T-KoL Turn 7 (Mid Day)

Two reports in quick succession. It was my fault as I was a bit slack in getting the previous turn up on time. Anyway, here's the latest write up of our forays into the northern realms of Neame...

Bash pondered, "Alas, my hearing fades due to my toils as a campen… campo… camper. - Bell ringer! I would face those bats with my hearing of old as I could listen to their cries and use my Holy Magic to confuddle them into flying against each other. I have an almighty thirst to quench and will return to the well. I wonder if some brave soul will join me and vanquish the foes beyond Linkwood?"

Footsore and tired, Kenny the Fighter and Secundus the Mage arrived at the remote, mountain village of Cragganmore. They were greeted coldly with the suspicion-loaded glances of nervous crofters.
Secundus turned to Kenny, “I fear’ poor travelers such as we can expect little hospitality here.”
Kenny nodded solemnly and looked southwards to where, beyond the mountains an evil presence lurked.

With blood-bats fluttering high above them, Onan the Barbarian and Strepos the Ranger picked their way cautiously along the interweaving animal trails surrounding Grant’s Gibbet. The Ranger’s keen eyes flitted purposefully between the darting bats, but they were too high and flying too erratically to hazard an arrow and risk being helpless for even a moment.
With a crash, Black Tusk the boar burst from the bracken. An arrow whistling past his ear, Onan brought his broad axe-blade down, instantly covering his loins from the spite of the dark, savage tusks. The boar’s skull slammed hard against the stern steel, hurling both beast and barbarian tumbling apart with the shattering impact of the charge. Onan unharmed, rolled dizzily and thudded to a halt, his ears ringing, nay hissing with the shock. He looked up and then he realised. His eyes narrowed, for above him, its gaze cold, its long, needle-like fangs naked but for the shimmering jewels of burning venom, the snake drew back to strike. With a steel-spring crack, the deathblow came. Onan winced and twisted his dagger transfixing the serpent’s baleful jaws from the puncture in its soft under-scales to where the blade-point stood, stark as a crimson horn crowning its broken skull. The snake’s baleful eyes turned misty white and Onan’s arm was washed with a sudden gush of gelid blood.
The big snake was dead, but the fight was far from over.

T-KoL Turn 6 (Morning)

The Sun broke over the mountains, warming the night-chilled bones of Strepos the Ranger still standing his own sentinel on the high beam of Grant’s gibbet. He waited until the sun had climbed higher, banishing the shadows from the dusty ground way beneath his feet. He leapt down. Then rising to a crouch, he bid his silent companion goodbye and wary of wild animals, made his way north to where his services were direly needed.

As the rising sun cast fingers of gentle light through the branches, Bash the Cleric, with a hymn on his lips, was climbing the winding road through the Linkwood Forest. Soon he realised the chattering accompaniment of the woodland finches had ceased. Something malevolent lurked in the forest ahead. This time Bash was prepared. More cautiously, holding his staff before him, his voice still clearly cleaving the silence, he advanced.
A long howl echoed among the tree trunks and from each side the wild wolves charged. Driving his staff firmly into the ground, Bash calmly drew a small, glass flask from his rope belt. With the water within glittering like crystal in the sunlight, he gave a final blessing and threw the tiny vessel high into the air. The wolves, their tongues lolling hungrily, their teeth bared, bore down upon the lone cleric. Bash turned and bellowed, calling on the blessed power of all that is good and holy. Above him the glass shattered, spreading an opalescent mist, glistening like a thousand rainbows and falling in a kaleidoscopic cloud down through the outstretched branches as if through empty air, down upon the charging wolves. Instantly the wolves’ angry howls twisted, contorting to cries of agony, their eyes burning, their mouths foaming and their spines bending back further and further until their bones cracked and their screams fell to silence.
Bash the Cleric thanked the holy light and began the task of skinning his defeated foes for their valuable pelts.

Spitting in disgust, Onan the Barbarian gave up his search. The lone cutthroat could wait to become better acquainted with his axe, for in the valley below a more urgent meeting beckoned.
With the speed of a wild stallion, with the grace of a mountain cat, Onan raced towards the woe-beset village of Cragganmore. Sweating hard beneath his wolf pelts his rage began to stir, rising fast. His vision narrowed until the tawny hills shone angry red in his unfettered wrath, and at last, roaring like a frenzied lion, his steel claws drawn in fury, Onan the Barbarian pitched into the village, lusting for blood.
The goblins cursed, dropped their quarry and jumped clear to draw their barbed, serrated swords, when suddenly an arrow struck. A goblin screamed, clawing at the shaft impaling his black, bloody throat, its head dark with death. Already, running, Strepos the Ranger sent another shaft screeching through the death-laden air. Shocked, the goblins turned, but Onan, wracked with anger was upon them, his axe flaying wildly, cleaving, carving flesh and tearing bones clean from their sockets amidst a storm of arrows felling the feral night-brood struggling in a mass about him.
At last the last goblin fell, twice over fatally maimed. Onan tore his axe clear from the goblin’s arrow-skewered corpse. “By Frigg, we have done well here today!”
“In battle maybe,” replied Strepos, “but the pickings are meager, we have but one gold piece between us, here, you toss!”
Onan did the honours, but lost and the coin was returned to the ranger’s wiry hand.
Tia Maria, dishevelled but still the most comely of maids, stirred and cast her grateful eyes upon her heroic deliverers. The townsfolk rushed from their houses, cheering. Their gratitude was great, but not as great or as complete as that of the rescued wench.
“Phew!” exclaimed Strepos the Ranger, “and this morning I thought I’d only be roasting a boar!”

