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Here are some quicksculpted pieces to decorate the terrain of Kuthuvudets pappa, alias Eisenhans. Sculpted in his home, because slave raids is a tradition that is alive and kicking in these parts of Scandinavia. Albeit they use cars instead of longships these days. The items include dolls, flasks, trophy heads, clocks, technical gadgets, icons for household altars and dried food hanging on the wall.
Plus some youngblood heads for juve warrior conversions.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2022/12/18 11:03:53
"Salve. Colonel general Károly von Pflanzer-Nádas, commander of the Imperial and Royal Astro-Ungarian LXXXIII. Army Corps, noble servant of the Duarchy and officer of His Divine Majesty's Astra Militarum?"
"Correct, protasekretius. Explain this ill-uniformed commotion at once! What is this armed rabble you have dragged in?"
"As per the filed request of general Kaspar Klausner-Varešanin of the Imperial and Royal Astro-Ungarian 973rd infantry division, under your august command no less, in the fullness of time this entire regiment of replacements has been transported and assigned to your Corps, colonel general. You are called upon to sign this reinforcement acquisition form in quadruplicate and imprint your signet ring in hot wax on each parchment copy to satisfy Departmento Munitorum protocol, colonel general."
"Replacements! Those are clearly offworlders, and filthy ones at that, protasekretius. Is this a form of joke?"
"The Departmento Munitorum do not administer wit, colonel general. That is outside our jurisdiction and permit. And strictly against Adeptus regulations, for the record. Last notary in the armaments requisition bureau to voice an ill-opportune quip of blasphemous nature was sentenced to death by a thousand paper cuts at the hands of his colleagues, though I am informed that the execution of said sentence required closer to seven thousand administered cuts by paper edges to achieve the desired lethal outcome. Nevertheless, justice was served, for thus perish the wicked. Thus to your question the answer is a negative, colonel general. These are your assigned reinforcements."
"But check their homeworld, man! Are my Corps to become some ad hoc jumbled-together mess of forces from all over the Segmentum? Things are surely not yet that dire. Protasekretius, I refuse to believe that this tanned and slovenly riffraff could possibly have hailed from my dear Astro-Ungaria."
"Objection duly noted, colonel general. The documentation states without doubt that this force, the 44th regiment of infantry, originates from your planet of Strayah-Ungaria, colonel general."
"Surely you mean Astro-Ungaria, protasekretius?"
"Strayah-Ungaria it is, being a legitimate variant spelling, colonel general."
"I am aghast, protasekretius! You offend the honour of my homeworld. If you were a man of action I would challenge you to a duel on the spot. Or drink you under the table. Indeed!"
"Take heed, colonel general! The writing do not lie, for it stands here in black on white, as true as the Emperor's holy light, colonel general. It is an indisputable fact, colonel general. The Departmento Munitorum cannot object to every misspelt name, wording error and quaint variant spelling out of dialect and individual excentricity produced by the milling herd of plebs and august nobles, colonel general. Unforgiving penalties may apply to such writing mistakes for us Imperial servants within the Adeptus Administratum, yes! Yet the herd of semi-illiterate subjects which it is our responsibility to administer can not be scrutinized and penalized thusly, colonel general."
"What-"
"And as to the topic of misspelling in particular and indecent paperwork in general, then by the God-Emperor of Holy Terra as my hallowed witness do I swear that you Strayah-Ungarians have proven a poorly organized asset to the Imperium, with sloppy spelling and wild variations in naming conventions all over the desk! Your scattershot misnamings and filing havoc are almost as bad as your casualty rate, by the Emperor's teeth! This is the truth and pardon the spittle, colonel general. If your ilk kept your writ in as fine an order as you do your starched uniforms and waxed moustaches, then by the saints would there be rigour and order in the buraeux whenever your parchments show up in the tray, colonel general!"
"In that case I will grudgingly sign, seal and file a formal complaint, protasekretius."
"Complaint denied, colonel general. Proper equipment for undertaking a ritual procedure of formal complaint is not present in our field cabinet and can not be retrieved in time within the next eighteen Terran hours due to fuel shortages and signal breakdowns, colonel general. Your complaint will as such expire unanswered, and thus no ink will be shed over it as per the statutes of the Parchment Savings Decree of 912.M41, paragraph § 47, colonel general."
"Enough of this rigmarole! Begone from my sight you maggot-suckling scrivener! Hand me the papers and let us be done with it, protasekretius."
"In His name."
"The hell it is! As to you, colonel Jezza Joe, fate would have it that you are to serve and die alongside the Emperor's finest soldiery here on the Ligurian front. Indeed. We are the Duarch's very own Astro-Ungarian Imperial Guardsmen of the LXXXIII. Army Corps. Consider it an honour, colonel. Pray often, wash regularly, carry yourself with upright dignity and obey your superiors without question at all times. Welcome, colonel. Ave Imperator!"
"G'day mate. From Strayah with love like a fething wocker, cur'nt gen. For the Empie!"
- Anecdote from Marija Svoboda's autobiography Through Eyes of Aide-de-Camp, literary work approved by planetary censors in 942.M41 and published in Low Gothic on Astro-Ungaria by Printing House Ginzkey of Hive Zweidorf
In the grim darkness of the far future, ignorance informs imagination.
Behold! The Imperium of Man. The defender of our species. An empire of a million worlds and countless voidholms, the Imperium of Holy Terra and Mars stretches thin across the galaxy. Besieged by aliens and monsters, it is beset from within by rebels and worse. For ten thousand years has this rotting edifice of human limitations endured, in the name of a silent Emperor.
For all the resilience and rebounding might of the beleaguered Imperium, the true state of human affairs in the Age of Imperium is not to be sought amid heroics and brilliant deeds, nor among miracles and lives of bottomless faith. Nay, instead let us brush aside the propaganda and the stories Imperials tell themselves, to look instead with open eyes on what the Imperium is, and what it can never become.
The Age of Imperium for humanity is characterized first and foremost by wasted potential. The golden pinnacles of cunning knowledge and plenty that was the Dark Age of Technology came crashing down in a calamity that nigh on wiped the human species from the stars. Its scattered remnants for the large part persisted as utter savages among the ruins, in the shape of cannibal tribes ferociously raiding each other and looting the scraps left over from the failed promises of better times. Man slew man, and woman harrowed woman, and child strangled child during the fathomless desperation of Old Night. And all was fell.
The Imperium began as a promise of rebirth, an iron fist crushing all opposition to both establish cruel unity and grasp for a better future. Yet the renaissance brought about by the Emperor of Man and His all-conquering Legions was but a gasp of a few centuries. Dazzling were their conquests, and impressive was their restoration of human fortunes across the Milky Way galaxy. Yet for all the shining works, recovered knowledge and real hope of the early Imperium, this ruthless colossus of war and subjugation sowed the seeds of human doom. Granted, the gargantuan civil war of the Horus Heresy destroyed much precious tech-lore and scarred the Imperium forever, yet even the fratricidal rage and maniac killing during the Horus Heresy paled in comparison to the smaller wars of greater consequence that the infighting Legions had already waged during the Great Crusade.
For the early Imperium did not only bring feral survivors and scavengers into the Terran fold, but it did also brook no competition. In the long run, the worst crimes of the Great Crusade was the brutal annihilation of all alternative sources of human regrowth, gathering all future paths for humanity across the stars to converge on the one road leading from Terra unto damnation. Such advanced human civilizations as the Interex, the Olamic Quietude, the Diasporex and the Auretian Technocracy were all stamped out by His Legionnaires. The seeds of these interstellar cultures were never allowed to grow and spread and shape the fate of mankind across the galaxy in competing power blocs. Thus was the destiny of all humanity bound to that of resurgent Terra by strangling her daughters in the cradle.
The immense physical might and quantity of forces available to the High Lords of Holy Terra should not be allowed to mislead us from the real state of affairs of mankind, for the truth of the matter is that the children of Old Earth during the Age of Imperium has sunk into an irreversible death spiral, where quests for knowledge mean only digging up the technological fossils of brighter ancestors, and never the toil and ingenuity of innovation and discovery. In this morass of ever-worsening demechanization, suffocating bureaucracy, frothing fanaticism and schreeching inefficiency, dysfunctionality is king, and the worsening of all mankind is his command.
Here, in a fortified madhouse straddling the stars, the last strong guardian of humanity is also its insane captor and hostage-taker. Here, in a demented cosmic realm worshipping human primacy, human power in the Milky Way galaxy has undergone a baleful decline through fivehundred generations of wasted development on a million worlds and innumerable voidholms, all under the aegis of the Adeptus Terra. Here, in the monstrous tyranny and bane of innovation and scientific rediscovery known as the Imperium of Man, will you be able to find every self-deprecating absurdity imaginable to mortals, as the fundamental mood of the human species has soured to a dull bitterness spiked with hatred, even as its faculties has boiled over in a fever pitch of savage zealotry and self-righteous bloodletting.
And so blessed machines designed by clever ancients will fail, and eventually no one will remain who can repair or build the lost machines anew. Where machines fail, flesh and will must pick up the slack. Where machines break down, men and beasts must heave and pull for all that they are worth. The Imperium can never become a pinnacle of human achievement and genius invention in the fields of science and technology, for it has shunned that which makes man truly great in the world, clinging instead to parochial superstition and the wreckage of bygone makers.
