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Hello Dakka, this thread is about My and JJHellstruck's dive into the Necromunda hobby. We all enjoy the rich, overly detailed fluff of the 40k universe but found that purchesing a table and entire armies to be too financially overbearing. So we bought a table and an entire army worth of bits to use on something different; Necromunda. Wanting to do something different than the rank and file "Orlock vs. Goliaths" we and the other decided to make our own, unique gangs in our own hive and so on. So after many changes of direction I settled on a Scavvy "counts-as" gang of raiders and sadists (Not that the idea derives to much from the Scavvies to begin with). JJ, went with a Van Saar counts-as Ork gang and the other went with a boring, old, metal Delaque gang. So, without further ado, here's some WIPs.

Looking good dangledorf. Where's the corrugated paper from?

Thanks man, I picked it up at a place called Artmart. It's good stuff, a lot cheaper than corrugated plasticard, and a hell of a lot easier than stripping layers off of cardboard.

Looking good, going to watch this one for sure.

_

Welcome aboard jjhellstruck, the orks look great, and any target in the underhive is a good target .

Looks very promising. I like the Raider gang. The terrain also looks very characterfull.

Consider me subbed.

Hey guys, I havn't been able to get to my little men and it's killing me. So, here's some fluff I wrote to tide myself over.


Crowe cocked his head back and gulped down the remainder of the bitter, fiery drink before slamming it onto the splintering bar-top with a loud crack. "Shroom Rum" was his favorite drink, and he had finished his third pint before sliding the tattered and greasy collection of 3 bills across the counter to Mace. Mace was a jovial old bartender that had the habit of putting a Manstopper into the ceiling when bar fight got too rowdy, and jumping in them when they weren't rowdy enough. Crowe enjoyed Mace's company, but it was the time to stumble back to his shack when he had to fight back the hot pulses of vomit rising in the back of his throat. As he wearily strided to the metal door of the tavern, he stopped and scanned the room. Boastful, young adventurers spat loudly to each other stories of sexual conquests and wildly exaggerated tales of nearly lost battles against monsters, raiders, and mutants. This made him smile. There was a time when Crowe considered himself a Ganger. He fought, scavenged, and nearly died a dozen times shoulder to shoulder with comrades closer than brothers. Crowe was old by the Hive's standards; and many of those brothers were long dead now. He gave a raspy laugh to himself before walking out the scrap-metal door whose rusty hinges made a tiny, tortured scream as he pushed it open. He gazed across the settlement. Wahrzen was a quaint little town, a tiny beacon of civilization in the twisted jungle of ferrocrete, steel, and massive pillars of machinery. Down here, near the crater life was sparse save the rats and mushrooms. Here; life was lawless and often a bloody struggle. Between mutants, raiders, greenskins and the horrors of The Krag, life was hardest on the termination shock of of the ash dunes that made up the crater that the hive was built on top of. Crowe felt a rush of heat entering his mouth, and with a long spew of vomit he lost his internal battle. He wiped his mouth and turned his head in response to the loud, guttural cackle of Dag; the Greenskin bouncer. "'Ave a lil' too much 'uld man?" he spat before laughing again. Like the other greens, He was a giant compared to a human. His dark, almost brown skin was tattooed up and down, and covered in scars and cuts. Crowe made a friendly nod as he flipped his middle digit to Dag before stumbling down the ash road towards his shack. He slumped down on the metal chair outside his abode and began to inspect his weapon. Crowe steadied his vision to a figure clambering down the town's scrap wall. Soon, two more leaped over the wall, clad in dirty rags and clutching improvised weapons in they're filthy hands. Without hesitation, Crowe raised his autogun and expelled a loud, fiery burst at the small party of strangers. As the rounds sliced through one of the figures the others began an animalistic sprint towards Crowe. He let off another long spew of burst that threw him rolling off of his chair and sent another one of the ragged assailants tumbling across the road. Crowe bounded off of the ground to meet the third, who was swinging a rusty chain in long arc towards the old man. With a loud crack and tingle, it smacked the rifle out of Crowe's hands. The brigand began to laugh as he raised his chain for another strike, but his head exploded into a meaty chunks followed by a crimson fountain of blood. Crowe, wiping the gore off of his face looked towards the gate adjacent to the bar. Mace nodded towards Crowe just before a firebomb smashed into his back, coating him in flame and sending him to the ground; twisting and writhing in pain. More raiders were pouring in. The ear-splitting bangs of exploding grenades sent jolts of pain into Crowe's skull with a screaming ring clouding out all perceivable sound. He dropped to his knees and clutched his ears to keep the quiet the deafening roar of battle at a manageable level. The world was nothing but a blur and screaming ring, as he watched the hoard cutting the hivers and guards to pieces. He looked in horror as one of the raiders released a group of chained up rotters onto a injured guard; hungrily ripping into his chest and pulled him apart. The horde split, each group a pack of wolves, shooting, and cutting, and beating anything that moved. Crowe pulled himself to his feet only to fall down again, it seemed like all he could do was watch as the mob slaughtered the hivers. In the space of minutes they butchered the town's populace, and had begun the mad dash of looting. They began tearing apart shacks, burning everything as they did it. The frenzied horde turned the quiet town into an orgy of violence and greedy pillaging, ruthlessly cutting down anybody who bared resistance, carrying off the weak, and destroying everything of value. Crowe looked at his shaking hands, before seeing a pair of wrapped feet appear before him. They connected towards a tattered robe that in turn lead to a masked face and a burning set of eyes. Crowe didn't feel the massive axe bluntly chop into his head.

_

Spiked club is an excellent choice of weapon, nice and brutal. But the guy with a bear trap on his head is perfect .

Got more pictures of my Scavvies. All are still works in progress, so much greenstuffing and painting to be done.

Thank you all for the kind words so far. I still have a lot of modelling to do before the gang is all finished and this thread is helping the group's motivation a lot so far.