wits. As his eyes climbed, the giant shifted aside his great hide cloak to reveal a polished gut-plate of a somnolent emerald luster and the size of a well cover. A black spiral was cunningly inlaid into the lacquer, and it seemed to Soupcrumb that this spiral traversed an incomprehensible dimension. His jaw grew slack. He was aware--faintly--that the man was speaking.

"My name may be Glimmergulch, thing, but none call me that anymore. What they call me, when they remember to call me anything, is the Overlooked. I know what it's like to be well and truly forgotten. You see, even you've forgotten me.” The clod released a low chuckle. Soupcrumb’s head bobbed in hypnotized time with the motion of his diaphragm. “I saw you but yesterday morning. I saw your Da' take up the thresher. He saw me too, which is what stayed his ire. But he doesn’t remember me either. I handed you the torch that kindled your Da's shed, do you not remember you miserable child? Of course not. None remember me. But you remembered where I told you to find me, though you hardly knew it. And now you'll never have to see your mean old Da' again."

The unfortunate boy finally collapsed in a heap by the cold embers of the fire. The night had already passed away, not wishing to linger on such a scene. From Glimmergulch’s pouch came a tittering. He withdrew the wooden stave which was his cudgel and It winked and gibbered at him. " More fuel for the fire, eh Glim? A tasty morsel you've won tonight," it sang. " Do let me crack his eggbasket, do."

"Nay twig. This one's to be laid by, for I have on the morrow to bargain with Toads, and they like their currency fresh."

“Tender! Tender tender for the toads,” giggled his cudgel.

Glimmergulch swept the unconscious Soupcrumb into his sack with the crook of a massive elbow, and swung it over his shoulder as he began slowly to plod down the cold little hill. Around him the dawn gathered and the mist began to disperse, revealing the faint outlines of berms and barrows like the traces of a haunting memory.

The Tainted Thegn, Fulgid Glim

The Tainted Thegn is come again, he sweeps South to the fulgent lands.

All his reign is knavery; a tide of blood is in his hands.

In all the years we've not seen one who shined as bright as him

when stood at the gates while Helmrood burned...

...and sang, did Fulgid Glim.

Ditherprank & Gorespindle

Gorespindle

A sharp wind riding through the dell,

Horse's mane enmeshed with bells,

Whose deepest heart's a greedy hell,

That bitter villain Gorespindle

Ditherprank and the Faithful Mute

"I'm Ditherprank and I've endentured this mute--

with promises of an enchanted flute--

"To carry around my imprisoning skull,

which, when bound to the earth, can be ever so dull"

Thjornig Marrow

When Thjornig Redmane touched his axe

A vision passed before his eyes.

He saw not how, nor when, nor why,

But he knew that he would die

Drowned in a black fen, left to lie

Until the worms crawled out his eyes...

When Thjornig Marrow rides to war,

There comes a sorrow to his eyes

to see his foes, to list' their cries,

For they know not that they will die

where in the mud they're left ot lie.

...Oh how they wish they wouldn't die.

Ullidge Brood

Their throats will crack, the crows will feast

in paean to our kindly beast.

We'll make them crawl, we'll make them sing

and praise the many-eyed, mumbling thing.

I hold it now, like Krell before.

I hold this flag till I am sore.

The staff is rough, it's splinters sting.

I hate the many-eyed mumbling thing.