One example of this demechanization and reliance on throwing bodies on a problem can be glimpsed on the planet of Astro-Ungaria, where a peculiar solution to a lack of mobile heavy firepower has seen parody become reality, in the form of heavy weapon horse teams.
Let us glance on Astro-Ungaria, a civilized human world of majestic rivers, great mountain ranges and an endless tide of squabbling tribes and sects. Predominantly of a Catholodox persuasion within the Cult Imperialis, this world of misery and splendour is ruled by the mediocre potentate titled the Duarch, a Planetary Governor of an ancient dynasty who reigns over the Imperial and Royal domains of Astro-Ungaria for the sake of the dear homeworld and Holy Terra alike. The Duarchy is characterized by internal strife held together by ancestral loyalty to the ruling house, and faith in His Divine Majesty. All of the Astro-Ungarian military is chronically underfunded, and has gained a reputation for widespread incompetence, constant shortages, stulted leadership and screeching dysfunctionality, all of which is barely held together by a mass of manpower, solid infantry marksmanship and excellent artillery.
The aristocratic officers of the Astro-Ungarian military are renowned for their splendid banquets and parties, with fine chocolates and waltzes accompanying wonderful dresses and uniforms seen gliding over polished dance floors. Indeed, a great many Astro-Ungarian officers tend to act like characters out of operettas, putting great stock in their lineage and standing among peers as well as in their physical appearance and pleasant conduct at social events, while paying less attention to the operational arts of militaria. Do you suppose that the Astro-Ungarians will be as brave in war as they are licentious in peace? A sinspeech whisper joke that refuse to die continues to claim that Astro-Ungarian colonels will be more concerned with winning the next card game than the next battle on the frontline. Likewise, other banned jokes remark upon the ability of officers to always acquire fine liquour, no matter the dire straits of shortage or encirclement by the foe. The officer's mess cannot be allowed to disgrace the honour of the homeworld, even when Astro-Ungarian soldiers have to dig up old mass graves to scavenge uniforms off the rotting corpses of their fallen comrades.
The logistical malperformance and organizational chaos of most Astro-Ungarian regiments within the Imperial Guard tend to be matched by their wasteful and rigid approach to war, carried aloft at bayonet point by an unbreakably optimistic spirit, faith in the offensive and the dreams of grand sweeping battle plans hatched by a noble general staff that does not possess the equipment and trained forces necessary to carry out their overly ambitious visions of glorious offensives. Indeed, the Astro-Ungarian Planetary Defence Force and Imperial Guard could very well have been strong armies, if given sufficient funding and vastly increased mechanized forces. Instead, the haphazard force structure of Astro-Ungarian units tend to revolve around massed infantry, a love of cavalry and a good artillery corps which often end up carrying the rest of the Astro-Ungarian army on its back.
The better trained soldiers of the Death Korps of Krieg have repeatedly concluded that fighting alongside Astro-Ungaria is akin to being chained to a corpse. It is an overly harsh judgement, but nevertheless an exaggeration built upon truth. The corruption, ineptitude and lacklustre performance of Astro-Ungarian regiments within the Astra Militarum has been repeatedly noted by the Departmento Munitorum, yet ultimately Astro-Ungaria provides plenty of loyal and valiant manpower, while the shoddy combat record of its Imperial Guard forces is nothing out of the ordinary compared to a majority of Imperial worlds and voidholms, once the facade of Imperial invincibility is seen for what it is. And so the farce that is Astro-Ungaria at war continues to waltz on, to the tune of great bombardment.
The underfunded nature of Astro-Ungaria's soldiery means that they will be fine for parades, with military orchestras of the highest calibre, yet their more sophisticated equipment will always be sorely lacking. One example of an attempted solution can be seen in the crude arrangement known as the heavy weapon horse teams, which combines a love of horses with an undying military optimism ill suited for the reality of advanced warfare.
The phenomenon of heavy weapon horse is not just that of one or more pack-horses carrying a disassembled piece of heavy weaponry. It is instead a seemingly logical evolution of pack horses carrying around heavy weapons, which grants mobility in the field and makes away with the trouble of unloading and assembling the heavy weapon by instead attaching it fully assembled to the horse, to be fired virtually on the move if so desired. The use of heavy weapon horse teams originated in cavalry heavy stubber units after the Age of Apostasy in order to make up for a lack of light vehicles, but has long since spread to a fair number of infantry and dragoon regiments.
There is something to be said for horses, no matter their innumerable drawbacks compared to machines. The horse is an organic walker adapted for rough terrain. Such equine transport requires no fuel, and in lush landscapes the beasts of burden may prove self-feeding. Even so, the tradition of using horses as hooved weapon platforms amounts to a maladaptation, even a blunder, yet such crude fixes through rudimentary means are only growing more common across His astral dominion.
The horses used for carrying heavy weapons will usually be immensely strong Ungarian draft horses, descended from small breeds favoured by feral steppe nomads during the Age of Strife. The Ungarian draft horse is not a gorgeous and agile Viepizzaner breed by any means, but a stout workhorse favoured by agri-serfs and robotniks in mountainous regions. No matter the continent and region from which they hail, all Astro-Ungarians take pride in their horses, and their regiment tend to sport a great number of horses for logistic duties.
Heavy weapon horse teams will invariably sport spare horses to allow for shifts of rest by switching over the heavy weapons between horses, and likewise there will be pack-horses to carry ammunition and spare parts. A lack of horses for spares and ammunition transport will result in officers arranging for conscripts and press-ganged menial civilian thralls to pick up the burden usually shouldered by strong horses, thus producing the sight of flocks of human porters lugging around heavy weapons adapted for equines to carry.
Hard to hide, heavy weapon horses are trained to lie down on command, and they are likewise drilled to walk into a hail of fire when prodded. It is rarely worthwhile to armour the horses, given the heavy loads that they already carry, and thus the fine beasts will be completely exposed to all the lethal dangers of the battlefield. Heavy weapon horses are trained to be accustomed to the noise of battle, and they often turn deaf from the din, and sometimes they turn more or less blind by flashes from energy weapons. Crafty crew may occasionally fashion blinders and dampeners for the eyes and ears of their horses, yet such kit for creature comfort is not regulation standard within the Guard.
Some Astro-Ungarian units sport strange, alien mounts and draft animals, all of which are used alongside horses for heavy weapon carrying duties. Aside from horses, other Terran-derived beasts of burden include mules and camels.
Many Astro-Ungarian regiments have seen their Sentinel scout units replaced by unwieldy heavy weapon horse, in a dysfunctional cutback which makes sense on paper. After all, both cavalry and Sentinel walkers are used as scouts since horses are fast, right? And the Sentinel is armed with a heavy weapon, correct? Thus, a horse with a heavy weapon equals the function of a Sentinel in an Imperial Guard order of battle, but has the advantage of being much cheaper, being able to replenish its own numbers to some extent and being able to feed off many kinds of vegetation for refueling. Therefore, a heavy weapon horse can fill a Sentinel's role, according to certain myopic bean-counters in the Deptartmento Munitorum, who will wave off the problem of the heavy weaponry burden considerably slowing down the horse.
Occasionally, heavy bolters with their short barrels will shoot off the reins of the carrying horse, to speak nothing of bloody accidents involving heavy bolters and scared horses throwing their heads into the line of fire.
Horse mortars, on the other hand, tend to sport flimsy support legs to save the horse from the worst excesses of recoil, but the tight requirements for ease of mass manufacture and the ever-worsening Imperial tendency for retardation of equipment quality means that mortar horses will invariably suffer horrendous back injuries, unless the crew take rare pity on their loyal beast and goes through the trouble of unloading the mortar to be fired on the ground instead of from horseback. Such kindness is extremely hard to find amid the traumatized cruelty that reigns supreme across all human cultures in the Age of Imperium, for evil begets evil. A rare few mortar horses will be fortunate enough to have bionics implanted into their spines and legs, yet such enchancements through technology is usually seen as an unnecessary extravagant lavishment upon a mass of meat that will soon be consumed in the flames of war anyway, just like the rank and file soldiers who will soon need to be replaced due to heavy attrition. Better be frugal instead.
The use of heavy weapon horse teams in the field have proven an inefficient employment of resources, yet even flawed approaches may sometimes yield results no matter how underperforming, and sometimes the weakness of a doctrine may be hidden among the titanic casualties in offensives that cost hundreds of millions of lives. What is one more waste of life and material amid a mountain of corpses and vehicle wrecks? And with so many outlandish regiments with wildly varying combat doctrines and equipment, why should the heavy weapon horse be singled out as particularly problematic when other regiments charge into battle wielding dual swords?
Ultimately, heavy weapon horse teams have for the most part proven a debilitating and atavistic part of warfare across the Milky Way galaxy. Sometimes, such as in forested terrain with the element of surprise being on the Imperial side, heavy weapon horse has bitten hard and kicked well, yet more often than not their contribution to battle may be found in the rotting cadavers of equines, the scrap remains of equipment and the torn corpses of soldiers strewn across battlefields under strange skies. Yet to their callous overlords and dominas, Imperial subjects and horses are nothing but faceless numbers in a broken equation of increased input to feed the meatgrinder. It may be abominable, yes, but who will even care?