Bugman's Dwarf Rangers (HotT)

I still haven't got the varnish through, so I decided to put up pictures of some figures that I had sprayed before the can decided to go kaput. I had to sort out their bases (mdf with my usual basing materials), which are for Hordes of the Things. I still have two bases of Dwarf Rangers to complete - varnish and basing materials only - before moving onto more of my old Dwarf minis.

I have started work on a Citadel barbarian mini, along with a Ral Partha giant and a dozen or so Warlord Games' Celts. They should all be finished by next week provided the spray varnish shows up.

Alex's Warhammer Fighters

Alex painted these a few weeks ago but I have only just got round to photographing them and cropping them for the blog. They are doubles I have of some of the very earliest Citadel slotta-based Fighter range. I had bought them for fighting a few battles with a friend of mine from years back, but he went off and joined the army and I haven't seen him since!

I think Alex has done a very good job on these.

T-KoL Turn 5 (Night)

“My,” gasped Bash the Cleric, “This is thirsty work! Me thinks it is time I went to Dewar’s Well to quench the fire in my throat and collect water to bless!” Slowly he backed along the winding forest road, keeping the wolves at bay with his sturdy staff, until finally, where the trees thinned to bramble, he was beyond their dominion. They sat watching and as he turned the black hills echoed with their mocking howls.

“Hmm,” mused Secundus the Mage, “perhaps we should set out for Dewar's Well immediately. If the tree of us are unlucky enough to be ambushed,” he paused and ran his fingers through his lustrous beard, “for I predict Bash will prefer the risk of ambush in Dewar's Well to near certain death fighting wolves in the dark,” he watched the Blue Nunn relax once more, “we should be able to prevail and Tia Maria should not have to wait longer than necessary for our rescue party!”
Torchlight flared suddenly from the darkness deep behind Kenny the Fighter’s eyes, for the plight that awaited the maid of Cragganmore was not to him too distant from that which befell his dear sister. “To deliver salvation,” he attested, “is sweeter than to serve revenge, and revenge I aver, can wait!”
With that, the two men stood and with a blessing from the Blue Nunn speeding their departure, they left their cups and ventured into the night.

Limned in moonlight and agile as a cat, Sirrus the cutthroat crept through the tumbled, age-worn walls off Edradour. His eyes burning with malevolent fire were fixed on the broad-thewed back of Onan the Barbarian. Closer he crept, his long blade naked, glinting venomously in the moonlight. He thrust. Suddenly Onan turned, roaring, his own savage, off-hand dagger drawn. The knives clashed in the darkness, striking hot, fiery sparks, for an instant lighting the gloom with their angry cry. Thrown off guard, Sirrus had time only to tear his dagger free before the moon-caught edge of Onan’s axe swung ruthlessly down towards the footpad’s defenceless vitals. Swiftly Sirrus leapt clear, wincing as the broad blade fanned his skin through the fresh slash in his black worsted shirt. Cursing but unhurt he landed on his toes and seeing the raging black mass bearing down upon him, he leapt once more and fled into the darkness. The hunter was now the hunted and the wolves’ skins now far less in question than his own.

“Well I see,” uttered Strepos the Ranger “I have a fine range of monsters against me!” He was outnumbered and for once the darkness was not to be his friend. Hiding offered no escape. Swiftly he sent two arrows whistling into the black mass of blood-bats marring the moon. The arrows’ slight silhouettes traveled on, striking nothing. Strepos held the oath on his lips as he saw that they were not without effect. Maybe it was the blood he had not found time to wipe from the arrowheads, but what ever it was, the bats appeared confused, dipping and spiraling erratically. He watched waiting for their bafflement to subside, but it endured. He seized his chance. In two bounds he was at the base off the grim gibbet. He leapt once more, seizing the scaffold with both hands, swinging himself up high to the top of the bar. There he stood defiant, black against the moon.
“If this be my last fight,” he swore drawing back on his string, “let it be a mighty one! My bow shall sing and my blade shall drink deep!”
Though he feared the boar may charge the gibbet itself and throw him from his perch and the black snake could slither its way to its top, the ground around him was bare and offered no shelter from the doom he would rain down upon any foe that dared to cross his deadly domain.
Ever watchful, arrow strung, Strepos waited as the moon, without pity, edged slowly across the star emblazoned sky.

Bash the Cleric placed his tin cup down next to him on the wall of Dewar’s Well and gave a refreshed gasp. The water was good, cool and sweet.
Before long he saw two shapes approaching from the south. The moon soon revealed them to be Kenny the Fighter and Secundus the Mage. It was clear that they had seen him too.
A single voice cut through the silence, “Well met!”
The other two heroes groaned, for surely such poor humour should not be endured, even in trying times.