And so ever-more primitive solutions will be found for problems caused by the senility and sclerosis of a demented interstellar civilization that amounts to a sinking ship. Where machines have decreased, the increased use of warm bodies must compensate for the loss of mechanical capabilities. Thus the heavy weapon horse phenomenon is just one of endless other examples of technological regression and debasement of knowledge, that slowly grinds away all the wonder that ancient man ever achieved across the stars in his time of power and wisdom. Eventually, his degenerate descendants will succumb to their retrograde ways, for the etiolation of technology has robbed mankind of any chance whatsoever to survive the overwhelming tide of horrors about to drag our species into oblivion.
Man may be a creature of unbounded potential, yet the cosmic dominion that he has fashioned in the name of an undying god has effectively drained all potential dry, leaving nothing but a crumbling husk where once ancient man boldly reached for the stars and stood on the cusp of unlocking the secrets of creation self. All that is left, is inept rage.
And so the heinous cruelty that man is capable of in the Age of Imperium is matched only by the dilapidation of knowledge and technology, upon which all of man's future hopes rest.
Such is the depravity of our species, on the brink of doom.
Such is the fate of mankind, in a time beyond salvation.
Such is the end that awaits us all.
It is the fortyfirst millennium, and there is only shortcoming.
- - -
Astro-Ungarian Heavy Weapon Horse Teams
Inspired by this photograph of a pack-horse from an Austro-Hungarian cavalry machine gun detachment, my brother proposed that my friend JAB could have heavy weapons all mounted on horses. And not just as pack-horses to move the heavy weaponry around to then unpack and assemble on the ground, no. But as mobile tactical horse heavy weapon teams. After ordering 28mm historical pack-horses, drilling and pinning a lot, the result turned out ludicrous with the bulky Warhammer 40'000 Imperial Guard lascannon and autocannon on the obviously very strong workhorses.
Still, my plan for the mortar team was to have a pack-horse standing to the side, with a mortar assembled on the ground. The impact of a mortar recoil right into a horse's back was too crazy for me to wrap my head around. Yet my brother persevered, and insisted that I just mount the mortar on top of the horse, and perhaps add a pair of flimsy metal support legs or hindleg bionics as a cheap and shoddy excuse for animal maltreatment of the highest order. Hesitant to go all the way, at first I did drill holes into the pack-horse to have a tall air mine launcher (luftminenwerfer) standing on the ground, straddling the horse without actually punching into its back with the full force of mortar recoil. Alas, my brother found my faith lacking, and finally convinced me to go all the way. Thus his vision for the painful mortar horse became a miniature reality at last, although he thought the addition of a second pair of support legs was too advanced and costly to fit his cheap bonkers parody idea.
The legged mortar piece itself took some work, but was great fun to build. Note all the rivets and small details scattered about it, ready to fall off as you handle the model in games in the future. This was staunchly prevented by carefully smearing super glue in a thin layer over and around all such exposed and vulnerable details, taking care not to let super glue build up lumps. The tool used was a lot of tiny strips of ripped newspaper. Take note of this method of reinforcing by super glue for your own handsculpted details on converted miniatures, but do avoid it for sculpts intended for casting.
As to the bases of the heavy weapon horse teams, I sacrificed a lot of green stuff to hide the moulded bases of the metal horses. In many otherwise excellent historical miniature armies out there, the moulded bases are clearly visible around feet and hooves, despite flock, sand and modelling grass trying to hide them. Even when hobbyists have gone to the trouble to fill out the edges of the moulded base with modelling putty or filler, many other hobbyists can often spot the mound that just so happens to be placed under the feet or hooves, all across the army. In order to combat such an impression of artificiality, I applied green stuff generously over the base to create a random spread of lumps. Hopefully it will work out fine after painting.
I barely tinkered with the poses of the crewmen. The old Cadian heavy weapon teams have some decent but limiting poses for arms. I pondered cutting up arms and hands and remodelling many of the limbs for a more lifelike impression of a heavy wepon team at work, but ultimately I decided against it for the sake of speed. My friend JAB hopes to use his Astro-Ungarians for a tournament in the autumn of 2023, so better go for mass over individual quality. All crewmen were pinned onto their bases, since nothing must be allowed to go missing should the model be dropped by accident in the future. Make it durable like a Dwarf! I mean Squat. I mean Kin. Despite the model in question being a mere frail manling, and not a stout and rotund creature approaching a perfect sphere in bodily proportions.
Flora and fauna was sculpted onto the bases to fill out the empty space. The lifeforms were made slightly alien, but nothing fancy. Again, the aim was speed, not complex layers upon layers of details. The tendril plants were made by twisting thin wire, pinning the foot into the base and shaping the loose branches. The entire organism was then covered with super glue and dosed with baking powder. Details were sculpted, such as the drip ends on the tendrils. These were then given a strengthening cover with super glue applied with bits of paper to ensure they may never fall off the model no matter the wear and tear.
Great thanks to Anzu on Chaos Dwarfs Online for gifting us with a wealth of Imperial Guard bits to help the Astro-Ungarian army project along! The heavy weapon horse conversions have been slowly cooking over months, and has allowed for destressing amid many tasks.
This message was edited 6 times. Last update was at 2023/03/20 08:34:49
"Sure, it's a shot-magnet and they'll spray us off from the hull like lich-lice. But it beats walking!"
- - -
For my friend's army of Astro-Ungarians, I was full of conversion plans for Imperial armour based on the 1911 Austro-Hungarian patented concept tank (Kampfwagen), the Burstyn Motorgeschütz. I would convert every single tracked vehicle with trench-crossing limbs on small wheels, and magnetize them for ease of storage. Oh yes! These hopes and worksome tasks were dashed when my friend JAB concluded that it was not essential for the Austro-Hungarian feel of his Imperial Guard host, and it would be more trouble than it was worth. Wacky headgear gave more than cumbersome tank attachments.
To compensate, I bought some German Stug riders from Warlord games as a present for JAB, and converted them into Astro-Ungarian tank riders in the darkest of futures. By borrowing a page from the Second World War I hoped to at least reinforce the impression of a swarming horde of massed infantry, suffering from a screeching lack of mechanized transport. Alright, my friend's tanks would not have trench crossing limbs, but they damn well would have tank riders teeming over them like freezing rats hitching a ride. I particularly look forward to add tank riders as company to the exposed heavy stubber gunner standing on the outside of the new Rogal Dorn tank's turret, Sherman-style.
By desiring speed and preservation of their own energy, the tank riders make themselves prime targets to be washed away in blood from the vehicle on which they hitchhike. Not blind chance, but He on Terra will decide who survives this baptism of fire.
Behold! This fine fellow is the Astro-Ungarian Regimental Standard Bearer Landgrave Aleksandar Carolus Petr von Wochenschlaussen. A heavy smoker and a dashing ladies' man famous for his amorous dance moves in the Duarchal palace balls, Aleksandar is currently engaged to Baroness Freyda von Lónyobkowicz, thus bearing prospects of marrying above his inherited station in life. Court gossip has it that half of the von Wochenschlaussen noble house are open polygamists, in decadent aristocratic defiance of local commoner mores and customs. Yet such rumours of pleasure cults and debauchery among the better castes of ostentatious Astro-Ungaria are always rife on this civilized world, as the topics of dirty plebeians will ever swirl with wiffs of court scandal and romantic trysts between noble bedsheets. Perhaps it is best to dismiss such loose talk as nought but nonsense.
On the one hand, the lazy layabout Aleksandar von Wochenschlaussen has been described as a shallow socialite good at mingling with fine amasec in hand, and fit for little else. Yet on the other hand, he has likewise been described as someone willing and eager to engage in lengthy philosophical discussions when in the company of learned peers, thus displaying some depth of thought and self-taught grasp of logic, on an unquenchable though meandering quest for knowledge and understanding. The son of a disdainful widowed father, the cultured Aleksandar has found refuge in the warm embrace of women and in the escapades of authored stories and philosophical speculation.
Too poor to afford a power sword, the tall Landgrave Aleksandar carries a mundane blade of mere plasteel, polished to a gleaming sheen so as to produce brilliant flashes when the sabre is pulled from its scabbard. Of the two, Baroness Freyda is by far the better shot, and a much more active hunter. Friends of the couple will occasionally quip that her consort at least excels in the virtue of humility.
In battle, Regimental Standard Bearer von Wochenschlaussen is best seen inside the thick fortifications of a heavily reinforced underground bunker, handsomely resplendent in his parade uniform, lit lho-stick in hand and beautiful lady at his side. Naturally, the obstacle of troopers in the field not being able to see their securely hidden flying regimental colours is remedied by the use of a swarm of servo-skulls, who both take pict and vox captures of the heroically posing Regimental Standard Bearer, and project them in cheap hololithic displays out on the battlefield. Such fine inspiration for the enlisted soldiers in lethal danger cannot be found in every Astra Militarum regiment hailing from the one million worlds and innumerable voidholms of His Divine Majesty's sacred astral domains. Truly, Astro-Ungaria remains a loyal and valiant marvel of the Imperator's Holy Terran demesne.
For the Duarch! For the Emperor!
- - -
This quicksculpted model is not for casting, but for use in my friend JAB's budding army of Astro-Ungarians. It is a parody version of our friend Deviatecod, accompanied by his girlfriend.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2023/04/09 09:56:09
Harken! The sanctioned pyromaniac psyker Yog of the Bay of Cranes underwent a religious epiphany in the company of the Ratling Gitshnik and the Rogue Trader Stofilus Malidiktus. Working themselves up into a religious frenzy, the three zealots fell upon the hated deviants and heretics with rabid fanaticism, ignoring their false claims of loyalty to the God-Emperor. Killing and maiming and burning as they drew blood for the Imperator and collected skulls for the Golden Throne, these holy crusaders took on great dangers in the name of His Divine Majesty on the hallowed Throneworld.
Alas, for all their pious hero-deeds, the sacred warriors were hunted by witches and traitors through the Empyrean itself, protected by the Emperor's hand. As the trio dashed through an open portal to the Materium, Stofilus Malidiktus the zealot of the holy sole broke his neck as he dived headfirst down a three meter precipice, only to be drowned in a dune of sand. Gitshnik the thief, also known as the Emperor's Finger-Nails, degenerated into a swarm of vermin in that hellish realm of heinous sorcery, and this mass of rats carried the painterly looted icon through the portal and landed softly on the sandy corpse of Rogue Trader Malidiktus. Only Yog of the Bay of Cranes made it through the portal alive and human, as he witnessed the portrait of the Angel of Death change colours, from red ceramite to an armour of blue and teal with scales.
Alas, the saintly warriors' gateway of seeming salvation from the miasma of the Warp turned out to be a cruel joke, as Yog found himself hopelessly trapped inside an abandoned transit stop for omnibus passengers. The armoured glass and rockrete wall proved far beyond his ability to tear down, and no passers by ever paid the shouting lunatic any heed. Likewise, the door proved to be blocked by an immense weight of debris and trash on the outside. Despondent and exhausted from his godly ordeals, Yog accepted his lot and whiled away his days in isolation, eking out a meagre living from growing fruit-bearing plants and hunting rats. As below, so on high. Thus Yog embraced humility after his fury and bloodthirsty sacred massacre of the infidels. For man shall live lowly, and suffer much in the prison of woes that we call this mortal coil and world of ashes.
And we must repent, for we deserve to be scourged and lashed and flayed alive for our sins. Only He can save us. Repent!
Ave Imperator.
- - -
This slow burn of a modelling project has been three years in the making. A Christmas present for our friend JAB, much delayed, this is the fruit of mine and Deviatecod's labours. Almost all of the ideas are those of Deviatecod's, for we followed his vision slavishly without deviation. A short little fun build stretched out over many workshop days, as we added layers upon layers of new plans, until it finally all came together. The trash build and the paintjob is as much the result of Deviatecod's work as it is my work, though I stood for all the sculpted parts. Many new hobby techniques were tested, some of which may become tutorials in the future.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2023/04/11 07:34:25
What follows is our friend's reaction to receiving his diorama present, written over on Chaos Dwarfs Online:
Jaberoo wrote:Hello there! I am the JAB our dear Admiral has mentioned. I decided to join this fine community today, coincidentaly the day Chaos Dwarfs take their rightful due of everything in the Total Warhammer world.
Also a great many thanks to Admiral for all his work. I have had a great many laughs at the wondrous absurdity of it all. 100 % in line with the best of 40k. I will start painting them this weekend and I hope the paintjobs live up to Admiral's work.
- - -
Admiral has yet to mention the most hilarious part of this background: Admiral, his brother “the Eel”, Deviatecod and I played that out as a one-shot RPG adventure over the course of an afternoon and early evening.
Museum galleries were burned, clerks with stubguns were put down in the name of He on Terra, servitors were dismantled and humiliation was had at the three-fingered hands of an Administratum-class Penitent Secretary Engine. Who did not even deign to fight us, occupied as it was with it’s work at an organ… Printer.
All to kill a chemically hibernating Jokaero and steal a portrait that turned out to be of Alpharius. Which some horrible psyker and it’s Dark Angel goons saw fit to chase us into the Empyrean for.
I must also point out I had no idea that they had planned this out, nor did I know about the diorama.
At the end of the adventure they pulled the fantastic diorama out of a cupboard and so I spent the next hour enchanted by the details and listened to their walkthrough of how they made it. Genius, all of it.
As a bonus, here is Jaberoo's Khornequila symbol. As our zealous bloodthirst grew for the Emperor, we incidentally slid closer to Khorne:
This Warcraft sculpt is a gift for my little brother EEJR, sculpted after his birthday this year. He got to pick something I would make for him. While the sculpt is a success in some ways (such as the sporebat), the model does not depict three relaxing and cosily sleepy pet friends. Thus, a new version will be sculpted from the ground up, and it should turn out better than this the first version in many ways since I've learnt things I'd do different next time. For instance, the Moonkin Hatchling's feathers will be less rugged in texture, and its head and eyes will be larger next time. I will also have the opportunity to build their poses better from the start. Watch this space!
This message was edited 3 times. Last update was at 2023/04/22 20:33:17
Tremble in fear, o naïve Imperial subjects! Bow low and heed these words about the nurse in your midst:
Aemmalia "Apothecaria" Embla-Lazic is officially known as a gifted member of the Officio Medicae, bearing the rank of Medicae Superiocrata.
Unofficially, she is a heinously cruel drug-ganglady hailing from Necromunda, wanted in four Sectors and currently operating under the disorganized aegis of Astro-Ungarian Imperial Guard regiments, where she commit baleful experiments and unspeakable organ theft in the field.
It was not difficult for such an infamous organized crime leader to infiltrate the Imperial and Royal host of von Dorfenhötz. Even following the Ljubljeburg disaster, when a freight ship smuggling Aemmalia's nefarious narcotics crashed into Hive Ljubjeburg and took the lives of two billion people, since the helmsman had gotten high on his own supply.
In Astro-Ungarian service, the undercover narco-queen has kidnapped the nobleman Arvid von Kvinnesamme-Jusic. Arvid was made into Aemmalia's consort at gunpoint, and has since become her aristocratic front figure and plaything.
To come under Aemmalia's syringe and scalpel without witnesses present, is to enter the nether circles of hell itself. Many a wounded brave warrior of Astro-Ungaria has ended his days cursing the day that he was born.
For Astro-Ungaria and Holy Terra! In Nomine Imperator!
- - -
This sculpt is a parody version of a friend, who is the girlfriend of another friend. In reality, she is of lean build, but the twisted thick wires used for this sculpt accidentally turned the miniature stocky. As any Dwarf player worth his salt knows, stocky equals mighty, so that is appropriate. She is meant to be paired with her boyfriend on horseback.
The miniature could be used as a Regimental Enginseer in JAB's Astra Militarum army, or perhaps as a medic in a secondary command group.
This message was edited 2 times. Last update was at 2023/04/24 19:21:38
These parody sculpts are all wonderful, and the greenstuff work is so precise and both smooth/sharp even in the small detail. Really fun blog!
ph34r's Forgeworld Phobos blog, current WIP: Iron Warriors and Skaven Tau +From Iron Cometh Strength+ +From Strength Cometh Will+ +From Will Cometh Faith+ +From Faith Cometh Honor+ +From Honor Cometh Iron+
The Polito form is dead, insect. Are you afraid? What is it you fear? The end of your trivial existence?
When the history of my glory is written, your species shall only be a footnote to my magnificence.
@Olthannon: Thank you most kindly! Those additions made me decide to put that miniature on a base of her own, rather than sharing it with a big sentinel base (more on that later).
@ph34r: Thanks a lot! I hope you enjoy the humour behind the latest instalment as well.
@Captain Brown: Thanks! Most appreciated, Captain Brown.
Negotiations were off to a bad start, and had only taken a turn for the worse. Neither the haughty Asur nor the cruel and arrogant Dawi Zharr were renowned for their humility. The semi-barbaric Chracian highlanders were least of all suited for diplomacy, out of all the scheming kingdoms of Ulthuan. The Red Host of Nir-Kezhar had likewise not fostered a reputation for subtlety and restraint through its bloodied history of legendary insults and baleful atrocity. Bards would sing of the ensuing tongue-waggling for centuries to come, as both sides sparred with words as if aiming for the heart. The conversation grew ever more heated, and winged words leapt back and forth in a flurry of repartee and barely veiled threats.
At last, the High Elf princeling had enough of it. No laws of hospitality could hold him back from exacting revenge upon the insulting intruder. A shameful shaving of the coiled beard would not do.
Laiontides Fairbraid pulled sword and held it a mere inch before the stunted diplomat's nose, right between his surprised eyes, akin to glowing coals. The princeling's bodyguards moved in on the craven Hobgoblin entourage of the foreigner, great axes raised and ready to strike.
"Look, Dwarf. This blade is sharper than your cloven tongue."
"No man threatens a messenger!" cried the Chaos Dwarf. "Blasphemy! This is crazy!"
For a moment, the Elf seemed to relent. The short blade sank to his side. Then, wrath engulfed Laiontides' visage.
"This. Is. Chrace!"
It was a low blow. The Elf kicked him in the hat.
Sturdy chinstraps ensured that the force of the kick threw the entire heavy Chaos Dwarf along with the hat into the well. The last thing that Ambassador Zharkanek the Sly knew, as darkness suffocated him, was a primal sense of sinking into earth and water.
- - -
This diorama was quicksculpted for my brother EEJR over 3½ days in preparation for a Ninth Age Tournament where he was meant to field 300 High Elf spearmen. The reference to the famous Thermopylae vanguard action by the 300 Spartans, 700 Thespians and 400 Thebans was an afterthought, and not the intent behind the army list. Our first jokes were about Soviet hordes swarming out of revolutionary Lothern, not Leonidas at the Hot Gates.
The sculpted ornaments on this Sisters of Silence Rhino APC were sculpted during one full workshop day's toil for a most noble and Countly friend's Adeptus Custodes army in Warhammer 40'000.
Note the shush Sister on the side panel, based on the famous Soviet propaganda poster. Likewise, note the resting Emperor on the back ramp, for He likewise gives the silencing finger.
A man and woman of the pure human form is found on the other side panel (sculpted upside-down, but peeling away and super-gluing them back in place will solve that issue). While a captured psyker is strapped on top of the vehicle.
Ave Imperator!
This message was edited 2 times. Last update was at 2023/07/21 07:53:27
The Chracian Leonidas is hands down one of my favourite models I've ever seen. I think it's the gigantic hat breaking free from it's mortal coil that completes it
Loving your Votann colour scheme, the grey and blue is really nice.
Flag-Lieutenant Matteus Ripanus is a fleet officer attached to the Astro-Ungarian Imperial Guard host of General Hanz-Konrad von Dorfenhötz. In the noble company of these Duarchal crustlubbers, this energetic voidborn man has seen his swashbuckling skills go to waste amid an endless line of balls, parties and cardgame sessions. Since the general staff of von Dorfenhötz tend to spend its time muddling through plans and hosting festivities down in heavily fortified bunkers, the only chance for Ripanus to swing his cutlass or draw his laslock pistol has been in sparring matches and comradely training duels against Astro-Ungarian officers. As a rule, Imperial Navy officer Matteus has found the Astro-Ungarian officer caste to be more adept at drinking and socializing than they are at swordmanship and other combat skills.
Worse still than their deficit in martial prowess among the fighting officers of the Duarch, is the apparent lack of strategic acumen, grasp of logistics and stringent organization. As the Naval attaché to von Dorfenhötz' staff, Flag-Lieutenant Matteus Ripanus has discovered a myriad of unexpected shortcomings, and the list of observed unprofessional flaws in Astro-Ungarian staffwork grows with every passing cycle, to his horrified fascination.
For instance, Naval advisor Ripanus has arranged for dozens of orbital bombardments at the request of the Astro-Ungarians. Each time communication on his end has followed strict protocol, and he has promptly fed orbiting officers time and coordinates, provided to him by the Astra Militarum staff officers of von Dorfenhötz. Such coordination has often fallen short of their real targets, and Lance strikes and Macro cannon shells have struck into masses of Astro-Ungarian troopers with alarming regularity. On closer inspection, such events of mass self-inflicted casualties will often have been the result of sloppy schlamperei handling on the Astro-Ungarians' part. Mixing up various lines of enemy and friendly defences alike is a common occurence, as is handing out faulty timestamps, or not counting with the time needed for friendly forces to advance from one point to another under enemy fire. The mistakes are as endless as they are surprising and born out of petty mediocrity.
It is all a maddening carousel of errors, which no amount of triple-checking and vox-calling frontline officers for confirmation seem to be able to halt. Even when the Naval attaché has managed to catch two or three errors by going out of his way to make sure everything is in order ahead of bombardment, some new mistake will pop up and go all the way up the chain of communication to result in wasted bombardments and horrendous friendly fire incidents.
The resulting cost in human lives and even materiel is of little concern to Imperial commanders, but the lack of bite in coordinated orbital bombardments has blackened Matteus' record and seriously hampered his career. Other dark spots in his professional record has appeared as regard coordinating starship deliveries of supplies to von Dorfenhötz, for logistics remain a weak spot indeed among Astro-Ungarians, and to be saddled with them for a Naval officer is to be thrown into a dead-end of ingratitude and constant mess. As such, Ripanus' superiors have unofficially punished the Flag-Lieutenant by keeping him attached as an advisor to von Dorfenhötz indefinitely.
After many Terran months without being rotated away from the hard-drinking crustlubbers, the realization that he would have to suffer the misbegotten planning of Astro-Ungaria at war, finally broke down Matteus Ripanus' steely self-discipline. Thus he became shackled to a corpse. Embracing the easygoing and endless socializing of these aristocratic worldlings, Ripanus has turned from a grim glare of a man hidden away all tense in a corner, to becoming the life of the party. If the Emperor wills it, then duty will rest and jovial fun will be had. And so a voidborn workhorse who used to live for precision in his craft has turned native, and has adapted to Astro-Ungarian ways by relaxing and mastering quips and jokes where once he poured his hours into charts, firing tables and orbital calculations.
For the Duarchy!
- - -
This Fleet officer sculpt is a self-portrait, for Johan von Elak's army.
Guillaume Electricsson of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica is a much-abused Astropath attached to the general staff of General Hanz-Konrad von Dorfenhötz, an Astra Militarum commander cooking up fanciful sweeping plans of strategic maneouvers which his underfunded host of valiant but sloppy Astro-Ungarians are chronically incapable of realizing.
On top of the nerve-wrecking lurking horror and the extreme strains of delivering telepathic messages through the Empyrean, Astropath Electricsson has had to hone his bodily balance in the company of Astro-Ungarian officers. The reason for these demands on his sense of balance comes down to sloppy thinking on the part of the Astro-Ungarian general staff:
After all, since the signal sometimes seems to be weak in their customary bunker, so the officers will have the chained Astropath mounted on a marble pedestal in superstitious imitation of the lengthening of antennae for wireless vox communications. That ought to improve the signal!
Much of the time, the non-seeing Guillaume is utilized as much for keeping up with the newest scandals and highlights of courtly gossip at home on dear Astro-Ungaria, as he is used for sending and receiving military messages. It is strange, but true, that many valuable psykers ritually blinded on Holy Terra by the searing light of the Master of Mankind Himself will often be used to send trivial messages of no value for the running of an interstellar empire. Mediocrity reigns supreme in the Imperium of Man.
As is common among Astropaths, the bodily functions of Guillaume Electricsson will often cease to work properly during particularly strenuous mental rites of relaying messages. For this reason, Guillaume is equipped with hoses connected to pump machinery and liquid tanks. At least he has been spared the indignity of a drool cup screwed onto his chin. Likewise, an arcane encryption engine will be plugged into the Astropath's skull prior to message rites.
On rare occasions, blind Guillaume has been known to catch strange messages not meant for him. It is not known if these crazed messages are encrypted signal traffic from the Inquisition or similar shady organizations, or if they represent the deranged ramblings of fell spirits. During the latest such occasion, Guillaume in his trance entered a state of ecstasy, and rambled uncontrollably for fourteen Terran minutes straight. The garbled phrases spat out by the strained Astropath included such mysterious combinations of words as "of course dragons shed their skin", "eat its heart to become it" and "no, they are mine!"
While this dangerous psykic spasm played out, Astro-Ungarian officers and their hangers-on eagerly flocked around the wyrd Astropath to bet on how long his babbling would continue, or even bet on him dropping dead, succumbing to madness or suffering a worse yet fate. For some reason, the laughing and jesting ladies and noblemen did not seem to consider the stark risk of Daemonic possession or Warp implosion which could have engulfed them all in its hellish claws. Yet the lucky one need no wits, and so their disregard for the perils of the Warp cost them nothing.
Although the shackled Guillaume Electricsson cannot see the bemused ridicule heaped upon him during staff parties, he can sense and hear it all too well. It is not the refined cruelty of sadists, but the low background noise of everyday human spite, conceived with little cunning and little effort. The uncaring petty malice of so many staff personnel and their spouses and mistresses and servants claws at Guillaume's heightened psyche like nails on a chalkboard, and their nonchalant enjoyment of each others' company while at the same time only having the social refuse Astropath present for jokes, spit and japes, has submitted Electricsson's mental resilience to a daily grind. A grind which will eventually reduce the enslaved witch Guillaume to a broken wretch, fit only for the Emperor's mercy to end it all.
Is there anyone so lonely as the outcast in the midst of unwelcoming jolly company?
Ave Imperator!
- - -
This sculpt is a parody of a friend of Johan von Elak. The miserable background do not reflect the jolly nature of said friend, but the bleak lives of Astropaths in the darkest of futures.
Major Evgeny Stroganof Ryabets of the 331st Vostroyan Firstborn Astra Militarum regiment is of noble stock, hailing from the quarrelsome aristocratic House Ryabets on Vostroya. The Ryabets high-born clan own giant hab-blocks in the Smoglands and are thus hated slumlords among the low-born manufactoria workers of Vostroya's 4th Managed Zone, an odium which their lavish patronage of the Grey Lady's Cathedral of blessed Saint Nadalya has not managed to wash away. The Ryabets family likewise owns vast mining complexes on Vostroya's only moon, Turtolsky, and their Highest Elder hold some influence within the homeworld's oligarchical ruling council known as the Techtriarchy.
As a child, the sporting and impressionable Evgeny grew up on abundant rote learning of Vostroyan patron Saint Nadalya's sacred text, the Treatis Elatii, which helped turn him into a fierce adherent of the orthodoxies of the Imperial Creed. As an eager juve not afraid of bruises and beatings, Evgeny managed to learn as many as 11 out of 37 forms of the martial arts ossbohk-vyar before coming of age, a remarkable feat. Evgeny Stroganof Ryabets started out his military career as a Shiny rough rider, and rose steadily through the ranks through hardy campaigning and social influence. The grizzled man has especially marked himself out as an expert on mountain warfare, and is preternaturally skilled at skiing. Major Evgeny is known as a jolly fellow to his social peers, but is a stern disciplinarian to the low-born zadniks under his command.
Major Evgeny Stroganof Ryabets was chosen to become a Vostroyan military attaché to General Hanz-Konrad von Dorfenhötz' general staff, as a reward for his dutiful service. With his home regiment, Major Evgeny was known as a hard-fighting and hard-working officer, as diligent in his craft as he was skilled in the saddle. In the chevek company of the jovial and waltzing Astro-Ungarians, the swashbuckling son of House Ryabets has turned into a hard-drinking party animal, all loud and rough while he swills amasec, vlod and more luxurious hard liqours. His favourite drink remains the famous rahzvod, a strong alcoholic beverage distributed as common rations among Firstborn soldiers and Vostroyan labourers alike.
The Vostroyan attaché is an expert gambler, and has won many piles of Throne Gelt from his Astro-Ungarian colleagues over cards and various other games of hazard and chance. Nowhere is the famous life-long luck of Major Evgeny Stroganof Ryabets more evident than in his ample use of an heirloom plasma gun. After all, it takes just one overheating shot to finish off the daring liasion officer, yet so far his trusted weapon has always served him well. Unbeknownst to this fortunate son of Vostroya, there exist several standing bets among Astro-Ungarian officers on how long it will take before Major Evgeny's beloved plasma gun become the bane of its possessor.
A favourite pastime in von Dorfenhötz' command bunker is to bet on how many rounds a very drunk and hard-swearing Major Evgeny will manage to make on the iron-shod rockrete floor while eeling about and flailing around on skis meant for snow. Sometimes, the hangers-on of the Astro-Ungarian officers will arrange sofas, carpet rolls and other furniture into bumpy slopes and obstacle courses to add spice to the khekking spectacle. Much merriment and alcohol-fuelled laughter has been had thanks to their offworlder guest's antics, and popular applause will inevitably be roused once a frustrated Major Evgeny yells out his eccentric warcry to the floor: "I will Vostroy you!"
While the courage and martial skills of Major Evgeny has never been in doubt, his time as a liasion officer to the Astro-Ungarian host of Hanz-Konrad von Dorfenhötz has seen a cultivation of the festive sides of the Ryabets character, one which has seen untold kinsfolk drink themselves to death back home on frigid Vostroya. At the very least, the comradely socializing among Astro-Ungarian officers has never seen anyone remind Major Evgeny Stroganof Ryabets of his homeworld's ancient shame, or of the Vostroyans' duty to expunge this stain upon their honour and reputation through constant toil. Easy-going Astro-Ungarian aristocrats are not too concerned about shame or toil, after all.
In Nomine Imperator!
- - -
This sculpt is a parody of my little brother, known as EEJR online. He excells at play-acting Vostroyans. The skis are a reference to his inherent mastery of skating on ice-crusty snow.
Primaris Psyker
The quiet and mysterious man known as Sebastokrator Venäläinen is a Primaris Psyker in the sworn service of the Adeptus Terra. This powerful sanctioned psyker is an aloof soul, battling titanic Empyreic forces within his mind every day without even betraying the inner struggle by a single twitch of muscle. Many wyrds and psykers are known as crazy wrecks of nerves in thin human skin, yet the strong Primaris Psyker Sebastokrator Venäläinen seems to bear his psionic burdens with a stoic resilience that has impressed many an experienced Inquisitor through the years.
Still, such self-control and silent mastery of the arcane does not spare the Primaris Psyker from the ever-present fear, hatred and loathing that human cultures all across the Imperium has in store for witches of every kind, be they sanctioned or destined for the pyre. This, too, is borne with silent toughness by Sebastokrator.
As a shackled juve dragged from the Black Ships, the Scholastica Psykana of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica put the captive Sebastokrator Venäläinen through arduous trials. He endured grinding mental endurance regimes and had his mind probed by high level telepaths, who searched for any weakness in the promising thrall Sebastokrator's mental armour. Other tests involved forced duels against cadres of battle-psykers, with supervisors constantly watching how resilient the psyker's mind was against the perils of the Warp. At long last, the enslaved Sebastokrator Venäläinen was deemed to be a psyker of the highest quality, endowed with a stability of mind that made him fit to be elevated to the rank of a Primaris Psyker.
The final steps of the Primaris Sanctioning Rites involved deep mental conditioning and the engraving of protective wards and runes into Sebastokrator's skull. For solar weeks on end was he subjected to these intrusions, while being submerged in a dream-like state and being goaded with pain and pleasure stimuli. At the end of these dangerous proceedings emerged a sanctioned psyker worthy of the title Primaris, and so Sebastokrator Venäläinen tooks his place as an approved servant of the Emperor, with all the perks and independence that his lofty rank granted him. Ever since, the Primaris Psyker has gone about his assigned duties and carried out an unknown number of top-secret missions for the sake of the cosmic dominion of the Golden Throne on Holy Terra. And all the horror and corpses left behind in his wake has so far not left a single visible scar upon the calm visage of Venäläinen.
For the moment, Primaris Psyker Sebastokrator is attached to the Imperial and Royal host of General Hanz-Konrad von Dorfenhötz. Yet even the steely self-discipline of Sebastokrator Venäläinen has been dented in the company of Astro-Ungarians, as evidenced by the Primaris Psyker taking up drink for the first time in his life. The combination of alcohol and psychic powers is a potent and lethal one, but it has never crossed the minds of the officers of the Duarchy that it is a combination to be avoided. After all, the uncharismatic Primaris Psyker might be a shunned recluse, but it makes things easier when he, too, is imbibed with fine spirits. How else are they to endure his presence? Drink makes everyone run smoothly, according to an old Astro-Ungarian piece of wisdom.
When in the company of von Dorfenhötz' general staff, Sebastokrator Venäläinen will usually stand back and listen in silence, his large nose jutting forth from the shadows like the beak of some predatory avian creature. Occasionally the unassuming Primaris Psyker will offer his opinion and advice on some matter of planning, which will often startle nearby staffers who had forgotten that the damnable wyrdling was present. At such occasions, hands and fingers will dart up in warding gestures to deny the witch, before the ladies and gentlemen catch themselves and pretend as if nothing was wrong and they had not just acted out of instinctive revulsion.
Needless to say, Primaris Psyker Sebastokrator will not attend the bunkered general staff in the midst of battle, but will be sent out on important missions, to roam and wreak havoc as the battle-psyker himself deems best for the interests of the Imperium. Oftentimes, the field officer which Sebastokrator Venäläinen is attached to will treat the arrangement as mere a formality, and instead of directing this powerful Imperial psychic asset, the officer in the field will usually allow the silent Primaris Psyker to go about his business undirected by military professionals, guided only by the invisible hand of the Emperor, as it were.
This freedom of action is granted not only because the general staff of von Dorfenhötz would rather not keep the weird Primaris Psyker in their company down in their command bunker, but also because most Astro-Ungarian officers have little idea of what use they could even get out of the strange psyker. Best just to let the witch wander about of his own volition and do as he please, until he rotates out to his next assigned duty or is found dead in some crater.
Ave Humanae Imperium!
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This sculpt is a parody of my friend Deviatecod's little brother, known as Sinistrus online. A good chap. He would have been a Gnoblar in Warhammer Fantasy.
This message was edited 2 times. Last update was at 2023/11/14 04:31:43
Colonel Graf András Petr von Böhbenmann is the Count of Grevéberg, Honorary Pfamp of the Golden Order of Saint Günther and the legitimate contender to the disputed title of Arch-Earl of Spritzenhaufen. A fun-loving Astro-Ungarian servant of the Emperor, von Böhbenmann has found his soulmate in Gräfin Liběna Mila Moroznich von Lamberg, to whom he is engaged. This couple can always be relied upon to be the life of the party. Ding-dong! Touch the tralalalala!
Graf András is the favourite drinking buddy of Herzog Victorianus Friederererenrich "Gamen" Neumann, and their drunken orations are infamous across three continents at home for their meandering speech and overblown arrogance. When drunk on amasec, ale, imported machpagne or the finest of wine, the two noble friends will frequently begin spitting on the underclass, both figuratively and literally. Indeed, their liveried bodyguards and junior staff members have often had to work hard to prevent a mob lynching of the two jolly drunkards after their esteemed saliva has landed upon the heads of lowborn scum.
The drunken escapades of von Böhbenmann do not stop there, for indeed they have become legendary far and wide upon fair Astro-Ungaria and beyond. Even distant voidholmers close to the Ghoul Stars have heard of how the Drunken Count smashed out his teeth while riding wildly on a dirtbike through the streets of Pfraag-Schlossburg, which led to Graf András installing a most golden garniture of false teeth and exotic ivory for that shining smile under the festive lumens.
Drunk like a lord, many other anecdotes can be told about the joy and merrymaking of Count von Böhbenmann and Countess von Lamberg. Tales are told by high and low alike of the times when the Drunk Count danced on palatial roofs, hunted by his retainers and bodyguards, who had to jump from gargoyles to buttresses as they chased the singing nobleman across domes and gable roofs. The stories about von Böhbenmann are legion in number. For instance, the blue-blooded party animals of Astro-Ungaria will often joke about that one time when an intoxicated Graf András tried to eat five cheese-dripping grox sandwiches by chewing around the hidden location of a slice of salty cucumber laced with a mild poison. For each sandwich, this cherished suicide cucumber managed to show up in new locations every time, and every bite into the toxic vegetable slice sent the good Count into a fit of vomiting. Much amusement was thus had in highborn company, as the Emperor intended.
The high spirits of civilian festivities has translated well to military service, for the easy-going aristocrats that make up the officer class of loyal Astro-Ungaria would rather waltz than brood. The sloppy schlamperei culture of the Astro-Ungarian armed forces leave plenty of time for fun and games, and so Colonel Graf András Petr von Böhbenmann has found that the hardships of starship travel and campaigning out in the field on strange worlds has been compensated by the merry atmosphere and generous drink that is to be found in the staff of General Hanz-Konrad von Dorfenhötz.
Graf András carries an artificier-crafted dagger and prized plasma pistol while in uniform, both of which he won at card games. The pompous Count von Böhbenmann's heirloom power fist carries the ancient mark of the Moon Wolf, symbol of Astro-Ungaria's patron saint the Divine Horus, who according to the fair world's legends faced down the Devil Lorgar side-by-side with the Emperor Himself. For some reason this treasured ur-myth of the Astro-Ungarians meet with frowning disapproval or much worse from offworlders such as Ecclesiarchal priests or members of the Imperial Inquisition. Yet somehow this quaint belief of Astro-Ungaria has so far managed to escape a bloodthirsty purging and suppression, probably because the critical orders got lost in Astropathic transmission or disappeared due to some misfiling by an Administratum clerk. And so the sclerotic mess of the inept Imperium ensures that heretical beliefs of yore survive in pockets across the Milky Way galaxy, akin to a sprinkle of living time capsules.
To Astro-Ungaria's noble castes, life is often a party, and Graf András has warmly embraced this jovial spirit. Occasionally, Colonel von Böhbenmann will even do some proper commanding of his regiment, the Astro-Ungarian 1993rd Infantry Regiment of His Divine Majesty's Imperial Guard. He has carved out a reputation for himself as a sterling drillmaster of the Astra Militarum, making his Guardsmen perfect the art of marching for parade. Under von Böhbenmann's command, the smell of freshly polished boots, picked flowers, frothing amasec and newly starched uniforms will never leave the unit while on garrison duty or when resting behind the lines. For all their glorious appearance, however, the soldiers of the Drunken Count's Own regiment tend to be slaughtered like cattle once out on the frontline, as a bloody reminder that gallantry and offensive spirit do not make up for a lack of competent command and murderous firepower.
Fortunately, such a baleful fate has so far eluded von Böhbenmann, who prefers to stay one inch away from battle, since he believes there is a fifty percent chance to be killed in the field. For Colonel Graf András and his retinue is securely locked away inside a fortified command bunker. Here, the staff of General von Dorfenhötz will plot their overly ambitious plans and uphold their homeplanet's finest traditions of revelry, as befit their highborn status. The Astro-Ungarian army has taken it to heart that alcohol best grease the wheels of Imperial high command, and no titled soldier is better suited to make other officers feel at ease than Colonel Graf András Petr von Böhbenmann, the Count of Grevéberg, Honorary Pfamp of the Golden Order of Saint Günther and the legitimate contender to the disputed title of Arch-Earl of Spritzenhaufen.
And so the Astro-Ungarians at war party on, to the clinking of crystal glasses and the frantic vox-calls of frontline units screaming for reinforcements and the urgent correction of friendly artillery fire landing in their own trenches. Cheers!
Ave Imperator.
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This sculpt is a parody of a friend and his girlfriend. Cheers!
Master of Ordnance Boldizsár Vilim Sándor von Heinrichi-Andortopf is a Duarchal artillery officer and member of the lower nobility on Astro-Ungaria. A professional artilleryman married to exactitude and precision, Sándor is on paper an expert in his craft.
Just as his superior, General Hanz-Konrad von Dorfenhötz, is in theory a strategic mastermind excelling at aggressively breaking through the lines and surrounding the enemy with sweeping maneouvres. Just the same, Master of Ordnance Sándor is in theory an expert at synchronizing a rolling curtain of creeping barrages with infantry advancing close behind. In practice, however, both officers fall short of their brilliance on paper, and both have produced mountains of corpses to prove it.
It is not so much material flaws that hamper the performance of Astro-Ungarian artillery directed by the Master of Ordnance, for the gigantic Szköda works on the fair homeworld produce excellent artillery pieces, even when the preserved technology level is of low stature. The quality is brilliant. Indeed, von Dorfenhötz is rumoured to have commented: The army of Astro-Ungaria have ninetynine problems. Artillery is not one of them.
Instead, it is lacking communications and faulty doctrine that so often drags down the efficiency of Astro-Ungarian artillery, making it merely decent where it is well possible for the artillery to rise and be superb if optimized. For instance, Astro-Ungarian artillery is often placed as close to the front as possible to increase its range. This makes its capture by the enemy an easy feat during grand offensives of the vile foes of the Emperor, and especially so since Astro-Ungarian Guardsmen would rather make their shelters comfortable and homely with flowers and planking inside, than toil away at digging multiple lines of trenches for a strong defence in depth.
Other doctrinal and communication dysfunctionalities haunt the Astro-Ungarian forces when on the offensive. While a rafale, or storm of steel, is easy to execute by merely pouring in shells onto enemy lines for days on end in a hammering, dumb fashion, it is not a winning artillery technique, since most of the foe will survive the initial bombardment and take cover, while the shrapnel that so tears flesh is useless in destroying enemy fortfications and razorwire.
More advanced, a simultaneous barrage against the enemy trenches and against a line further back has the potential to both suppress the foe and prevent the frontline troops from emerging from cover, while also hindering reinforcements from approaching. It is not a brilliant technique, although creeping barrages moving in a shredding curtain ahead of advancing friendly infantry do hold some promise. Likewise, leaping barrages have some utility, for they jump between bombarding enemy trenches, to shelling targets further back, to once again pouring ordnance on the trenches.
Master of Ordnance Sándor is a master of the creeping barrage, but the artillerymen under his command is not always so skilled. Often, the creeping barrage will go too fast and rush ahead of the advancing infantry, allowing enemy survivors to pop out of cover and gun down the Astro-Ungarians in no-man's land. Othertimes, the creeping barrage that should roll at marching speed ahead of friendly infantry, may go too slowly, and rip apart one's own line of advancing foot soldiers. Othertimes, precision is lacking, or too many of the shells are hastily produced duds, some of which explode akin to landmines when friendly Guardsmen step on the duds.
Still, for all its failures, the Imperial and Royal artillery under Sándor's command has achieved some notable success. The cannonstorm on Bucharia IX caught the cream of the separatist forces at their most vulnerable moment, as they amassed outside maglev stations for their offensive, and Sándor won a Bronze Orb of Ordnance as he directed dispersed clusters of artillery batteries to fire on the same location without warning. Thus a purple medal was won by turning seventythousand enemy assault infantry into mincemeat by a surprise bombardment, and von Dorfenhötz' optimistic overconfidence in his Duarchal army's combat power swelled further still.
One major dampener of the Astro-Ungarian artillery's potential is a weakness in communications. All too often, it becomes impossible for units to contact each other or command staff once battle rages. Cables get torn by shelling, and wireless vox signals may likewise be disturbed, especially so by means of electromagnetic pulse kit. And if contact can be established at all, the messages will often be patchy and tinny, since the vox equipment and sonic membranes of the Duarchal forces of Astro-Ungaria is of a very shoddy quality, yet another victim of the deterioration of human technology in the Age of Imperium. Evidence of this poor state of tech can be found on the Master of Ordnance's personal gilded vox-caster, which is equipped with a hand crank. This crank has frequently to be turned by sweating underlings to provide any signal whatsoever for the haughty artillery officer while Sándor commands the batteries from down in von Dorfenhötz' fortified bunker.
Even if messages do come through without any important parts missing, the information itself will often be flawed, since artillery spotters with their rudimentary equipment and lackluste training will often provide faulty coordinates. One eternal problem that plagues the artillery forces of Astro-Ungaria is its primitive technology and doctrine of forward deployment to maximize range. This has resulted in high casualties among artillerymen and forward observers, which has prevented a virtuous cycle of accumulating experience from breeding better expertise in an upward spiral of improvement. After all, with so many trained veterans dead, Astro-Ungarian Astra Militarum forces must rely on freshly trained personnel to plug the gaps and do as best as they can, and often corners must be cut in training due to underfunding or for the sake of stressful front emergencies shouting for more men at once.
As to friendly fire casualties among infantry and armoured forces from ordnance, it is of no matter. For Sándor, it is obvious: The sky on Astro-Ungaria is blue. Gravity pulls you down to the ground. The air can be breathed. And you bomb your own men in war. It is nothing to fret about. Just reload and fire again.
And so, a grinding war there will be, wherever Sándor puts his foot down. Embrace the gruelling war of attrition, and let war be decided by logistics and industrial output. Let the shells be rationed and stored up, and then rained down like hellfire from the skies. Artillery is the king of battle, the great slayer of warriors, and its roar will never turn silent as long as Master of Ordnance Boldizsár Vilim Sándor von Heinrichi-Andortopf directs the big guns of the Duarchy on distant worlds and voidholms alike.
Ave Humanae Imperium!
- - -
This sculpt is a parody of a friend's friend, one well versed in military history.
This message was edited 4 times. Last update was at 2023/11/21 21:02:48
Imperial Commissar Juan Anendersh "le Petit" Berschren is a political officer of the Officio Prefectus, known for his brutality and heavyhanded meddling in military matters. Originally hailing from the mining world of Avesta Rex, the orphaned Juan experienced a harsh upbringing in the parochial and claustrophobic Hive Hernendahl, where ignorance and anti-intellectual attitudes reigns harder still than what is the norm elsewhere in the Imperium of Man. Juan strangled other juves to death in his struggle for survival inside the decrepit confines of Hive Hernendahl. He was forcefully inducted into the Schola Progenium after the tattooed indentured barcode at the back of his neck was discovered, marking him as a parentless offspring of Imperial servants.
The raw life on the streets of Hive Hernendahl and the rigorous discipline of the Scholam left Juan Anendersh Berschren traumatized and half insane, and as cherry on top of the cream he was also endlessly heckled as "le Petit", even though his stature was but a couple of inches below average. Indeed, average height in the Scholam was nothing impressive, due to lack of nutrition. As salt in open wounds, much shorter juves taunted Juan for his diminutive stature, until his sudden outbursts of violence scared them silent.
Schola Progenium branded the personality of Juan, by instilling in him an overly fanatical zeal, and a will to skip to the most violent solution at hand. In other words, Progena Berschren would prove to be an exemplary pupil. And so Juan received both curt praise and bruising blows from Drill Abbots. His single-minded pursuit of goals and his ruthless excesses served him well during the drawn-out tortuous training as a Cadet within the Officio Prefectus. Training courses in heavy carapace armour were heaped upon endless rote learning of the Tactica Imperium and the holy scriptures of the Imperial Creed.
The sore and battered mind of the hardy Juan was in a perfect condition when he unwittingly was sent to undergo his Trial of Compliance. Upon receiving the order to locate a comrade which he had shared many trials and tribulations with over the years, Juan almost rushed for the chance to finally take out his revenge over all the petty spite that he had endured. The command to shoot his dear colleague through the head was executed with savage glee, and Cadet Juan was seen grinning as he emerged from his victim's cell, swinging his pistol playfully and seeming to fully enjoy himself for the first time since being enslaved by the Imperium's brainwashing institution.
And so Commissar Juan Anendersh "le Petit" Berschren was awarded his rank and sash within the Officio Prefectus, and entered the Astra Militarum like a vulture looking for prime meat to feast upon. Travelling the stars from one regiment to the next, the circulating Commissar Juan lost his right arm in the line of duty. His bionic replacement arm is specially designed for maximal Schadendursch, namely a Hernendahlian custom of striking some subordinate on the shoulder or on the back in order to punish laziness, carelessness or some other fault, whether imagined or not.
After many years of unwavering service, Imperial Commissar Juan was sent to the planet of Astro-Ungaria in order to investigate, assess, punish and rectify the Duarchal army's field performance. Juan set about his task, and the following months saw much scrutiny and many bruises on the shoulders of the Imperial and Royal general staff. At last, he reached the unmistakable conclusion that the problems in the field were due to logistical issues, and due to communication issues and an incompetent general staff. And so Commissar Juan filed a report about the matter.
The efforts of Commissar Juan Anendersh "le Petit" Berschren were, however, doomed to fall through the cracks of Imperial power. By now, Primarch Guilliman had returned to Ultramar, and Juan thus dared to hope that this would lead to improvements in governance. Then the attack of Mortarion turned an already bad situation worse. When Astro-Ungaria stubbornly obstructed Roboute Guilliman's reforms, the Tetrarchy of the Realm of Ultramar was already being reimplemented, and when Astro-Ungaria was forced to comply with the Primarch's will at gunpoint, the hopes of Commissar Juan were crushed.
The answer was short, when an Astropathically relayed reply to the Commissar's report finally arrived from his superiors: A repetition of the order to investigate, assess, punish and rectify the Astro-Ungarian army's lacklustre performance in the field. This curt reply was accompanied with a punishment assigment, in the form of Commissar Juan being indefinitely attached to Astro-Ungarian regiments. And so it seemed that the abyss of the corset army swallowed the brutalized political officer of the Officio Prefectus.
This administrative slap in the face saw Commissar Juan fall back on familiar methods to make it through the Schola Progenium: The Imperial Commissar would take a shortcut to the most violent solution within the framework of his given task. Nowadays, the traces of broken shoulders and pulverized self-esteem - followed by a blown-out skull via bolt shot - shows that Commissar Juan, who could have been a genuine problem-solver and a dutiful Imperial servant, today is nothing more than a spiteful ruffian with a fancy cap and a sash, a brute who spreads misery all around himself and who mistakes his own violent whims for pragmatism. And all around him, the tattered soldiers of the Duarch resent his presence, but so far no amount of fragging have borne fruit, and sinspeech whisper jokes have begun to spread that nowadays even the grenades of the Imperium are faulty - just look at "le Petit" still drawing breath as he glares malevolently at the Astro-Ungarian soldiery.
Thus is the faith of the devout tested. For the lash of the master is meant to teach you your assigned place, and the pain of the punishment will purge you of weakness. Rejoice in the suffering! Let us greet the hardship as an old friend! For the world of the living shall be a valley of sorrows, where trials shall bring mortals down to ash and tears. So speaks the Lectitio Divinitatus. Only thus may humanity repent of its abominable sins, committed by wayward ancestors in forgotten eons past. Embrace the trials and tribulations. Hail the nightmare. Hail Terra!
As He wills it.
Ave Imperatore Dei.
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This sculpt is a parody of JAB, for whom I am sculpting and converting this Astro-Ungarian army. After sculpting Jaberoo's face, he had one objection: The gut is too small! And so I had to add a hefty stomach in green stuff to complete the impression. The model is painted by JAB.
"Men in Weltsturm regiments their service gave,
who everyone knows is very brave,
whenever in the forward line,
would hope and pray to Emp'ror divine,
that the enemy would not appear,
on their horizon, far or near.
All in His name. Glory be unto the Golden Throne. Hail Terra!"
- Self-ironic trench poem penned by Astro-Ungarian private Szilovic Kovacs during the siege of Castrum Lombergia on Leithania Supremus, the Commissarial discovery of which resulted in its author being publicly flayed alive, and then cut into little pieces by chainswords from the toes up to his neck while lambasted by regimental preachers to repent from his abominable sins
Depicted here is Lieutenant Colonel Arpad Heinz Josef Milan von Badenschtoss, a noble officer of the Imperial and Royal armed forces of Astro-Ungaria. Sworn to serve the Duarch and the Emperor, von Badenschtoss is an honest-to-Chorus Ringestrasse soldier, an upstanding exemplar of his dear homeworld's corset army, according to serpent-tongued detractors. A hard-drinking man fond of gambling, dancing at balls and other forms of highborn socializing, Lieutenant Colonel Arpad cannot be expected to attend to his military duties with the utmost zeal. Standards must be maintained, after all!
And so, a sloppy schlamperei conduct of operations in the field follows wherever von Badenschtoss leads. Yes, the logistics and worn-out uniforms of the men might be in shambles, but at least the bravery, infantry marksmanship and artillery is in fine shape. Too bad about the costly butcher's bill, but that is a problem for General von Dorfenhötz to solve by shovelling in more reinforcements. It is just the way of things, better not think too much about it. Death must be Ljietranese, after all. It is better instead to drink up and be merry!
A toast for the splendid homeworld! A toast for the Duarch! A toast for the divine Chorus! And a toast for the God-Emperor of Holy Terra!
To waltz! Now let us swagger about and drink like good Loyalists should. Last one to finish their drink is feed for the moon wolves. Cheers!
Ave Imperatore Dei.
- - -
Christmas present made for my friend Jaberoo.
Note the suspicious symbols and purity seal writ on the Astro-Ungarian officer. Astro-Ungaria has somehow managed to retain the Divine Chorus (also known as Saint Horus) as not only a revered figure from its past, but as its patron saint. Clearly, the Imperial Cult must have already been festering on Compliant Astro-Ungaria when its star system became isolated by Warp storms at the onset of the Horus Heresy. This background twist serve twofold purposes:
First, it showcases the confused mess of the Imperium of Man in comedic fashion (just imagine the parade of random shenanigans through the ages that has made Loyalist Astro-Ungaria escape great purges for its unwitting heresy). Second, this ancient reverence for the Luna Wolves of yore is a reference to the Austro-Hungarian soldiers that were eaten by wolves in the Carpathian mountains in 1915, during Franz Konrad von Hötzendorf's threefold offensive to relieve the besieged fortress city of Przemyśl.
This message was edited 4 times. Last update was at 2024/01/11 15:09:07
Holly gak, space Austria-hungary... i have mild concern for the sanity of everyone attached to them...
Great job.
https://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/list/0/766717.page A Mostly Renegades and Heretics blog.
GW:"Space marines got too many options to balance, therefore we decided to legends HH units." Players: "why?!? Now we finally got decent plastic kits and you cut them?" Chaos marines players: "Since when are Daemonengines 30k models and why do i have NO droppods now?" GW" MONEY.... erm i meant TOO MANY OPTIONS (to resell your army to you again by disalowing former units)! Do you want specific tyranid fighiting Primaris? Even a new sabotage lieutnant!" Chaos players: Guess i stop playing or go to HH.
Finished Forge World Elysian Army 
Finished Tau Sept Cadre 
Finished Ork Waaagh | 
Alaitoc Eldar Warhost 
Finished Order of Our Martyred Lady - Sisters of Battle 
Finished Necromundian Imperial Guard Regiment 
